Mary Shelley Page #7

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But the good doctor,

oh yes, he's more to your

liking, isn't he?

Where were you all night?

I do not have to justify

myself to you or to anyone!

- You have no idea the responsibilities I bear.

- What responsibilities?

She drowned herself, Mary.

Threw herself in the filthy

water at Battersea.

Who?

Harriet.

My wife.

[gentle, dramatic music ]

It's time that we

left this place.

Claire?

He doesn't want me.

He said...

he said that he will provide

for the baby but that is all.

[crying]

It's been such a mistake.

Mary.

A mistake.

I wanted to say goodbye

to thank you

for your hospitality.

I know what you

must think of me

but I have never considered

myself one for fatherhood.

I am under no illusions about

your situation.

Claire, unfortunately...

I never loved her.

Nor did I pretend

to love her.

Nor do I believe

she loved me.

But a man is a man,

and a girl is a girl.

And when a young girl comes prancing

to an old man at all hours...

...there is but one way.

There is always another way.

And when we make such choices,

there are inevitably consequences.

Always see.

Safe travels, Mary.

I look forward to reading

your work some day.

[Godwin, voiceover] Rid yourself of the

thoughts and words of other people, Mary.

Find your own voice.

[Mary, voiceover] It was a

dreary night of November and...

It was a dreary night

of November

that I beheld the

accomplishment of my toils.

[dramatic music rising ]

Remember that

I am thy creature.

I ought to be thy Adam but I

am rather the fallen angel

whom thou drivest from joy

for no misdeed.

Everywhere I see bliss...

...from which...

[match strike]

...from which, from which I

alone am irrevocably excluded.

I was benevolent and good

Misery made me a fiend

Make me happy.

And I shall again

be virtuous.

"But soon", he cried

"I shall die

and what I now feel be no

longer felt.

Soon...

these burning miseries will

be extinct.

I shall ascend my funeral

pyre triumphantly

and exult in the agony of the

torturing flames.

My spirit will sleep in peace

or if it thinks

it will not surely

think thus.

Farewell."

The End.

[Shelley, whispering]

Mary. Mary.

It is magnificent.

It exceeds even what I

believed you capable of.

It has so much potential.

I just have one question.

The doctor, he gets all

these body parts

and he sews them together in order

to make the most perfect creature

But when he brings it to life, essentially

what he has created is a kind of monster.

Yes.

Well couldn't it be something

more- something more hopeful?

Imagine if he could create the

perfect being. Um, an angel.

An angel?!

Yes, and in doing so he could

show what Man can be.

He creates a version of ourselves

that shines with goodness

and thus, thus delivers

a message for mankind.

It is a message for mankind.

Well I, I mean a message of

hope and of perfection.

What would you- what would we

know of hope and perfection?

Look around you.

Look at the mess we've made.

Look at me.

It makes sense this way.

- I'll take it to my publisher and convince...

- No. I will go alone.

[door closes]

[Publisher]

You are how old, Miss Godwin?

I am 18.

[Publisher]

That really is quite young.

If I'm old enough to bear children,

I'm old enough to put pen to paper.

Curious subject matter for a

young lady, wouldn't you say?

And when that young lady just

happens to be the wife, uh...

companion of Mr. Shelley...

Are you suggesting the work

belongs to Mr. Shelley?

Well, perhaps there are some other writings

of yours that I could compare it to?

It is my story.

Did you ask this of Mr. Shelley when

he first presented his work to you?

Or do you save this insult

for young women?

And you dare to question a woman's

ability to experience loss, death...

...betrayal.

All of which is present in this story.

In my story.

Which you would have realized if you'd

employed the time judging the work

instead of judging me.

[chatter]

[carriage passing]

[door closes]

Did you finish it?

Yes.

It chilled me to the bone.

It's good to enjoy a ghost

story now and then.

We both know this is

no ghost story.

I've never read such a perfect encapsulation

of what it feels to be abandoned.

I seethed with your

monster's rage.

I lusted for his revenge.

Because it was my own.

[gentle, dramatic music ]

I wonder...

...how many souls will sympathize

with your creature's torments?

More than should, I expect.

It is time I moved home.

You must get your story

published, Mary.

[echoing voices] Dear Madam, thank

you for sending us your manuscript,

'Frankenstein or

A Modern Prometheus'.

Unfortunately, this is not a

piece that interests us.

inform you that we shall not

be publishing your manuscript.

our taste in

judgement alike revolts

This subject is not to the taste of

our readers from a female author.

In fact, it strikes us as hardly an

appropriate subject for a young lady

We do not deny that the work has merit

but we are cautious in proceeding.

The truth is you have nowhere

else to go with your story.

The Lackington Group will publish it.

500 copies will be printed.

It will be published anonymously,

provided you write the introduction.

Well of course.

I'd be delighted.

So everyone will think

you wrote it.

Provided it's published,

what does it matter?

What does it matter?

How is it possible that you

still don't understand?!

You want me to abandon my claim because

my gender might spoil its success.

- I never said that.

- You don't have to.

Not once do you ever think about

the consequences of your actions!

You bear just as much

responsibility for our life as I.

I, I'm not the, some grand

architect of our misery, Mary.

You bear the responsibility.

I bear the responsibility

of ever believing in you!

[banging]

[melancholy music ]

[thumping outside]

[Polidori]

...thank you.

John!

- You look...

- Like I've seen better days?

Mr. Godwin said the same.

You saw my father?

Yes.

His shop is stocking my work.

You finished it.

Not quite.

Lord Byron!

I'd all but forgotten

about it until

Byron's publisher somehow got a

hold of it and printed it as his.

I tried to assert my rights

as the true author

but in response I've only

been called a plagiarist.

I will write to Byron and appeal

to him to tell the truth.

He has already tried.

He despises the story.

The public just has no

interest in the truth.

What about your

mysterious masterpiece?

The absence of your

name was notable.

It is ironic, isn't it?

I write a story lampooning Byron,

the blood-sucking devourer of souls

and he gets all the credit.

While you wrote about a desperately

lonely and abandoned creature.

Abandoned by an irresponsible

narcissist and She-

Shelley gets all the credit.

Nonetheless, congratulations.

Shelley must be pleased.

I haven't seen

Shelley in months.

It's for you.

We have created monsters,

Mary.

But let's not let them

devour us.

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