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Authors: Veronica Bennett
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did this gentleman ever succeed in carrying out his gory experiment?”
“Yes, indeed. He robbed graves for the materials, and if he could not find human remains he used the bones of animals.”
I asked the questions I could not contain. “How did he propose to bring them to life? And how did he justify his actions, morally? Can it be right to bestow the spark of being on matter which God has deemed should die?”
Herr Keffner gave Shelley an amused glance. “I see your wife is a philosopher,” he said. “It is unusual to hear a lady speak of such things.”
“That may be true in Germany,” replied Shelley, “but in England we have many women of fine intelligence who question the judgement of men. I am proud to hear my wife speak so.”
The German bowed his head politely. “The alchemist sought to inject the flesh with a potion, made with blood and other substances,” he explained. “I need not tell you that he did not succeed, and died raving.”
“Poor man,” I observed. “To have such a dream, and be disappointed.”
“Indeed,” agreed Herr Keffner.
He fell silent, and continued with his drawing. Shelley and I rose. “Thank you, sir,” said Shelley. “May we see your sketch when it is finished?”
Herr Keffner touched his hat. “Of course. Farewell.”
We parted from him and set off along the deck, submerged in our separate thoughts. But when we reached the bow, and turned to go back, I laid my hand on Shelley’s arm. “What are you thinking about?”
He drew my hand through the crook of his elbow. “Why, I am thinking about the same things as you. Experiments, noxious potions, a man driven by insanity to desperate actions. How amazed Jane will be when we tell her! Do you think the furniture in her cabin will move, or is furniture on boats nailed to the floor?”
I laughed. “I believe it is. But I was thinking about something quite different. Did you not notice that you referred to me as ‘my wife’, and did not even remember you were telling an untruth?”
The river breeze lifted the brim of my bonnet and made Shelley’s hair flap into his eyes. He pushed it away so that he could look at me. “To me it is not an untruth,” he said simply. “You
are
my wife.”
I was alone in our cabin. For a long time after the candle burnt itself out I had lain sleepless, watching daylight creep around the edges of the tiny, shuttered window. Shelley, as restless as I was, had gone for a walk on the deck
.
The presence of his child inside me was both wondrous and frightening. I placed my palms on my belly and tried to imagine how it would feel to hold the child in my arms, as my own mother had held me for such a short time before she died. My heartbeat quickened. Was I going to die too, when my own baby was born? What would happen to me if my baby proved my murderer? Would I go to heaven, or hell? For Shelley, of course, neither existed. But he was a man, and could never die in childbirth
.
Dark thoughts. I pressed my hands to my temples, but there was no escape. My thoughts darkened further. They turned to the alchemist. The pathetic story of his ambition and disappointment played upon my too-ready emotions, and my eyes filled with tears
.
But I did not weep. I lay there open-eyed, my limbs rigid with the shock of a sudden, unspeakable thought
.
Why, since Shelley insisted that it was not God who had fashioned the child I carried, should a modern scientist not make a figure of human dimensions? Then, why should he not infuse it with the spark which would breathe life into its heart?
My brain whirling, I was both fascinated and repelled. Surely, if such a living creature should be created, the experiment would be a lesson to us all in over-reaching ambition. The forces of nature, so much more powerful than those of man, should not be meddled with. The scientist would inevitably discover that if we try to interfere with life, we court that very death we are trying to cheat
.
He would die
“Yes, indeed. He robbed graves for the materials, and if he could not find human remains he used the bones of animals.”
I asked the questions I could not contain. “How did he propose to bring them to life? And how did he justify his actions, morally? Can it be right to bestow the spark of being on matter which God has deemed should die?”
Herr Keffner gave Shelley an amused glance. “I see your wife is a philosopher,” he said. “It is unusual to hear a lady speak of such things.”
“That may be true in Germany,” replied Shelley, “but in England we have many women of fine intelligence who question the judgement of men. I am proud to hear my wife speak so.”
The German bowed his head politely. “The alchemist sought to inject the flesh with a potion, made with blood and other substances,” he explained. “I need not tell you that he did not succeed, and died raving.”
“Poor man,” I observed. “To have such a dream, and be disappointed.”
“Indeed,” agreed Herr Keffner.
He fell silent, and continued with his drawing. Shelley and I rose. “Thank you, sir,” said Shelley. “May we see your sketch when it is finished?”
Herr Keffner touched his hat. “Of course. Farewell.”
We parted from him and set off along the deck, submerged in our separate thoughts. But when we reached the bow, and turned to go back, I laid my hand on Shelley’s arm. “What are you thinking about?”
He drew my hand through the crook of his elbow. “Why, I am thinking about the same things as you. Experiments, noxious potions, a man driven by insanity to desperate actions. How amazed Jane will be when we tell her! Do you think the furniture in her cabin will move, or is furniture on boats nailed to the floor?”
I laughed. “I believe it is. But I was thinking about something quite different. Did you not notice that you referred to me as ‘my wife’, and did not even remember you were telling an untruth?”
The river breeze lifted the brim of my bonnet and made Shelley’s hair flap into his eyes. He pushed it away so that he could look at me. “To me it is not an untruth,” he said simply. “You
are
my wife.”
I was alone in our cabin. For a long time after the candle burnt itself out I had lain sleepless, watching daylight creep around the edges of the tiny, shuttered window. Shelley, as restless as I was, had gone for a walk on the deck
.
The presence of his child inside me was both wondrous and frightening. I placed my palms on my belly and tried to imagine how it would feel to hold the child in my arms, as my own mother had held me for such a short time before she died. My heartbeat quickened. Was I going to die too, when my own baby was born? What would happen to me if my baby proved my murderer? Would I go to heaven, or hell? For Shelley, of course, neither existed. But he was a man, and could never die in childbirth
.
Dark thoughts. I pressed my hands to my temples, but there was no escape. My thoughts darkened further. They turned to the alchemist. The pathetic story of his ambition and disappointment played upon my too-ready emotions, and my eyes filled with tears
.
But I did not weep. I lay there open-eyed, my limbs rigid with the shock of a sudden, unspeakable thought
.
Why, since Shelley insisted that it was not God who had fashioned the child I carried, should a modern scientist not make a figure of human dimensions? Then, why should he not infuse it with the spark which would breathe life into its heart?
My brain whirling, I was both fascinated and repelled. Surely, if such a living creature should be created, the experiment would be a lesson to us all in over-reaching ambition. The forces of nature, so much more powerful than those of man, should not be meddled with. The scientist would inevitably discover that if we try to interfere with life, we court that very death we are trying to cheat
.
He would die
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