Mathilda

By Mary Shelley

Mary Shelley’s shocking, tragic, and some say autobiographical tale of incestuous love.

Confined to her deathbed, Mathilda narrates the story of her life. It is a tale of sweeping emotion, shameful secrets, and wretched love.
 
Her mother having died in childbirth, Mathilda is raised by her aunt until the age of sixteen, at which point she happily returns home to live with her father. But he turns deeply melancholic when a young suitor begins to visit Mathilda at their London home, and the idyllic life parent and child once shared turns sour.
 
Pushed to confess his all-consuming love for his own daughter, Mathilda’s father bids her farewell before shame drives him to drown himself. Finally, after years of solitude and grief, Mathilda’s hope for happiness is renewed in the form of a gifted young poet named Woodville. But while his genius is transcendent, and he loves Mathilda dearly, the specter of her father still lingers.
 
Though Mary Shelley wrote Mathilda in 1819, directly after the publication of Frankenstein, her father and publisher, William Godwin, refused to print it. Nearly a century and a half later, in 1959, the manuscript was finally published and has become one of Shelley’s best-known works.
 
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504043649

Mary Shelley

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born in 1797, the daughter of two of the leading radical writers of the age. Her mother died just days after her birth and she was educated at home by her father and encouraged in literary pursuits. She eloped with and subsequently married the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, but their life together was full of hardship. The couple were ruined by disapproving parents and Mary lost three of her four children. Although its subject matter was extremely dark, her first novel Frankenstein (1818) was an instant sensation. Subsequent works such as Mathilda (1819), Valperga (1823) and The Last Man (1826) were less successful but are now finally receiving the critical acclaim that they deserve.

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Mathilda

Mary Shelley

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Chapter I

FLORENCE. NOV. 9TH 1819

It is only four o’clock; but it is winter and the sun has already set: there are no clouds in the clear, frosty sky to reflect its slant beams, but the air itself is tinged with a slight roseate colour which is again reflected on the snow that covers the ground. I live in a lone cottage on a solitary, wide heath: no voice of life reaches me. I see the desolate plain covered with white, save a few black patches that the noonday sun has made at the top of those sharp pointed hillocks from which the snow, sliding as it fell, lay thinner than on the plain ground: a few birds are pecking at the hard ice that covers the pools—for the frost has been of long continuance.

I am in a strange state of mind. I am alone—quite alone—in the world—the blight of misfortune has passed over me and withered me; I know that I am about to die and I feel happy—joyous.— I feel my pulse; it beats fast: I place my thin hand on my cheek; it burns: there is a slight, quick spirit within me which is now emitting its last sparks. I shall never see the snows of another winter—I do believe that I shall never again feel the vivifying warmth of another summer sun; and it is in this persuasion that I begin to write my tragic history. Perhaps a history such as mine had better die with me, but a feeling that I cannot define leads me on and I am too weak both in body and mind to resist the slightest impulse. While life was strong within me I thought indeed that there was a sacred horror in my tale that rendered it unfit for utterance, and now about to die I pollute its mystic terrors. It is as the wood of the Eumenides none but the dying may enter; and Oedipus is about to die.

What am I writing?—I must collect my thoughts. I do not know that any will peruse these pages except you, my friend, who will receive them at my death. I do not address them to you alone because it will give me pleasure to dwell upon our friendship in a way that would be needless if you alone read what I shall write. I shall relate my tale therefore as if I wrote for strangers. You have often asked me the cause of my solitary life; my tears; and above all of my impenetrable and unkind silence. In life I dared not; in death I unveil the mystery. Others will toss these pages lightly over: to you, Woodville, kind, affectionate friend, they will be dear—the precious memorials of a heart-broken girl who, dying, is still warmed by gratitude towards you: your tears will fall on the words that record my misfortunes; I know they will—and while I have life I thank you for your sympathy.

But enough of this. I will begin my tale: it is my last task, and I hope I have strength sufficient to fulfill it. I record no crimes; my faults may easily be pardoned; for they proceeded not from evil motive but from want of judgement; and I believe few would say that they could, by a different conduct and superior wisdom, have avoided the misfortunes to which I am the victim. My fate has been governed by necessity, a hideous necessity. It required hands stronger than mine; stronger I do believe than any human force to break the thick, adamantine chain that has bound me, once breathing nothing but joy, ever possessed by a warm love and delight in goodness,—to misery only to be ended, and now about to be ended, in death. But I forget myself, my tale is yet untold. I will pause a few moments, wipe my dim eyes, and endeavour to lose the present obscure but heavy feeling of unhappiness in the more acute emotions of the past.

I was born in England. My father was a man of rank: he had lost his father early, and was educated by a weak mother with all the indulgence she thought due to a nobleman of wealth. He was sent to Eton and afterwards to college; and allowed from childhood the free use of large sums of money; thus enjoying from his earliest youth the independance which a boy with these advantages, always acquires at a public school.

Under the influence of these circumstances his passions found a deep soil wherein they might strike their roots and flourish either as flowers or weeds as was their nature. By being always allowed to act for himself his character became strongly and early marked and exhibited a various surface on which a quick sighted observer might see the seeds of virtues and of misfortunes. His careless extravagance, which made him squander immense sums of money to satisfy passing whims, which from their apparent energy he dignified with the name of passions, often displayed itself in unbounded generosity. Yet while he earnestly occupied himself about the wants of others his own desires were gratified to their fullest extent. He gave his money, but none of his own wishes were sacrifised to his gifts; he gave his time, which he did not value, and his affections which he was happy in any manner to have called into action.

I do not say that if his own desires had been put in competition with those of others that he would have displayed undue selfishness, but this trial was never made. He was nurtured in prosperity and attended by all its advantages; every one loved him and wished to gratify him. He was ever employed in promoting the pleasures of his companions—but their pleasures were his; and if he bestowed more attention upon the feelings of others than is usual with schoolboys it was because his social temper could never enjoy itself if every brow was not as free from care as his own.

While at school, emulation and his own natural abilities made him hold a conspicuous rank in the forms among his equals; at college he discarded books; he believed that he had other lessons to learn than those which they could teach him. He was now to enter into life and he was still young enough to consider study as a school-boy shackle, employed merely to keep the unruly out of mischief but as having no real connexion with life—whose wisdom of riding—gaming &c. he considered with far deeper interest— So he quickly entered into all college follies although his heart was too well moulded to be contaminated by them—it might be light but it was never cold. He was a sincere and sympathizing friend—but he had met with none who superior or equal to himself could aid him in unfolding his mind, or make him seek for fresh stores of thought by exhausting the old ones. He felt himself superior in quickness of judgement to those around him: his talents, his rank and wealth made him the chief of his party, and in that station he rested not only contented but glorying, conceiving it to be the only ambition worthy for him to aim at in the world.

By a strange narrowness of ideas he viewed all the world in connexion only as it was or was not related to his little society. He considered queer and out of fashion all opinions that were exploded by his circle of intimates, and he became at the same time dogmatic and yet fearful of not coinciding with the only sentiments he could consider orthodox. To the generality of spectators he appeared careless of censure, and with high disdain to throw aside all dependance on public prejudices; but at the same time that he strode with a triumphant stride over the rest of the world, he cowered, with self disguised lowliness, to his own party, and although its chief never dared express an opinion or a feeling until he was assured that it would meet with the approbation of his companions.

Yet he had one secret hidden from these dear friends; a secret he had nurtured from his earliest years, and although he loved his fellow collegiates he would not trust it to the delicacy or sympathy of any one among them. He loved. He feared that the intensity of his passion might become the subject of their ridicule; and he could not bear that they should blaspheme it by considering that trivial and transitory which he felt was the life of his life.

There was a gentleman of small fortune who lived near his family mansion who had three lovely daughters. The eldest was far the most beautiful, but her beauty was only an addition to her other qualities—her understanding was clear and strong and her disposition angelically gentle. She and my father had been playmates from infancy: Diana, even in her childhood had been a favourite with his mother; this partiality encreased with the years of this beautiful and lively girl and thus during his school and college vacations they were perpetually together. Novels and all the various methods by which youth in civilized life are led to a knowledge of the existence of passions before they really feel them, had produced a strong effect on him who was so peculiarly susceptible of every impression. At eleven years of age Diana was his favourite playmate but he already talked the language of love. Although she was elder than he by nearly two years the nature of her education made her more childish at least in the

Reviews for Mathilda

[john257hopper · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This short novel was Mary Shelley's second book after Frankenstein, but due to its controversial themes, it was not published until 140 years later in 1959. It is a semi-autobiographical portrayal, with the roles of Shelley, her father William Godwin and her husband Percy Shelley taken by Mathilda, her unnamed father and her poet companion, Woodville. The controversy lies mainly in the theme of the incestuous love ("unlawful and monstrous passion") her father feels for Mathilda, which, not surprisingly, given that there is no suggestion of any real such impropriety, led to William Godwin refusing to return the manuscript to Mary for publication. Linked to this theme, the main thrust of the novel is Mathilda's despair and wish for death because of guilt at supposedly having provoked the unnatural love on the part of her father; it is a bleak piece of writing, penned by Shelley after the death of her two young children, one year old Clare and three year old William, which led to her temporary alienation from her husband. In sum, a morbid read, arguably significant more for its literary background than its intrinsic merit as a novel.

[birdie.newborn · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Given the premise of the book, one is led through a lonely childhood with delight in nature, to exquisite joy, soon followed by anguish, despair, and a will to die. Heady, but also sobby.

[joririchardson · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Oh, Shelley. First a story about a lonely, half-dead monster, and now a tale of incestuous romance. I was very intrigued about the novella "Mathilda." I had heard of before, as "that other Shelley book," but somehow the knowledge of what it was about managed to never reach me until a few days ago.For those who also do not know the story, this is about a girl who is indeed named Mathilda. Her mother tragically died in childbirth, inspiring her passionate father to flee in grief to the ends of the earth, leaving his infant daughter with a prickly aunt. This aunt raises Mathilda in Scotland, and while she is never cruel to the girl, she refuses to show her the slightest affection, which Mathilda bears with much suffering. She lives in hope that one day, her father will return to reclaim her. Miraculously, one day a letter appears, saying that he intends to do just that. Mathilda meets her father for the first time, and the two instantly form a connection. They become each others dearest friends, and Mathilda feels loved for the first time in her life.However, after going to live with her father in England, his attitude toward her shifts to one of coldness, and he seems repulsed by her very presence, no matter what Mathilda does. At last, alone in the woods one day, Mathilda confronts him about it tearfully. Her father confesses that he loves her - and not in the way that a father should.Horrified, Mathilda retreats back to the house. As she is planning on leaving, she receives word that her father has left mysteriously. Gathering from the letter he left her that he is in a dark state of mind, she rushes to the place she believes him to have gone, hoping that it is not too late.This was a melodramatic little story, which came as no surprise to me. I did not have any particular love for it, except for some scenes that stood out in my mind. The scene in the forest was striking, of course. I knew what was coming and was just waiting for Mathilda to realize it. The scene where Mathilda is racing to find her father was my favorite scene of the book. There was already such breathless urgency to it, and then of course, a thunderstorm had to begin.What was left of the book following this scene, I wasn't so sure about. It was sad, yes, but I felt that the woeful atmosphere was being pushed at me just a bit too much. I love a good depressing book, but it has to actually BE depressing. If the author is simply trying to convince us to be depressed and it isn't working, that isn't a good sign. Our heroine Mathilda was a girl that you cannot help but feel pity for. She is quite the good girl, and all her wishes and hopes are honest and simplistic, making the reader think "Gosh, how hard would it be to just give the poor girl that little thing?" I liked her, because though she is an unfortunate little thing, she also possesses a strength underneath, shown in her bravery and her compassion concerning the climax with her father. What a sad life she led. She grew up longing for affection that her aunt stonily refused her, and then finds this relationship with her beloved father. However, she was getting her hopes up too soon, because then her father turns away from her more pointedly than her Aunt ever did. All her life, Mathilda longs above all else to be loved. She finds no love with her aunt, but her father does come to love her - in a backwards sort of way. Mathilda's father is described from the beginning as "passionate," and as having strong, romantic emotions. At first I thought in disapproval that this seemed an excuse, or a way of watering things down. However, I was never quite able to hate him. He has evidentially never gotten over the death of his wife. He loved her very much, and now he has before him a beautiful young girl who looks, speaks, walks, and acts like his lover, like a ghost. We see plenty of Mathilda's sad story, but her father's was equally sorrowful. Also, he distances himself from Mathilda in an effort to protect her. When at last he confesses, he feels so guilty that he nearly dies. To me, he seemed to be a good man who tragically fell into wicked desires.As shocking as this book was for its time (though it was not actually published until much later), it does not, as seems to be heavily hinted in the reviews I've found, contain any incestuous sex. Mathilda's father proclaims desire for her, but that is as far as it ever goes. I wanted to say that because some reviews state outright that the two have sex. And this simply isn't correct.An interesting bit of information about the book was that after writing it, Shelley felt it to be darkly prophetic. Upon the death of her husband, she raced in a carriage toward the sea-side, hoping she would find him alive, just like in that scene from her own book.An intriguing story.

[amydross · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wonderfully lurid and disturbing gothic(ish) tale. But there's one point where the narrator says, "my story is basically over, and I'm not sure why I'm still writing," and I have to agree. The climax comes early, and the rest doesn't really measure up.

[toohotty · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book reminded me why I don't normally read stuff written before 1950, and that reason is because everyone has so many FEELINGS! On the plus side, this book is about sex with your father. Ok, seriously... Basically this book is about a young girl whose mother died at her birth, so her father left in his grief. She was raised by an emotionally distant nurse. All she wanted was affection. Her father came back when she was 16 and conflated his wife and daughter into one person because that's what men do in these novels. She fell in love with him because of lonliness, and then they had sex. He freaks out and kills himself, so SHE freaks out and WANTS to kill herself, but she becomes a hermitess instead, which she FAILS at when she befriends a poet grieving the loss of his fiance. He talks her into trying to live her life, but she dies of consumption right after this revelation OOPS! You couldn't get more Lifetime Original if you added an eating disorder and breast cancer. While Mary Shelley's language is flowery and poetic as ever, the story never goes beyond a shallow (yet overwrought) examination of the pathos Mathilda suffers. On the plus side, it's a quick read (being a novella and all) and the cover's a neat shade of purple. It's also got a neat history, as her father refused to publish it when it was written due to how autobiographically it could be construed. So... you decide.