no end. We come from nowhere and are going nowhere. We are vagabonds. We are outcasts.”
Shelley always grew impatient when I spoke of my feelings of exile. He dropped my hand. “We are
not
. When we arrive in England, our families –”
“Our families have already disowned us.”
“Do not say that! Your father will welcome his child’s safe return, as any decent man would.” He saw my sadness, and softened his voice. “I promise you, my love, that the outdoor life will agree with you. Nature always compensates for the miseries of mankind.”
The next day we boarded the passenger vessel that was to take us to Holland. The weather was indeed kind, and soon the loveliness of the Rhineland and the revival of spirits offered by mild air and daily exercise restored me. I began once more to drown in love.
Shelley appeared to be drowning too; he did not let his enthusiasm for river traffic and ruined castles distract his attention from me. We spent many hours strolling up and down the deck, his arm around my waist, talking of plans for the birth of our child and our future life together.
And what of Jane? She remained the same sister I had grown up with: pert yet artless, knowing yet naïve, trustworthy yet treacherous. Forced into the role of unpaid companion to a pregnant sister and a man who would not take his attraction further than flirtation, she had to retreat. Much of the time she stayed below in her cabin, shunning the sunlight, nursing schemes which only God was privy to. I was not sorry.
The Rhine cuts a deep chasm through wooded hills. As our vessel meandered its way northwards, we glimpsed great houses between the trees. Tiny villages and larger towns lined the cliff-tops, spilling like foam to the water’s edge. Every few miles we would pass below a castle on a rocky promontory, sometimes inhabited, but more often the ruined relic of medieval wars.
One evening, near sunset, the boat moored beneath a spectacular castle. Most of the passengers came out on deck to look at it, several sitting down to sketch it. Jane stayed below, saying she had some letters to write.
Warmed by the dying sunlight, I fell asleep in a chair on deck. When I awoke Shelley was admiring the sketch an elderly German man was making. Shelley spoke little German, but the man seemed to have fluent English.
“This castle is very interesting, my dear sir,” he told Shelley.
The castle looked very romantic, with the late sun gilding its towers. Surrounded by heavily wooded countryside, it looked a perfect medieval fortress. But, like most of the others, it was a ruin.
“The man who lived there was an alchemist,” the elderly gentleman was saying.
I sat up. Who could not be fascinated by the idea of alchemy, the power to turn base metal into gold? The search for its secret had occupied men for centuries, and continued to do so. “What happened to him, sir?” I asked.
“Oh, you are awake!” exclaimed Shelley affectionately. “This is Herr Keffner, my dear.”
The man bowed and addressed me politely, taking me for Shelley’s wife.
“Please,” I repeated, “tell us about the alchemist.”
Herr Keffner looked into my face with watery blue eyes. He was perhaps seventy years old, but as trim and well worn as his walking-stick. “More than an alchemist,” he said. “A scientist, and a … what is the English word? A lunatic?”
“That word will do,” agreed Shelley, with a glance at me. “For poets as much as for scientists!”
“He lived more than a hundred years ago. In those days people truly believed in alchemy, but this man also had another, more deranged idea. He believed that if you took the body parts of dead people, and joined them together, you could bring the resulting creation to life.”
We were silent. At my shoulder I sensed Shelley’s tightening attention. “Jane would love to hear this,” I whispered to him. “The bloodier the better.”
I again addressed Herr Keffner. “Sir, if you please,
Shelley always grew impatient when I spoke of my feelings of exile. He dropped my hand. “We are
not
. When we arrive in England, our families –”
“Our families have already disowned us.”
“Do not say that! Your father will welcome his child’s safe return, as any decent man would.” He saw my sadness, and softened his voice. “I promise you, my love, that the outdoor life will agree with you. Nature always compensates for the miseries of mankind.”
The next day we boarded the passenger vessel that was to take us to Holland. The weather was indeed kind, and soon the loveliness of the Rhineland and the revival of spirits offered by mild air and daily exercise restored me. I began once more to drown in love.
Shelley appeared to be drowning too; he did not let his enthusiasm for river traffic and ruined castles distract his attention from me. We spent many hours strolling up and down the deck, his arm around my waist, talking of plans for the birth of our child and our future life together.
And what of Jane? She remained the same sister I had grown up with: pert yet artless, knowing yet naïve, trustworthy yet treacherous. Forced into the role of unpaid companion to a pregnant sister and a man who would not take his attraction further than flirtation, she had to retreat. Much of the time she stayed below in her cabin, shunning the sunlight, nursing schemes which only God was privy to. I was not sorry.
The Rhine cuts a deep chasm through wooded hills. As our vessel meandered its way northwards, we glimpsed great houses between the trees. Tiny villages and larger towns lined the cliff-tops, spilling like foam to the water’s edge. Every few miles we would pass below a castle on a rocky promontory, sometimes inhabited, but more often the ruined relic of medieval wars.
One evening, near sunset, the boat moored beneath a spectacular castle. Most of the passengers came out on deck to look at it, several sitting down to sketch it. Jane stayed below, saying she had some letters to write.
Warmed by the dying sunlight, I fell asleep in a chair on deck. When I awoke Shelley was admiring the sketch an elderly German man was making. Shelley spoke little German, but the man seemed to have fluent English.
“This castle is very interesting, my dear sir,” he told Shelley.
The castle looked very romantic, with the late sun gilding its towers. Surrounded by heavily wooded countryside, it looked a perfect medieval fortress. But, like most of the others, it was a ruin.
“The man who lived there was an alchemist,” the elderly gentleman was saying.
I sat up. Who could not be fascinated by the idea of alchemy, the power to turn base metal into gold? The search for its secret had occupied men for centuries, and continued to do so. “What happened to him, sir?” I asked.
“Oh, you are awake!” exclaimed Shelley affectionately. “This is Herr Keffner, my dear.”
The man bowed and addressed me politely, taking me for Shelley’s wife.
“Please,” I repeated, “tell us about the alchemist.”
Herr Keffner looked into my face with watery blue eyes. He was perhaps seventy years old, but as trim and well worn as his walking-stick. “More than an alchemist,” he said. “A scientist, and a … what is the English word? A lunatic?”
“That word will do,” agreed Shelley, with a glance at me. “For poets as much as for scientists!”
“He lived more than a hundred years ago. In those days people truly believed in alchemy, but this man also had another, more deranged idea. He believed that if you took the body parts of dead people, and joined them together, you could bring the resulting creation to life.”
We were silent. At my shoulder I sensed Shelley’s tightening attention. “Jane would love to hear this,” I whispered to him. “The bloodier the better.”
I again addressed Herr Keffner. “Sir, if you please,
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