Witching hour
This is the hour. Every night she dies, her daughter. She discovers it only in the morning, though she saw her lying there in the night, so quiet, head full of sleep. But she knows it must have happened at this hour, the witching hour, because that is when she always wakes up. Usually it is not for long; she wraps the slipped-off sheet around herself, presses her nose against Percy’s warm back; he sighs in his sleep, she drowses off. But sometimes, sometimes it draws her out of bed. She does not know exactly what it is. She does not want to, and she is tired, she wants to go on sleeping, go on into this night, beyond this hour, but she already knows, she has to feel it. Every minute of this hour must burn against her skin. Because this is what she brought into the world. And this is what disappeared so swiftly.
The veranda keeps her dry, her overcoat keeps her warm, but not too far away from here the world is in the process of destroying itself. They have been here two weeks now, in Geneva, and ever since they arrived, storms and thunder have performed a frenzied ritual almost every day. Mary loves it when the sheet lightning persists, stretching like a cat and lighting up the skies for seconds at a time, painting it a pale purple, as if it were a canvas, a tent canopy above the earth, making the objects below seem unreal, a story, and yet lending them more meaning; her bare feet on the veranda, the weeds among the grass, the willow by the water, the Jura, rising on the other side of the lake, the boat, rocking in a basin of light.
In the other direction, up the hill, a faint light is shining at Albe and John’s. She finds it reassuring. She might wake every night at three, but at least then Albe is not yet asleep. He is keeping watch. Undoubtedly with his gaze on the paper, where his quill dances chaotically, writing into the world what already exists within himself.
She turns and rocks on her toes. In the darkness she could not find her boots. Little William wakes easily—although the thunder does not bother him—and her stepsister, Claire, is finally asleep. And in her own bed too. She looks like a small child, and Percy takes her by the hand like a father. No, not like a father. Definitely not like a father.
Lightning cracks through the sky, humming upon the surface of the water, among the treetops, on her skin. Storms are different here than in England. More awake. More alive. More real. As if she might touch the light, hold it, as if it were holding her. The roar, the deep rumbling has something physical about it, as if it might join the living. As if it might gain access to her chest, her heart, her blood. There seems to be no end to the series of days in which the night lights up, the sun rarely shows itself, the garden becomes a swamp, nature falls silent—and sometimes they say to one another: maybe this is the end of the world. The Last Judgment. But then they laugh. Because each of them knows: God exists only in dreams and children’s rhymes. Mary rubs her hands. The chill bites into her toes. And sometimes, she thinks, when one is very, very afraid.
But back in bed she cannot sleep again. The cold has taken up residence in her body and nothing—not a blanket, not the thought of a fire in the hearth, not the heat of Percy’s back—can make her warm again.
That is because of Claire. She is barely any younger than Mary, and sometimes Mary thinks it would do Claire good if she saw her more as her real sister. But every day it becomes more difficult to accept Claire, let alone to help her, to comfort her, to entertain her. The men seem to find her less irritating. Albe even describes it as “a woman’s way,” whatever that is supposed to mean. Mary never stands up in the middle of a conversation and throws herself, weeping, onto the sofa, while saying that nothing, no, really, nothing is wrong, does she? It is not a woman’s way. It is Claire’s way. It flatters Percy, she knows that. It flatters him when Claire throws her arms around him, asks him to read poetry to her until she falls asleep, when she laughs at his jokes, her head thrown right back, pale skin from her chin to far, far below, her breasts asking for looks, for touch, for attention. Claire cannot exist without attention. She would probably die if she were ignored for three days. She has it from her mother, from Mary Jane, that need for attention. Mary believes her father had no idea how hysterical, how vain, how bossy Mary Jane was—until he married her and she and her daughter, Claire, came to live with them. Ever since Mary became aware, rationally aware, that she has no mother, that fact has been the very definition of sadness. All sadness fell into precisely that shape, was viewed in that mirror. But from the moment her father remarried, this became the scale upon which she weighed everything: this mother or no mother? And her thoughts always came down to the same: no mother. Or at least, having to live with only the stories about her own, dead mother, with the image above her father’s desk, of the woman who mattered to so many people: so clever and courageous, so unconventional in her life and her convictions. She was no longer alive, Mary had never known her, but she was everywhere. And above all: she was perfect. She would never become angry with Mary. She would never disapprove of her decisions. Mary would never be ashamed of her mother. And she would never have to be afraid of losing her love. Her mother would always love her, as she had on her deathbed: Mary as her little doll in her arms, the pure, complete, uninhibited love would never have the chance to fade or to be soiled by the quotidian. And that was what Mary’s mother was like inside her head. The perfect mother, in fact. Both in spite of and thanks to the fact that she no longer existed.
A clap of thunder, Percy turns over with a groan. His knee jabs Mary’s side. In the moonlight shining through the crack of the shutters, she can see his face. Her tempestuously beautiful elf. She knows no other man who, with such fine features and translucent skin, like a satin moth, almost like a girl, holds such a strong attraction for her. And she is his great love. She does know that, but it is not easy. The fact that his philosophy is not quite hers—maybe in theory, yet not in practice—puts their love to the test again and again. Perhaps it is tolerable that, now and then, he loves another woman. Perhaps. But that it does not bother him, that he actually encourages her to share her bed with another man—that tortures her soul. At the same time, she sees how he looks when she talks to Albe about his poems, or about her father. Those are the moments when jealousy strikes him, she thinks, a cold fear in his eyes. The jealousy he feels then has nothing to do with her. Percy is not afraid that she will choose Albe over him. He is afraid that Albe will choose herover him. That the great, wild poet Lord Byron finds her more interesting than Percy Shelley, who still has so much to learn. Does he have enough talent? Eloquence? Percy has pinned his hopes on Albe. Could he show him the light? Could Albe give him advice, become his mentor, maybe even his friend? Very occasionally, when Percy is so insecure—oh, he does not say so, but she can see it, the faint hope in his eyes, the childish impatience in his movements—then she fears for a moment that she does not love him.
She kisses him softly on the cheek. He groans again. Turns over. The knee in her side disappears. And slumber, finally, approaches. She feels the arms of sleep unfolding like wings, wrapping her tightly, protectively, not unpleasantly, and taking her consciousness away.
* * *
After the journey, which he did not appear to enjoy very much—after all, children are not made for traveling—William seems to feel at home at Maison Chapuis. The rooms are large and light, high windows with a view of the big garden, the lake, the Jura beyond. And of the rain, of course. Of the slate-gray sky. He is still too young to crawl around. Or she would no doubt have spent the whole day running after him through all the rooms, keeping him away from the fireplace, from the bookshelves, from the corners of the tables. But he has just learned to turn from his back onto his stomach, and he will come no farther than that for a while. Her Willmouse is five months old, and she enjoys every one of his days. And yet she cannot let go of the thought of her, of her firstborn. If she had lived, she would have been toddling around this place. Short, chubby legs, little bare feet step-stepping from the rug in front of the fireplace onto the shiny wooden floorboards, step-stepping through the doorway, into the hall, to the stairs, no, that’s not allowed, come on, hold my hand, let’s go back, that’s right. Look, there’s your brother, give him a cuddle.
“Is everything all right?” Claire drops down beside Mary on the sofa. William, who just closed his eyes, opens them again. Claire tickles him under the chin. “You’re just staring into space.”
Mary nods. Claire does not understand, even after all these years, that Mary sometimes slips away from the world. But Claire is not the same as her, not in blood, not in temperament, and not in empathy. Only, now and then, in a shared moment, in an uncontrollable fit of laughter as Claire’s mother and Mary’s father anxiously prepare the house for guests. It is only adults who can be like that, or so they think, so they see in each other’s eyes, we will never be like that. But that was long ago. She has not seen them in a long time, her father and Mary Jane. It is so difficult now, since she has been with Percy, since her little girl.
“I am a little tired,” says Mary. “How was it with Albe?”
“Oh, good,” says Claire, winding a lock of hair around her finger. “He’s invited us to dinner. Crackers and beans, no doubt.”
Albe’s eating habits do not appeal to Claire. Neither do Mary and Percy’s, though. She misses the meat.
“Well, you don’t have to go,” says Mary. She immediately regrets it.
“Of course I do.” Claire’s eyes widen with shock. “Albe wanted me to come. He said so.”
Mary stands up. William has dozed off again. His beautiful, pale face. But don’t become too pale, Willmouse, she whispers in her mind. Without another word, she leaves the room to put William in his cradle. Sleep well. Soon you’ll be awake again.
* * *
“Mary.” Albe embraces her. He smells of chamomile and something sweet, his stubble brushing her cheek. “I’m glad you came. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Mary sees Percy’s inability to join them and Albe’s annoyance at this inability in his brief smile. He follows Claire to the drawing room. Albe takes a candlestick from the dresser and leads Mary by the hand down the hall and to a dark room at the back of the house. Villa Diodati is considerably larger than their house, but Chapuis is better situated, she thinks. Albe’s house is darker, surrounded by trees with dense foliage, like stern and eternal guards. Inside, even in the daytime, you need candles or a lamp. The doorposts, the window frames and paneling, the many bookshelves are made of mahogany, the carpets run from wall to wall, in red or blue, with equally dark patterns. Brown is also the prevailing color in Albe’s study. The evening light falls through the strands of ivy that creep across the windows. Albe places the candlestick on his desk and gathers up some loose papers.
“Come here.” He beckons Mary from behind his desk. “I’m working on a new part of Childe Harold. I think it’s going to be good. I’d like you to read it and tell me what you think.”
Something in the way Albe asks her makes her sense that there is no need for her to feel flattered; he simply views her as his equal. At least, as a critic.
So she says, “I’d be happy to. I’d like to read it.”
Albe rolls up the papers. “They’re copies. Feel free to make notes.” He hands them to her. “Shelley may read them too. If he wishes to.”
Percy will say—to her—that he does not wish to read them. But he will read them.
“Mary.” The candlelight falls into the light brown of his eyes, making them deeper. “I should like to read more of your work. Something that originated inside your head, not outside of it. A real story, a poem.”
“Perhaps I’m a writer like my parents,” she says. “Perhaps I can only write about real things.”
“I am fairly certain that is not the case.” Albe smiles. “Is the difference between real and not real truly that great?”
* * *
Percy is sitting beside her at the table. John, Albe’s friend and personal physician, is on her other side. Claire—of course—is next to Percy and next to Albe, who ignores her most of the time. Sometimes, when he has had a good deal of wine, has smoked something, or is simply in a good mood, Albe really talks to Claire. Sometimes he kisses her and they disappear for a time. At such moments, Mary tries not to pay attention to Percy, because even though he acts no differently than usual, she sees in all his movements the agitation of a complex sort of loss. She does not know exactly what he fears losing. Maybe it is similar to what she fears.
Since Percy saw her enter the drawing room with Albe and with the roll of papers in her hand, he has been doing his best not to look at her and to concentrate on Claire. That is tricky, because if you give Claire your attention, she does not let go and you can easily become caught up in gossip about London acquaintances and about her heartfelt fear of all manner of things that she was terrified of as a child and has never got over: the devil, witches, patterns in the fire, patterns in the clouds, whispers carried by the wind. Now and then she thinks Claire enjoys it. That the consolation is the reward. That the fear is worth it all.
“Adeline found asparagus at the market,” says Albe in a terribly cheerful voice.
The asparagus is well seasoned but stringy. They cannot help but laugh a little. John grimaces at Mary. Adeline is mainly good at preparing meat, as she told Albe when he hired her as a cook and housekeeper. Luckily, she can also bake bread and there is more than enough wine. Albe tops them up every time a glass is half-empty.
“How is William?” Mary does not know if John really cares, but he asks her almost every day.
“Oh,” Claire exclaims, “William is such a little treasure. He smiled at me today.”
“What man would not smile at you?”
She does not believe that he means it, nor that he intends it in jest. From any other man Mary would have found such a remark irritating, but not from John. John has a way of putting people at ease. He knows exactly what to say, and what tone to use.
“He went to sleep on time today, thank God,” says Mary. “We’ve found a nurse for him, Elise.”
“That’s good,” says Albe.
“We don’t really have the money, but so be it.” Percy takes a swig of wine, does not look at her.
“Consider it an investment in Mary’s future,” says John. “How can she write if the baby requires constant attention?”
Claire nods enthusiastically.
“Don’t whine, Shelley. You’re sitting there like some grumpy old man. We’re in Switzerland. Look around you!” Albe throws his arms in the air. “You’re here with your wife, with your child. With me.” They all laugh, including Percy, but Mary doubts that Albe meant it as a joke.
“I gave your wife something to read. It would be an honor if you would take a look at it, too.”
The difference in Percy’s eyes, his face, his whole demeanor is unimaginable. Within a fraction of a second, everything within him has brightened up. He has transformed from a sullen man into an eager, grateful little boy. Mary feels relieved and, at the same time, disappointed. In Albe, in Percy, or in herself.
After dinner, they retire to the drawing room, where the fire has to be stoked up high. There is another storm tonight. The first clap of thunder feels like someone grasping Mary’s heart.
“That doesn’t look good,” says John, peering outside.
Through the window, the sky swirls from gray to dark blue to black and back again. The last of the daylight will soon have gone completely. The rain lashes against the windowpanes. Elise will stay with William until they return. The thought of him lying in his cradle, screaming with no one hearing him, his cries stolen by the wind, makes her chest clench. It will never again be like it was that time, she has to tell herself. There is always someone with him. To stop him from suddenly and silently slipping away.
More wine is poured, but this time, as John warns them, it is mixed with laudanum. He is a doctor, so they trust him to prepare the drink. Mary knows that Sam Coleridge, a good friend of her father’s, often uses it, that he swears by the drug when he is writing, so she is rather curious. She cannot remember ever having been given it, although she often used to be ill. The bitter taste summons a vague memory within her. More like a feeling, like a dream; a hand sliding towards her over silk sheets. Percy and Albe have become involved in a conversation about electricity. Percy is sitting beside her, absentmindedly stroking her arm, as he listens to Albe, who is telling a story about frogs brought back to life by the power of galvanism.
“Life force,” says Percy, staring at the fire. “That’s the proof, isn’t it?”
“Proof of what?” asks John.
“That there can be no God. If there is some vital force that man can control, it is illogical—if not impossible—that there is a God.”
“What nonsense,” says John. “That’s not proof.”
“If God exists, that force and the ability to bestow it would be solely his preserve, wouldn’t it?” Percy is given his second glass of laudanum-laced wine.
“It’s still not proof,” says John. “What you believe belongs to God does not constitute a fact.”
“Listen to my doctor,” says Albe. “Dr. Polidori knows everything.”
“I don’t know everything at all,” John continues, far too seriously, “but I do know what proof is. Wine?” he asks Mary and she nods, because she can feel the effect of the laudanum, and that makes her forget the taste. She sinks deeper into the cushions on the sofa.
Claire is lounging in a chair by the fireplace, half lying down, eyes wide open. It is not clear if she is listening. Now and then, lightning flashes behind her and she is startled, as if she has received a shock.
“No more for Claire,” says John.
He sits down on the rug at Mary’s feet, leaning half against her legs, and it seems almost like a gesture, a friendly, companionable gesture, and that suddenly moves her.
“But . . .” Albe leans forward. “The fact that there is no evidence that no god exists does not mean that a god does exist. So, for the record, let us assume for a moment that there is no god.”
“Which is the case,” mumbles Percy. He undoes the buckles of his boots and takes them off. He rests his legs on Mary’s lap, his head on the armrest.
When did we all start feeling so at home? wonders Mary. She suddenly feels old—and old-fashioned. She wants to do something strange as well.
“Anyway,” Albe continues, as he takes a small pipe from his jacket pocket, “the idea that people can use electricity to generate vital force themselves is very interesting. Being able to bring dead matter back to life. Just imagine—your dead grandmother alive once more.” He smiles broadly.
But Mary is not thinking about grandmothers. Whether the subject is death, war, wine, or nature, Mary’s brain always finds a path that leads to her little girl, to her first child. And when she asks herself if she ever wants that to end, she has no answer.
They go on talking, the men, but she is no longer listening. She cannot listen anymore. She has rested her hand in John’s hair. Thoughts no longer have logical order, no beginning, no end, no cause or necessity. They exist simply as they are: random and nonsensical, yet nevertheless overwhelming. The breaking of glass, the pitiful cry of something unimaginable, a fish the size of a ship, moonlight creeping in through cracks, an unspeakably terrifying head, a snake, as slippery as jelly, sliding through her fingers. In the end, everything slips through her fingers. Because that is how it goes.
At some point that evening Percy kisses her, in the midst of the others. The reason is unclear, or maybe her mind was elsewhere for a moment. Claire is sitting on Albe’s lap, kissing his neck, as he absentmindedly slides one hand over her hip, holding his glass with his other hand, almost continuously taking little sips. John is at the window, looking outside. The lightning flashes between the silhouettes of the trees, sometimes for seconds at once, so that the world once again takes on that silent strangeness, as if the veil of reality has been lifted and she can briefly see the world beneath it: a world in which nothing can be kept at bay by the intellect; no memory, no threat, no spirit.
Percy kisses her cheek, her temple, her forehead, her nose. Then, long and slowly, he kisses her mouth. Mary thinks somehow she was angry with him, but she cannot quite remember why, and she smells his scent, his scent of oranges, but spicy, and she kisses him back, her dear elf, her insecure, cantankerous, wonderful poet. And what happens next is not clear. They make love, or they fall asleep together and she dreams that they make love. The sky is black, the storm is over. Someone is standing under the window, he calls her name, but it does not sound like her name. And then she knows she is dreaming, because the one who is calling her does not exist.
At night Mary thinks she can hear her little girl. She is crying. She is wailing. She knows her. She is so certain that she has made a mistake: she is alive! Of course she is alive. All that time, months and months. What a bad mother she was to think her child dead! But that time is over now, she has to go to her, to her little Clara. She has to nurse her, look deep into her blue eyes, hug her to her breast forever, so firmly that neither of them can breathe. Otherwise she will slip away from her, she knows, no, she is already slipping away from her. Between the cracks of awakening, she knows: oh God. This world. Oh God. And she loses her again. The sound that woke her in this witching hour is alarming enough. She has shaken off the dream, the half dream. She is still at Diodati. A single candle is lighting the room, the embers in the fireplace are still glowing slightly. Mary gets up off the sofa, where she was lying half under a blanket, her neck crooked, and tries to understand what is going on. The sound is coming from upstairs. Someone is crying, screaming hoarsely. She takes the candle, heads up the wide staircase. Is it Claire? Once again she thinks what she so often thinks when she is woken by a Claire who seems to be possessed by some evil spirit: we should never have let her come. But it had in fact been Claire’s idea for them to spend the summer here, close to Albe, and it was Percy who had seen it as an opportunity to get to know the writer. When she reaches the landing, she follows the sound. There is a faint light in one of the bedrooms: an oil lamp with a low flame. Claire is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall, legs pulled up, hair tousled, eyes fluttering, and hands plucking at her dress. Percy is lying on his side next to her, his hand on her stomach, as he looks up at her and whispers things that are not meant for Mary’s ears or which Mary’s ears simply do not hear. She stands there, in the doorway. Percy has not yet seen her, and who knows what Claire is seeing. If you were to ask Mary if Claire does this a little bit on purpose, her answer would differ from one day to the next. Sometimes Mary feels sorry for her, she really does, and believes that Claire is a victim of herself. And sometimes she believes that she herself is Claire’s prime victim.
“I don’t want to see this!” shouts Claire. She is staring at the window, where there is nothing to see; the shutters are closed. Her hands are clawing at the air now. “Everything is dripping,” she rasps, “nothing is as it was, Perce. This is real! I can’t do this.” She sobs with a high-pitched snarl. A hyena, thinks Mary.
Percy sits upright and takes hold of her. Claire dangles like a doll in his arms, her eyes fixed on the window. Percy strokes her back, kisses her tangled hair, his eyes closed.
“I don’t want this,” Claire cries. “I don’t want this anymore.”
Mary turns around. She does not mind. This is fine. He is only comforting her and what man wants a morbidly anxious woman, but still it makes her stomach ache, a hard, stone stomach cramp, which is not only pain but also anger. She knows it is not Percy’s fault. ...
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