Miranda Seymour, Dead Philip Whalen Wanted Me to Tell You Something...

Dear Miranda Seymour,

You are a biographer close to the hearts of both dead Philip Whalen and myself.

He reads over my shoulder in the bathtub and we were both wondering about something you were puzzling over in Chapter Five, "Tensions" (1807-1812).

You wrote about Mary's sudden disturbing illness at thirteen years of age...

"Mary was thirteen when her hand and then the whole of one arm first erupted in an accute attack of eczema. (Scrofula, or tuberculosis, was mentioned, but only in a letter her stepmother wrote much later.) Henry Cline, an eminent young surgeon--his father confusingly bore the same name and followed the same profession--whom Godwin consulted on the advice of Anthony Carlisle, recommended sea bathing and the application of several poultices each day. Mary was taken with eight-year-old William to Ramsgate by her stepmother in the summer of 1811 and examined by a local doctor. His report was reassuring, but Mary's condition was severe; Mrs. Godwin wrote home to express her hope that 'our poor girl will escape the dreadful evil we apprehended.'

"Mary's condition did not improve after her six-month stay in Ramsgate, where she was an isolated and unhappy boarding-school lodger. It had vanished by the time she returned in 1814 from two long stays in Scotland, where she lived in an affectionate, uncritical household. It is difficult not to construe the illness as psychosomatic, particularly when we know that her father also suffered acutely from eczema in times of stress. Conjectures have to be made in the absence of letters, but it seems clear that the move to Skinner Street marked the beginning of what Mary called 'my girlish troubles' and that these manifested themselves in a physical condition. The phrase comes from a letter Mary wrote in her twenties. 'And I am threatened with a return of my girlish troubles,' she confided to a friend. 'If I go back to my father's house--I know the person I have to deal with; all at first will be velvet--then thorns will come up--' The person in question was, of course, her stepmother."

And you wrote in the following paragraph of how Mary was packed up yet again for another convalescence elsewhere, always elsewhere...

"Defeated, Mary Jane (Shelley's stepmother) had a few last anxious words with Miss Pettman, the good-natured mistress of the school in Ramsgate where Mary was to remain from late May to December 1811. The child must be taken seabathing as often as possible and inspected by doctors as often as needs be. The poultices on her arm must be applied and changed at regular intervals. If necessary, she was to be allowed to make use of her sling. Godwin was informed by his wife that Mary was now 'decisively better';reference to the fact that she had been spotted making 'involuntary' movements of the affected arm raises the interesting possibility that Mary Jane suspected Mary of exaggerating her illness. Having settled her stepdaughter at the school, she went back to London and to a ferocious confrontation with her husband. The cause of the quarrel is not known, but it was sufficiently violent for Mary Jane to spend the rest of the summer staying with friends in Baker Street."

And you glossed this paragraph with a footnote:

"Mary Jane's reference to a sling add to the puzzle of what, precisely, Mary was suffering from. Eczema, however bad, does not require a sling, and what was the 'terrible evil' which the Godwins had apprehended? Was Mary thought to be suffering from a life-threatening illness or was it an amputation which was being considered?"

Dead Philip Whalen is not particular friends with the Shelleys in the afterlife, but he decided to make inquiries on your behalf.

He said Mary is a congenial spirit and one easy to approach.

He asked her about the sling and she replied, "Oh that! The reasons were several and quite practical. Firstly, I was quite self-conscious of the appearance of my arm, and my physician suggested the sling as a practical appurtenance to conceal my illness and soothe my childish discomfort with the impudent or cruel ones who stared or worse. Oh, the balms of vanity! Secondly, I confess my step-mother could not abide the distempered complexion of it. She winced whenever I came into the room in that state. Lastly, my step-mother feared contagion from the eruptions, and for the good of my siblings she bade me wear the sling, which I did most gladly. There was no truly great infirmity. It was a concealment, dear Miranda.

Whalen said she quite enjoyed reading your biography, and thought you showed "a natural affection for, and understanding of" what her life meant when she was on earth.

Philip adds:

Oh, and by the way, Mary Wollstonecraft did finally fetch up with that peacock Fuseli in the afterlife. Whalen says they are "disgusting together." I think he means it in a good way.