D-r Tchékhov: A Textbook Case . . . Prof. Yanychev’s Three-Cornered Duel

I have mentioned on a number of occasions the existence of the manuscript, A Textbook Case, putatively by Chekhov, which fell into the possession of my father at the end of WWII, and whose pages relate the misadventures of the morphine-dependent D-r Anton Tchékhov, aged 28 years, when investigating the mysterious duelling death of an aristocratic cadet in a remote snowbound northern garrison.  
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/d-r-tchekhov-detektiv-long-lost-novel.html       
        Evidently, my father believed the ms to be the long-lost novel to which Chekhov referred in a letter to Pleshcheev on 9 Feb. 1888; understood by scholars to be a fugitive work in progress but never found: ‘Ah, if you knew what a plot I have in my noddle! What marvellous women! What funerals . . . !’

        
        Well, a funeral there was, for this extract from the ms – An Unwreathed Burial – may be read here . . . 
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/khar-r-r-kai-khar-r-r-kai-khar-r-r-kai.html
        . . .  but, before a funeral there must be a death, and that passage from the ms has yet to be seen by a wider readership. So here it is, with an expanded exegesis on my father’s part to explain D-r Tchékhov’ allusion to The Three-Cornered Duel Problem posed by Professor Grigoriy Yevseyevich Yanychev (1804-1867), mathematician and leading 19th Century proponent of probability theory (his gifted young protégé was the distinguished algebraist, A. A. Markov the elder).
        Note: the idiosyncratic orthography throughout is my father’s.

A Textbook Case

In the dead of winter, for a Muscovite medico-anthropologist to stumble across a tableau mort frozen rigid in an attitude of heroic redundancy was to bow to an unwelcome knowledge that the catalogue of diseases inhabiting the General’s ill-favoured region was apparently not complete.
  “Make way!” shouted the komendant. “Field-surgeon forward!”
   Under the doctor’s generalship the party advanced.
   “A textbook case,” mused the General. “A perfect diagramma for a duel imprinted on the snow.”
  The undertaker crew halted a sazhen from the corpse.
   Again was uttered another dreadful dissyllable.  “Umer!” Anton heard an ensign exclaim. “Dead!” O! Nicolai Chudotvórets! Wonder Worker! Saint of God!”
  Anton thought of the morgue under the Moscow Medical Faculty building. 
  “Alas,” he reflected, “what is terrible is not the corpses, but the fact that I am no longer terrified of them.”
  “We must live by the quick and not with the dead.”  The General answered the unspoken thought.
  “First we’ll review the stricken field. A posthumous procès-verbal may well be required to satisfy our masters. That job falls to you,” the General ordained. 
  “HQ’s going to have me strung up for this, but,” and he gripped Anton’s shoulders compellingly, “while a noose is still running there’s still time to pray.”
  He broke away with a bitter laugh.
  “There’s the barriere.” He pointed to an odd shaped piece of wood stuck in the snow.
  “Take note. Cannoneer Kulikov’s shin-guard for a starting post.”
  In the moonlight the impressed footsteps were quite clear. The old frontier scout essayed a rapid reconstruction of the victim’s last moments, intent upon unriddling the monomachian rituals performed by insulter and insulted, by slayer and slain. 
  This was not the first time the General had smelled powder. 
  “Eight paces. Trod by the Offender. The Challenger proposes distance so, naturally, the Prince faces the butts – to be sure he gains the advantage of a co-ordinate. It assists the eye to draw a bead on a marker. Then it’s . . .  ‘Stations, Gentlemen, Attend!’ The Prince would have conceded to Pomidorchik. So Kulikov steps forward. ‘Aim! Fire!’  The Offender fires first.  The Aggressor has to make himself as small as possible – remember Mychetzky?* – by standing sideways, right hand on his chest, presenting the most difficult target. Dammit! Then what?  This problem is worse than Professor Yanychev’s Three-Cornered Duel!”
   There was a muffled report as the General blew his nose and resumed.
  “According to the Duello honour code, the rôles would then reverse, and the Prince would’ve returned fire whilst Kulikov stood his ground. Unless it was a lucky first shot I can’t believe Kulikov’s marksmanship could strike a mortal blow from that distance. He’d never handled a rod until today. Look! Five steps to the barriere, his pace is unbroken, he doesn’t pause to fire, just keeps walking in the return direction!  There’s the puzzle!” 
  Reluctantly, the General’s eyes swept the combat area until his gaze rested on the dark enigma that broke the surface of the field.
  “Khvatit! Dovol'no! No more! Enough!” groaned the General. “Proceed, mon cher docteur, let our post-mortem begin.” 
        Anton braced himself, eyes half-shut, resisting full immersion in his drug-induced repose. He knew with certainty, as he struggled to withstand the narcotic’s serpentine embrace, that chance was beckoning him to draw near to witness one of the last and purest fountainheads of the empire’s accursed sentimental morbidity, frozen forever at its furthermost source ; that providence suffered him – and he alone – to be present in such close attendance at the pallida Mors of panslavonic Wertherism; to witness the fleurettes and gasconnades of an age of literary flâneurs wither in the Russian snows; to certify once and for all their extinction in all their tragic pathos.
       A doctor, as everyone should know, enjoys being at a duel. 


* For the General’s recollections of duels between the cadet Mychetzky and his classmate Nezlobin, see Winter Rules and Le Diable Boiteux at :
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/winter-rules-and-le-diable-boiteux.html       

[ End of extract. ]  

Lèse-majesté – Yanychev’s Three-Cornered Duel.

Following the death of Aleksandr Pouschkin in a duel (January, 1837) fought with his wife Natalya’s admirer, Baron D’Anthès, the brilliant young mathematician, Grigoriy Yevseyevich Yanychev devised the satirical problem of the three-cornered duel, incorporating Aleksandr Pouschkin [A], the Baron [B] and, a second anonymous lover, the Count [C ]. This squib was considered by the Tsarist Court to have defamed the aristocracy and, in consequence, Yanychev was banished as a poselenets to Archangel (an exile-settler status for transgressors who did not fall into the harsher category of katorzhnik or convict).

Pistols for Three

“It is highly probable,” said Natalya to her lover, “that in a three-cornered duel only one of my three admirers will survive. Therefore, my dear Baron, so you alone may live, I beseech you to miss with your first shot.”

(1) Natalya began by assuming that the Baron was acquainted with the relative proficiency of his rivals.  This is how she calculated that B would be the sole surviver, and not A, her husband or C, her rejected lover : 

(a) If B kills A, it is C’s turn to fire.  There is a 3/4 chance that he will  kill B.  If he misses, the Baron has a second shot. There is a 2/3 chance that he will now kill the Count and secure the love of Natalya. 

(b) If B misses Aleksandr, C will fire at A next. (This is certain, because if C fires at B and kills him, he will next be killed in turn ; while if C fires at B and misses him, A will equally kill C next, as the more dangerous of his opponents.) 

     (i) If C misses A, Aleksandr will kill C.  Now the Baron, with his second shot, has a 2/3 chance of being the sole survivor.

     (ii) If C kills A.  B again has a 2/3 chance of being the sole survivor.

 Summarising these chances, the Baron’s chances of being sole survivor

 are :      ⅔   •  ¼   •   ⅔  (a)

     plus  ⅓   •  ¼   •   ⅔  (b)  (i)

     plus  ⅓   •  ¾   •   ⅔  (b)  (ii)

               i.e. are ⅓ in all. 

(2) Natalya, of course, also calculated the Baron’s chances of survival were he so foolish as to fire first at the Count.

     (a) If the Baron kills the Count, he is forthwith killed by Aleksandr.

     (b) If the Baron misses the Count, the Count fires (as before) at                         Aleksandr.  The Baron’s chances are now as in (i) (b) above :                         i.e. 2/9 in all.

(3) A secret smile then plays on Natalya lips as the logical conclusion finally dawns on her. Suppose the Baron makes sure of missing!  Now, since the Count will next (as before) fire at Alexandr first, the Baron’s chances of survival become 2/3.  Hence, Natalya’s message to Baron D’Anthès was to make sure of missing her husband with his first shot.

Precursor of The Three-Cornered Duel.

Incidentally, Yanychev claimed, in his defence to spare his banishment, that this puzzle was inspired not by Pouschkin but by a Three-Cornered Duel fought between a midshipmen, a boatswain and a purser's steward, described by an English seafarer. It is indeed a fact that such a duel was published in 1836, a year before Pouschkin’s death. [An extract follows.]

       “You have grossly insulted this gentleman,” said Mr Biggs, in continuation; “and notwithstanding all your talk of equality, you are afraid to give him satisfaction—you shelter yourself under your quarter-deck.”
       “Mr Biggs," replied our hero, who was now very wroth, “I shall go on shore directly we arrive at Malta. Let you and this fellow put on plain clothes, and I will meet you both—and then I'll show you whether I am afraid to give satisfaction.”
       “One at a time,” said the boatswain. 
       “No, sir, not one at a time, but both at the same time — I will fight both, or none. If you are my superior officer, you must descend,” replied Jack, with an ironical sneer, "to meet me, or I will not descend to meet that fellow, whom I believe to have been little better than a pickpocket.”
       This accidental hit of Jack’s made the purser's steward turn pale as a sheet, and then equally red. He raved and foamed amazingly, although he could not meet Jack’s indignant look, who then turned round again.
       “Now, Mr Biggs, is this to be understood, or do you shelter yourself under your forecastle?”
       “I'm no dodger,” replied the boatswain, “and we will settle the affair at Malta.” . . . 
       . . . Mr Biggs having declared that he would fight, of course had to look out for a second, and he fixed upon Mr Tallboys, the gunner, and requested him to be his friend. Mr Tallboys, who had been latterly very much annoyed by Jack’s victories over him in the science of navigation, and therefore felt ill-will towards him, consented; but he was very much puzzled how to arrange that three were to fight at the same time, for he had no idea of there being two duels; so he went to his cabin and commenced reading. Jack, on the other hand, dared not say a word to Jolliffe on the subject; indeed there was no one in the ship to whom he could confide but Gascoigne: he therefore went to him, and although Gascoigne thought it was excessively ‘infra dig’ of Jack to meet even the boatswain, as the challenge had been given there was no retracting: he therefore consented, like all midshipmen, anticipating fun, and quite thoughtless of the consequences.

“Equal angles subtended by equal sides.”

The second day after they had been anchored in Valette Harbour, the boatswain and gunner, Jack and Gascoigne, obtained permission to go on shore. Mr Easthupp, the purser’s steward, dressed in his best blue coat, with brass buttons and velvet collar, the very one in which he had been taken up when he had been vowing and protesting that he was a gentleman, at the very time that his hand was abstracting a pocket-book, went up on the quarter-deck, and requested the same indulgence, but Mr Sawbridge refused, as he required him to return staves and hoops at the cooperage. Mesty also, much to his mortification, was not to be spared. This was awkward, but it was got over by proposing that the meeting should take place behind the cooperage at a certain hour, on which Mr Easthupp might slip out, and borrow a portion of the time appropriated to his duty, to heal the breach in his wounded honour. So the parties all went on shore, and put up at one of the small inns to make the necessary arrangements.
       Mr Tallboys then addressed Mr Gascoigne, taking him apart while the boatswain amused himself with a glass of grog, and our hero sat outside teasing a monkey.
       “Mr Gascoigne,” said the gunner, “I have been very much puzzled how this duel should be fought, but I have at last found it out. You see that there are three parties to fight; had there been two or four there would have been no difficulty, as the right line or square might guide us in that instance; but we must arrange it upon the triangle in this.”
       Gascoigne stared; he could not imagine what was coming.
       “Are you aware, Mr Gascoigne, of the properties of an equilateral triangle?”
       “Yes,” replied the midshipman, “that it has three equal sides — but what the devil has that to do with the duel?”
       “Everything, Mr Gascoigne,” replied the gunner; “it has resolved the great difficulty: indeed, the duel between three can only be fought upon that principle. You observe," said the gunner, taking a piece of chalk out of his pocket, and making a triangle on the table, "in this figure we have three points, each equidistant from each other: and we have three combatants—so that, placing one at each point, it is all fair play for the three: Mr Easy, for instance, stands here, the boatswain here, and the purser’s steward at the third corner. Now, if the distance is fairly measured, it will be all right.”
       “But then,” replied Gascoigne, delighted at the idea; “how are they to fire?” 
       “It certainly is not of much consequence,” replied the gunner, “but still, as sailors, it appears to me that they should fire with the sun; that is, Mr Easy fires at Mr Biggs, Mr Biggs fires at Mr Easthupp, and Mr Easthupp fires at Mr Easy; so that you perceive that each party has his shot at one, and at the same time receives the fire of another.”
       Gascoigne was in ecstasies at the novelty of the proceeding, the more so as he perceived that Easy obtained every advantage by the arrangement.
       "Upon my word, Mr Tallboys, I give you great credit; you have a profound mathematical head, and I am delighted with your arrangement. Of course, in these affairs, the principals are bound to comply with the arrangements of the seconds, and I shall insist upon Mr Easy consenting to your excellent and scientific proposal.”
       Gascoigne went out, and pulling Jack away from the monkey, told him what the gunner had proposed, at which Jack laughed heartily.
       The gunner also explained it to the boatswain, who did not very well comprehend, but replied—
       “I dare say it’s all right—shot for shot, and d—n all favours.” The parties then repaired to the spot with two pairs of ship’s pistols, which Mr Tallboys had smuggled on shore; and, as soon as they were on the ground, the gunner called Mr Easthupp out of the cooperage. In the meantime, Gascoigne had been measuring an equilateral triangle of twelve paces—and marked it out. Mr Tallboys, on his return with the purser’s steward, went over the ground, and finding that it was “equal angles subtended by equal sides,” declared that it was all right. Easy took his station, the boatswain was put into his, and Mr Easthupp, who was quite in a mystery, was led by the gunner to the third position.
       “But, Mr Tallboys,” said the purser's steward, “I don’t understand this. Mr Easy will first fight Mr Biggs, will he not?”
       “No," replied the gunner, “this is a duel of three. You will fire at Mr Easy, Mr Easy will fire at Mr Biggs, and Mr Biggs will fire at you. It is all arranged, Mr Easthupp.”
       “But,” said Mr Easthupp, “I do not understand it. Why is Mr Biggs to fire at me? I have no quarrel with Mr Biggs.”
       “Because Mr Easy fires at Mr Biggs, and Mr Biggs must have his shot as well.”
       “If you have ever been in the company of gentlemen, Mr Easthupp," observed Gascoigne, “you must know something about duelling.”
       “Yes, yes, I've kept the best company, Mr Gascoigne, and I can give a gentleman satisfaction; but —”
       “Then, sir, if that is the case, you must know that your honour is in the hands of your second, and that no gentleman appeals.”
       “Yes, yes, I know that, Mr Gascoigne; but still I’ve no quarrel with Mr Biggs, and therefore, Mr Biggs, of course you will not aim at me.”
       “Why you don’t think that I am going to be fired at for nothing,” replied the boatswain; “no, no, I'll have my shot anyhow.”
       “But at your friend, Mr Biggs?”
       “All the same, I shall fire at somebody; shot for shot, and hit the luckiest.”

[Please forgive the lengthy extracts but I have followed the Oulipoian principle of the footnotes being of substantially greater depth than the cited text.)

============================================

For other excerpts from Tchékhov’s as-yet-unpublished crime novel, D-r Tchékhov, Detektiv, see:
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/01/d-r-tchekhov-skirmish-with-wolves-and.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/dead-wife-new-hat-femme-morte-chapeau.html
or
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/inductive-detection.html

Doctor! Doctor! An interpretess’s problems with grammatical gender in possessives . . .

A man and his son are in a car accident. The father dies. The son is rushed to hospital. The surgeon arrives, but says ‘I cannot operate on this boy because he is my son.’ Who is the surgeon?

Gender assumption unmasked?

As you’re probably aware, this conundrum has great currency in the bear pit of gender politics. It’s frequently quoted as an example of the pre-conditioning of the mind, which commonly perceives any person in authority in the medical profession as a commanding presence in a wholly male preserve.

Gender assumption unmasked.

The ‘trigger’ words ‘surgeon’ or ‘doctor’ can often lead to ‘gender assumption’, since historically these were exclusively male professions . . . and, of course, the answer to the puzzle – if puzzle it is — reveals the unmasked surgeon to be the boy’s mother. 

(Even so, I believe this trick question also artfully baffles us by posing another parallel brainteaser: the question of the Hippocratic Ethics of Medicine, under whose precepts the provision of medical care by close relatives is interdicted by most representative bodies advising Physicians and Surgeons in the western world.)

However, it was NOT the ambivalences of gender pre-conditioning that led me to these musings but my chancing upon some recent observations on the pitfalls of French translation by one of modern French literature’s most distinguished English interpretesses, an award-winning Cantabrigian who thoughtfully demystifies the problem of Englishing an account of an unreliable narrator (in excelsis) whose gender is never disclosed. 

An unreliable narrator in excelsis.

Here the translator kindly provides a crib for a bemused English reader challenged by a perplexing French novel from 2003:  

I’m so glad you noticed [viz. the translated French author’s calculated smoke-screen as to the narrator’s sexual identity]! Yes, it is entirely deliberate; the narrator in the book has chosen as the name of a spouse one of the very few names that can be used by either sex in French. And because in that language grammatical gender in possessives is attached to the gender of the thing referred to, not the sex of the person possessing it, it is a lot easier to work that bit of mystification in French than in English (or indeed German, where grammatical gender is attached to the possessor; I remember meeting the German translator of the book). We have several bisexual first names in English: Evelyn, Hilary, and so on. In French, my half-French niece tells me, there are only three: Claude, Camille and Dominique. It was an interesting exercise to keep the pretence going, although of course it becomes clear quite early that the narrator is a gay man who has never before acknowledged his inclinations. 

Marlene Dietrich famously said of Greta Garbo, ‘She has sex, but no particular gender.’ Similarly, the English language more and more it seems to me is on a headlong course to neuter the distinctions that once elegantly defined the sexual identity of individuals in most fields of human endeavour or wilful enterprise:

            Actor/Actress

            Adulterer/Adulteress

            Aviator/Aviatrix

            Editor/Editrix

            Equestrian/Equestrienne

            Giant/Giantess
            Hero/Heroine

            Murderer/Murderess

            Ogre/Ogress

            Seducer/Seductress

            Sculptor/Sculptress
            Tempter/Temptress
            Villain/Villainess

            Warrior/Warrioress

            etc. etc.

Heroes and heroines of ludic wordcraft.

In the English legal profession, of course, Testator/Testatrix survive as a distinction recognised in testamentary law for the drawing up of Wills . . . but, as I have observed many times, this fact is hardly remarkable when you consider the survival of the ‘Fortune-Hunting’ novel of the 19th century (and is there any other kind in our own Age of Greed-is-Good?), wherein the hero and heroine in want of a fortune are invariably named Sterling and Libra.

Increasingly, though, the sustaining of precise definitions such as those cited when writing in English becomes a hard won tussle to overcome stuffiness without recourse to tiresome inelegances of construction.

Not that I am claiming the challenges of determining gender distinction with common nouns in English can compete with the magnitude of that supreme task of ludic wordcraft . . . the Lipogram (or, indeed the Palindrome).

Constrained Writing . . . Form is Function.

Recently, I took my cue from Gadsby by Ernest Vincent Wright (the 1939 novel  of 50,000 words written as a lipogram, which does not include words that contain the letter ‘e’), when invited to contribute to a Festschrift to celebrate the 80th birthday of the esteemed editor (and founder, in 1959) of the literary journal, Ambit, Dr. Martin Bax. The challenge was to write a fitting encomium to honour this fine novelist (and one of Britain’s foremost consultant paediatricians) . . . yet an encomium no longer than eighty words. 

As a confirmed completist, I chose to further elaborate the task by omitting the letter ‘i’, a task more formidable than I could ever have imagined but one that was devised to deliver up its constrained message by demonstrating that, in certain cases of ludic wordcraft, Form is Function. 

A True Eye Has No Ego . . . Often a false eye has more human warmth than a true one, a phenomenon some call Art. The same thought must have prompted our journal’s celebrated Founder whose agenda to suppress that thoroughly untrustworthy personal pronoun of the Ego reveals a demonstrable selflessness . . . the cut-ups of Burroughs and Ballard, for example; equally, Dr Bax’s own Ego-key when he types stays well strapped down, too. Text typed here also shares the Contra-Ego hobble for my warmest salute to a seer. 

Yes, Martin Bax, the I-suppressing seer who’s presided over more than five decades of the arts, has sustained his notable reputation as an avant-gardist. His journal has boasted not only the likes of rogue literary lions such as Burroughs and Ballard but distinguished artists such as Peter Blake, David Hockney and Eduardo Paolozzi, to name just a handful of the luminaries published in his pages.

He looked at the girl, and she looked at him, but not a word was said.

Nevertheless, on balance, I feel that practitioners of constrained writing (Hemingway included) could have learned much from a little book I found many, many years ago published as part of a series of  Abridgements in One Syllable. Particularly, Fairy Tales from Andersen and Grimm yields this gem (from The Tin Soldier) . . . 

They put him on the [toy] board. But what strange things there are in this world! It was the same board where he had stood some days since! He saw the same boys and girls and the same toys once more.                                   There was the same big [dolls’] house with the swans on the lake, and the same young girl [a doll] who still danced by the door.                                    The tin man was glad; he looked at the girl, and she looked at him, but not a word was said.                                                                                                       Then one of the boys threw him in the stove. He did not say why he did this. It might have been the fault of the Black Elf in the Snuff Box.              The tin man felt a great heat, for it was hot in the stove. He cast a look at the young girl, and she looked at him; he felt he should melt, but as he was brave he still held his gun in his hand.                                                                 Then all at once the door of the stove flew back and the draught of air caught up the young girl who danced. She flew like an elf in to the stove close to the tin man and flashed up in flame; then she was gone.                          Then the tin man did melt down to a lump, and when the maid came to light the fire next day she found him in the shape of a small tin heart on the hearth stone. No sign was seen of the young girl but the gilt rose, and that was burned as black as a piece of coal.

Well, as to constrained passion, I find this parable wonderfully unrestrained . . . after all, a banked fire burns the fiercest or, as Shakespeare reminds us, ‘Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all.’

Constrained writing . . .
a banked fire burns the fiercest.

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Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. 

see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html

and Listen Close to Me (2011)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/published-this-autumn-listen-close-to.html 
and A Bad Case (2015)

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/a-bad-case-and-other-adventures-of.html

A Touch of Fever: the Poisoning of a Philandering Husband.

Another specimen of poésie trouvée struck me the other day when reading the transcript of an inquest into a case of death by domestic poisoning, a philandering husband despatched allegedly by his wife, the victim having died in extreme agony after being taken ill on his return from an angling holiday in Hampshire, a trip cut short by his complaining of ‘not feeling well’ and having ‘a touch of fever’.

‘Not To Be Taken.’

A Snatch of Conversation.

A few minutes later the wife herself was 

being examined again by her counsel

about the flask of whisky which she said

was in her husband’s possession

before he went on his fishing holiday.

‘He was packing his bag, and I noticed

a new flask of whisky being packed away

among the contents.

I asked who gave it to him.

Was it a friend?

He smiled and remarked,

“Ah Ha!”

“Oh,” I said,

“then perhaps you have

bought it yourself,”

and he grinned,

and said,

   “He He!”.’

The wife joined in the laughter which 

this explanation caused.
She added, ‘That was the whole conversation.’

See also, poésie trouvée, the unsought text:

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/colour-blind.html

and

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/poesie-trouvee-unsought-text.html

and

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2013/04/immured-mustard-field-found.html

Maimed Hero: Frankenstein Exhumed . . . Tragic Monster in Nelson’s Own Image? A Bicentennial Investigation.

Frankenstein was born exactly 200 years ago (the draft plotted on June 17 1816, following a terrifying ‘waking’ nightmare dreamed by Mary Shelley induced by a conversation at the ‘witching hour’ on the reanimation of a corpse by galvanic stimulus). 
           A nightmare induced by galvanism? Undoubtedly. But then came the long process of composing the novel and a different question arises, namely: When Mary first came to breathe galvanic life into her accursed Promethean creature, was Britain’s greatest naval hero its true inspiration? 
           A challenging claim, yes, but when the two lines of my enquiry are closely examined it may be observed that, where the Shelleyan and Nelsonian strands intermesh, a startling picture begins to emerge to reveal Admiral Nelson in a new guise as, in actuality, the true father of the high Gothic novel, and, moreover, the maimed hero whose death of recent memory is sublimated in Frankenstein as an unsuspected Nelson resurrection myth.

  ‘The world expects every being to do its duty,’ paraphrased the teenaged Percy Bysshe Shelley in defence of his callow egalitarianism, and it was this defiant personal motto that would become the rallying cry of a literary triumvirate, with Nelson’s words transfigured as their English Romantic Credo. 
  Yet that transfiguration had a darker meaning . . . because, for Shelley, Byron and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, mindful of the perfectibility of man travestied by a hero’s mutilated corpse, the wounds of the late admiral still very much possessed their thoughts.

Galvanic Augury.

Remarkably, within hours of Shelley’s eighteenth birthday, an augury of this galvanic fusion of classicised Heroism and protoscientific Romanticism could be said to have appeared in the sky when, on Sunday August 5th 1810, the heavens split to hurl a lightning-bolt at the first civic monument in Britain to commemorate Nelson’s victories, searing the obelisk with numberless millions of zeitgeist-animating volts.  At that precise moment there was ignited a drama that would unite the Hero of Trafalgar with the two greatest Romantic poets of their age and the eighteen-year-old progenitress of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley. 

 

The Nelson Monument struck by lightning,
Sunday 5th August 1810. Print from an oil painting by John Knox
in the Hunterian Museum and Art Gallery, University of Glasgow.

  For I claim a synchronicity was announced by that electric charge, insofar as Lord Byron on that August day, having just heroically swum the Hellespont, and carousing in the distant lands of the Levant, was yet in the same breath still fretting in a letter home for news of his idealised oil portrait; an iconic image in which he had famously personified himself as Nelson in an attitude struck for the painter, Sanders, the previous year.

 

Byron personified himself as Nelson.
(George Sanders’ 1809 portrait of Byron,
Queen’s Collection.)

 

  And, while Byron continued to refine his heroic posturing in emulation of the Great Admiral, his young rival, Shelley, too, was in thrall to the ‘Immortal Memory’ of Nelson and – as a proselytiser of egalitarianism and the liberty of Everyman – was formulating his own life’s motto in homage to the naval commander’s celebrated signal: ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ 
  So, in the summer of 1810, the imaginations of the two future co-inspirators of Frankenstein, were both evidently coloured by the vividness of the Nelsonian myth. Moreover, in the case of Shelley who had sculled at Eton, the sailoring ambitions had taken palpable shape in the eighteen-year-old poet’s improvised boats he launched on his father’s country estate in Sussex, and in his designs for the steam-yachts he would later attempt to build in Tuscany at Livorno, the location of his drowning.

Kindred Souls in the Age of Galvanic Fluid.

Shelley, more than any other poet of the brief reign of George IV, recognised the Dawn of the Age of Electricity (albeit, in Shelley’s philosophising, an age of alchemistical ‘Transcendental Technology’, according to a contemporary satirist), and even as a prankish pupil at Eton had experimented with the ‘galvanic fluid’; a highly-charged Leyden Jar in his rooms had delivered a severe shock to one of his tutors.
            However, in August 1810, that lightning bolt was but a portent of the classic tale that would be engendered six years later. The dawn of electricity could not be said to have risen in its full splendour, for only in 1810 did Michael Faraday begin his studies that would lead to his discovery and formalisation of the principle underlying the generation of electricity two decades later.  In fact, it was not until 1816 that Faraday published the first of his many scientific papers.
  1816 was significant date in the history of the New Science for another reason; two kindred souls were conjoined. Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin and Percy Bysshe Shelley were married in 1816.

‘The world expects every being to do its duty,’
paraphrased the teenaged Percy Bysshe Shelley.

A Year Without Summer.

Devoted students of the legend of Frankenstein will know this novel was born in 1816, and will be aware that the events which prompted its creation took place in the year following the end of the Napoleonic Wars, and the tenth anniversary of Nelson’s funeral . . . the funeral of an archetype who was to enter the collective psyche.
          So the mythopoeic origin of Frankenstein stems from a period in which a world-spirit of triumphalism took wing over war-torn Europe, stimulating the thoughts and emotions of three great English Romantics, confined in fate-favoured conjunction in the Villa Diodati on the shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland: the authoress herself, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, and Shelley and Lord Byron, together with Byron’s personal physician, Dr. John Polidori, author of that first vampiric bestseller, The Vampyre.

The Villa Diodati on the shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland.

           Inspired by readings of phantasmagorical stories, on June 16 1816, the jaded Byron challenged this literary coterie, as a diversion from a ‘wet, ungenial summer’, to write the scariest ghost story ever conceived to unsettle the imagination. Thus Mary, while still a girl of eighteen years, came to begin the writing of Frankenstein.
           (1816 was known as ‘the year without a summer’ owing to the cataclysmic eruption of the Tambora Volcano in Indonesia, the most powerful eruption in recorded history. Global temperatures were lowered by as much as 3 degrees C. Even a year after the eruption, most of the northern hemisphere experienced sharply cooler temperatures during the summer months. Byron wrote in the same year, 1816, in Darkness: ‘The world was void . . . Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless . . .’)

‘The year without a summer’ . . . 
the cataclysmic eruption of the Tambora Volcano 
in Indonesia in 1816.
      ‘The world was void . . . 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless . . .’

          So a shuddering chill was in the air both meteorologically and metaphysically.
          Yet, until now, no scholar it would seem has attributed Mary’s inspiration for the monstrous apparition of her High Gothic novel to the iconic corpse of Lord Nelson, then but a decade cold.

Our Hero Quietly Inurned?

Academic methodologies continue to evolve, and recent changes in practical and theoretical approaches to historicisation can now provide Shelleyan scholars with new insights into the socio-cultural contextualisation of Mary’s classic text, enabling Frankenstein to be contemporaneously revisited from the standpoint of a vast corpus of Nelsonian studies.
           To judge the textual basis for this re-evaluation, we should first revisit Mary’s nightmare vision which inspired Frankenstein, recorded in her novel’s exegetical preface, to learn how her troubled recollections hint at the true interpretation of events:

. . . I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think . . . I saw with . . . acute mental vision . . . the pale student of unhallowed arts standing before the thing he had put together, I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion . . . frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror stricken . . . but he is awakened [to] behold, the horrid thing . . . looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. 

          Unremarked by biographers, these words I believe reflect the temperament of a brilliant young woman, still in her late teens, who had sought to impress upon Byron the force of her own personality by exhibiting to him, in a coded narrative, their shared affinity with Lord Nelson through the ghoulish fascination their hero’s mutilations held for them, a belief borne out by reference to their own writings and favoured authors. 
          Lord Byron boasted of the fact that his cousin, Captain Bettesworth, who had brought home despatches from Nelson at Antigua, was notable for having ‘. . . received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.’  Similarly, Shelley’s uncle and benefactor, Captain John Pilfold, was the heroic commander of a ship in Nelson’s division at the battle of Trafalgar.
           Likewise Mary, in the two years prior to that momentous glacial summer of 1816, was no stranger to the Nelson legend. She had read widely, encouraged by Shelley, pursuing a programme encompassing the great poets, including Coleridge, Milton, Petronius, Shakespeare, Spenser, and, significantly, Robert Southey, who had become Poet Laureate in the year of the first publication of his greatest prose work, The Life of Nelson, which was hailed at once as a masterwork.  
           As Southey wrote in his moving final passages of the second volume, referring to the autopsy performed on Nelson and the condition of the corpse: 

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening the body, that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to a good old age.

          Southey’s profound sense of loss, the mourning for a fallen hero, recalls not only the emotional impact the memory of Nelson’s death had on the writers of those times, but the powerful influence exerted on their imaginations both by Southey’s personality and his other literary works. (It’s fascinating to reflect on the fact that without Robert Southey’s urgings, his fellow poet Shelley would not have so soon become acquainted with William Godwin, Mary’s father, in 1812.) 
           In Frankenstein, for example, it is from Southey, due probably to the promptings of Shelley, that a name of one character derives. The ur-text of Frankenstein first accords the name of ‘Maimouna’ to ‘Safie’, in the De Laceys’ episode concerning the history of the cottagers (Chapter 15), a name that can be traced to Southey’s Thalaba, a work Mary records reading in 1814, two years before her own book’s genesis.
           The common connection of Nelson’s first biographer to the Shelley/Byron literary circle, of course, is more memorably summoned when we recall Southey as the alleged scandal-monger whom Byron asserted spread rumours about the Shelleys and Mary’s step-sister, Byron’s lover Claire Claremont, slandering them as the ‘League of Incest’. 
           Yet, Southey it may be believed figures in their literary lives far more prominently than their love affairs. In 1813, for example, Byron could record in his journal that Southey’s ‘appearance is Epic; and he is the only existing entire man of letters.’ And, Byron affirms, ‘His prose is perfect . . . The life of Nelson is beautiful.’  This was the diarist who would five years later pillory ‘Bob’ Southey, in the dedication to Don Juan, as a pretentious sterile poet who posterity would see ‘. . . fall, for lack of moisture, quite adry, Bob!’ (A dry bob was Regency slang for intercourse without ejaculation.)
            So here we can see that Byron’s veneration for Nelson could clearly coexist with a robust revilement of his biographer. As Byron wrote in Don Juan, more than a dozen years after Trafalgar: 

                                Nelson was once Britannia’s God of War,
                                And still should be so, but the tide is turned;
                                There’s no more to be said of Trafalgar,
                                ’Tis with our Hero quietly inurned . . .

           That Mary, like Byron, was conversant with the life of Nelson, and that her imagination, too, was stirred and stimulated by his exploits, was adduced in an article in the Keats-Shelley Journal written over a quarter of a century ago.
           Considering the chronology of the novel, the author, A. D. Harvey, proposes that the climax of Frankenstein, the ice-locked ship of the polar expedition from Archangel, aboard which Frankenstein seeks refuge, was suggested by a ship on an earlier voyage whose crew included the young Nelson.

It is possible . . . Mary Shelley had in mind [a] man of the 1770s, Captain the Honourable Constantine Phipps, who in 1773 led an expedition to try to find the Northeast Passage to India. The fact that [Frankenstein’s ship] departs from Archangel indicates that [the ship] too is sailing east . . . to find a polar route to India . . . Phipps’s attempt to go east was however still remembered in Mary Shelley’s day if only because one of the then popular Baron Munchhausen stories [1786] is set on board Phipps’s ship, and because the young Horatio Nelson, who was still fresh in all Britons’ minds as a naval hero, had accompanied Phipps as a coxswain and had had an adventure with a bear that had become famous as one of the earliest incidents of his legend. 

            Southey recounts young Nelson’s voyage to the polar wastes with a gusto only matched by Mary’s. Southey writes:

They sawed through pieces of ice twelve feet thick; and this labour continued the whole day, during which their utmost efforts did not move the ships above three hundred yards . . . One night, during the mid-watch, he [Nelson] stole from the ship with one of his comrades, taking advantage of a rising fog, and set off over the ice in pursuit of a bear. It was not long before they were missed. The fog thickened . . . Between three and four in the morning the weather cleared, and the two adventurers were seen, at a considerable distance from the ship, attacking a huge bear. 

            So, both Munchhausenian and Nelsonian myth-making are seemingly interwoven into the themes threaded through Mary’s text.  And both Mary and Byron, then, judging by their predilection for stories that, according to Mary in her introduction to Frankenstein, would ‘awaken thrilling horror’ and ‘curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart’, gloried in the gory, as though St. Sebastian were their patron saint; and both expatriated writers, ten years after Nelson’s interment, would, no doubt, have continued to lament the disfigurement of Nelson as though he were a Horatian dismembered poet, ‘disiecti membra poetae’. 
            Indeed, in that early romantic portrait, Byron aged 21, on preparing to embark for the Mediterranean, paradoxically affirms his allegiance to ‘Britannia’s God of War’, despite espousing the ideologies of a revolution which Nelson, the defender of reactionaryism, had routed. 

Triumphalist Nelsoniana.

By contrast, in the year of Byron’s first poetic success in 1812, Mary, aged fourteen and motherless since birth, embarked on a more prosaic voyage on a packet boat bound for Dundee, in the charge of a passenger, a Mrs Nelson, who was journeying to be reunited with her invalid husband. At this most impressionable age, therefore, Fortune chose as Mary’s custodian, the wife of a surrogate Nelson, as she ventured out to sea alone for the first time in her young life, borne by the fair tides of Britain’s newly liberated oceans. (Her life, like those of her countrymen at that time, was suffused with triumphalist Nelsoniana; in November 1814, for instance, she moved, with Percy and Claire, to 2 Nelson Square, Blackfriars Road.)
            In Scotland, as Mary writes, in her introduction to Frankenstein: 

‘I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts . . . the eyrie of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy . . . It was . . . on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered.’ 

            This voyage to Scotland with the petticoated Nelson, and the solitariness of her surroundings, are very likely to have prompted the passage in Chapter 19, in which Mary dispatches Frankenstein to the Orkney Islands to create a second creature as companion to the monster. 

I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude.  I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.    

           That Byron profoundly venerated Nelson is also attested by the fact that he named his beautifully formed, exceptionally ferocious, bull-mastiff after Nelson. 
           Byron fought with this canine Nelson, according to one account: ‘The bull-dog, Nelson, always wore a muzzle, and was occasionally sent for into our private room, when the muzzle was taken off, much to my annoyance, and he and his master amused themselves with throwing the room into disorder . . . But, one day, Nelson unfortunately escaped out of the room without his muzzle, and going into the stable-yard fastened upon the throat of a horse from which he could not be disengaged.’  Those in pursuit, took a loaded pistol and ‘. . . shot poor Nelson through the head, to the great regret of Byron.’
           Indeed, Byron’s remorse must have been redoubled to learn his anthropomorphised Nelson had been shot, since the lame Byron, with his club foot, identified himself very closely with the maimed Admiral who perished, too, by ball shot. Byron was self-conscious about his disablement and sought in Horatio Nelson, I believe, a contemporary model of heroism which overcame his own failure to match the perfections of ancient Greek classical statuary then the vogue as the ideal of human beauty. Byron’s weight was variable and he was a cranky martyr to the fad of extreme dieting. 
           Mary Shelley in her encounters with Lord Byron, then, must have been aware of the poet’s powerful identification with his naval hero, and regarded the poet as virtually the alter ego of her first lover and husband, the poet Shelley, for she writes that when Byron ‘. . . speaks & Shelley does not answer, it is as thunder without rain.’
           In pursuing her protagonist Victor Frankenstein’s noble theory on the perfectability of man, therefore, whose aim is to create life in an idealised image from the disinterred body parts of the dead, did Mary Shelley attempt to conciliate Byron and win his approval by creating a model for empathic identification? 
           In short, was Frankenstein’s creation perceived within Mary Shelley’s most intimate circle of readers as a hybrid of Byron and Nelson, restored to life as Perfected Man, unmaimed? (A perfectability in marked contrast to Frankenstein himself who, at length, admits his own imperfection, as one who exists like ‘unfashioned creatures, but half made up’ unless aided to ‘perfectionate [their] weak and faulty natures.’) At the time of its writing, Shelley and Byron discussed ‘the principle of life and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered.’ 

A New Species of the Undead.

Was, then, Mary’s ‘new species’ of undead both a wish-fulfilling resurrection of Nelson and an artful tribute to Byron whose complex split personality she recognised?  In other words, can Frankenstein be regarded in one aspect as a Nelson resurrection myth, proposing the possibilities of a new science for the rebirth of a nation’s hero.
             Consider the moment of Frankenstein’s creation of the Ideal Man whom Frankenstein delineates, amazed that such should be the phantasm that . . . .

. . . with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! — Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

           Note Mary’s emphasis on limbs of perfect proportion (redeeming Byron’s deformity); and Frankenstein observes one ‘eye of the creature open’ no longer blinded in its socket (remedying the one armed-Nelson’s monocular vision).  Is this not an image of Nelson resurrected? (Many paintings of Nelson’s death, incidentally, depict him in the manner of Christ’s deposition from the Cross. See also the 1831 frontispiece to Frankenstein for a similar disposition of limbs, a disposition which also closely resembles Samuel Drummond’s classic painting, The Death of Nelson, 21 October 1805’ painted in 1807.)

A Deposition of an Immortal?

             ‘. . . I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper.’ Thus wrote Mary Shelley of ‘. . . the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.’
            Well, in my own view, the legend of Frankenstein has prospered and grown large in the imaginations of countless millions, with few suspecting Admiral Lord Nelson as the source of the image which holds them in thrall.
            The closest any scholar has approached this exegesis of Frankenstein (so far as I am aware) is Simon Bainbridge in his From Nelson to Childe Harold: The Transformations of the Byronic Image. Focusing principally on George Sanders’ 1809 portrait of Byron, Bainbridge contends that most accounts of the Byron iconography have missed the fact that 

Byron has himself represented in terms of the pre-eminent and already mythical hero of the hour, Horatio Nelson, an astonishing act of heroic self-conception and self-presentation that anticipates his more famous and ambiguous identification with the major world historic figure of the age, Napoleon Bonaparte.

            Mary Shelley knew, too, of Byron’s complex divided self, this split personality which, in composite, embraced both Nelson and Napoleon. Remember, too, the year of Frankenstein’s composition was the year that followed Napoleon’s exile to the island of St. Helena – a barren, wind-swept rock located in the South Atlantic Ocean. Frankenstein literally means ‘the rock of the Franks’ (i.e. the rock of the French) and is it too fanciful to suppose that Napoleon, the man described by Chateaubriand as the ‘mightiest breath of life which ever animated human clay’, is also a Byronic co-model for Frankenstein’s creation?
           As to the continuing evolution of Byronic iconography, Bainbridge argues that Byron’s initial heroic and very public image was transformed in later portraits into the figure of an ‘isolated and a-historical romantic wanderer.’  
          Yet, the idealisation of Byron (a.k.a Nelson) as a Romantic wanderer is not neglected in Frankenstein, whose chapters are consumed by the Creature’s wanderings.

Romantic Wanderer.

In Frankenstein’s voyagings to the polar icecaps in search of the wandering Fiend, the ‘tremendous being’ who by galvanic black arts had been created, Mary evokes the resoluteness of Nelson when the ship’s sailors threaten mutiny. Frankenstein exhorts: ‘Oh! Be men, or be more than men . . . Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.’ 
            The onboard catastrophe of Frankenstein’s death, in a ship’s cabin, at the hands of the daemonical monster also recalls the death of Nelson. At Frankenstein’s death, there looms over him ‘a form . . . gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy . . .’ 
            Certainly Mary’s description of the ghastly mummified hand, and of the coffin, reminds us of Nelson’s morbid humour, and of a dead hero bereft of one arm.  In the final passages of Mary Shelley’s epic novel her Monster and Creator are seemingly united in death, a gothic horror which Horatio Nelson had anticipated by almost two decades. 
           After the battle of the Nile, a coffin was made for Nelson from part of the wreck of L’Orient, burnt at the Battle of the Nile, as a reminder of his own mortality, and Nelson had it placed upright, with the lid on, against his cabin’s bulkhead on his flagship.
           Nelson, seeing his officers looking at it appalled, said one day: ‘You may look upon it, gentlemen, as long as you please; but, depend on it, none of you shall have it.’ However, despite the provision of a coffin, it is popularly known that Nelson’s corpse was shipped home in a barrel filled with alcohol as a preservative. Legend has it that when sailors learned of this, they drank the liquor, thenceforth known as ‘Nelson’s Blood’, as though he would, Redeemer-like, inspirit them.
           Correspondingly, Mary describes her ghoulish excitement at the scientific probability of animating a lifeless subject ‘preserved’ in a ‘case, till by some extraordinary means’ it should begin ‘to move with voluntary motion.’  Hence, as Mary suggests in her Preface to Frankenstein, she could not escape the new science of galvanism as a primary stimulus to her powerful imagination.
           However, though it is possible to detect the product of Nelson’s morbid humour prefiguring the climactic scene of Frankenstein, it must be recorded that the Admiral of ‘Immortal Memory’ never anticipated the immortality of his own resurrection by galvanism, a topic of which he could not have been unaware.
           As Professor George Rosie has written, when describing the genesis of his book, Death’s Enemy: The Pilgrimage Of Victor Frankenstein: 

It is intriguing that Shelley made Geneva the home town of Dr Frankenstein. During her sojourn in that under-rated city, she may have heard of Jean Jallabert, a professor at the University of Geneva who spent much of 1747 sending jolts of electricity into the semi-paralysed body of a locksmith called Jacques Chaumier. It seems that the treatment worked. After more than a decade of helplessness, Chaumier had the use of his limbs back. 

          Jallabert’s detailed account of the procedure he had devised was soon the talk of Europe’s salons. So, for Nelson, in the 18th century, the facts of galvanism were undoubtedly known; due, extraordinarily enough, to his liaison with Lady Hamilton.
          According to Prof. Rosie, the newfound fascination that surrounded the science of electricity in the Romantic epoch of Mary Shelley sparked her powerful imagination to create one of the great myths of the last two centuries. 

Mary Shelley was articulating the Romantic (in the literary sense of the word) fear that science is running out of control and is outstripping the bonds of religion, morality or even common sense.

As Prof. Rosie writes: ‘By the 1770s, there were “electric clinics” in just about every city in Europe . . . The most notorious was probably the Temple of Health in London, which a medical showman called James Graham ran with the help of a glamorous assistant called Emma Lyon.’ Emma, scantily-clad, was one of many beautiful young women who posed as classical statues in a salon which exhibited a curious medico-electrical apparatus, ‘The Celestial Bed’, across whose headboard electricity crackled, filling the air with a magnetic fluid ‘calculated to give the necessary degree of strength and exertion to the nerves.’   
           Who was Emma Lyon?
           Emma Lyon later married the Duke of Hamilton, and earned renown as the mistress of Horatio Nelson, and brought him the notoriety of L’affaire Hamilton.
          Today, Napoleon’s arch-nemesis Nelson is condemned by revisionists for the colour of his reactionary political instincts, and for his unquestioning anti-republicanism, despite being remembered as the anti-authoritarian spirit who rebelliously raised his telescope to his blind eye to disregard a flag signal commanding him to retreat.
           Similarly, in the writings of Byron, who described himself as ‘the Napoleon of rhyme’, we can detect antithetical statements in which there sounds the clash of his two conflicting natures . . . Reactionaryism and Romanticism.
          As Karl Marx wrote, it was fortunate that Byron had died so young, ‘. . . for he would have become a reactionary bourgeois had he lived longer . . .’
          For Byron, his emulation of Nelson extended not only to the abandonment of a wife but to duplicitous affairs and to sharing the advocacy of Free Love with Mary and Percy Bysshe Shelley. Mary (as daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, authoress of A Vindication of The Rights of Women) and Shelley, faithful acolyte of Byron, both subscribed to the ‘Otaheite’ philosophy within their own circle, a reference to Tahiti, the mythical home of free love. So in this respect, if in no other, the empathic link of the early 19th Century Romantics with Nelson cannot be broken. (Significantly, Mary was born in 1797, the year of Nelson’s knighthood following the battle of Cape St Vincent.) 

The Nelson Touch.
It is my intention, in proposing Admiral Nelson as the true Father of the Gothic Novel, springing as it does from the Trafalgar bicentennial, that my studies will in time induce further scholarly observations of the ‘Nelson Touch’, revealed to be palpably evident in the Shelleyan narrative. The existing evidence is strong. Not least is the connection that can be drawn between those two begetters of High Gothic fiction, the twin pinnacles, Mary Shelley (Frankenstein) and Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre and Shirley). 
            How?
            Charlotte’s father, Patrick Brunty, inspired by Lord Horatio Nelson, changed his surname to Brontë in honour of the admiral being ennobled in Sicily in 1799 by King Ferdinand of Naples with the Italian title, Duke of Bronte, as reward for routing the French fleet in the Mediterranean. A devotee of Nelson, Charlotte’s father changed the family surname to Brontë, placing a dieresis on the ‘e’.
            In Jane Eyre, too, we see the re-emergence, in high Gothic fashion, of the disfigured hero and scandalous ménage à trois: the Byronic Rochester (divested of an inconvenient wife confined in the attic) is maimed and blinded in a fire which has consumed his ancestral home. Wish-fulfilment, directly mirroring Nelson’s misfortune, resolves Charlotte’s fable, for miraculously, Rochester’s sight is partially restored.
            That Charlotte, too, venerated Nelson may be adduced from Chapter 26, in Part 3 of Shirley, where Shirley affirms: 

Admiral Horatio, Viscount Nelson, and Duke of Bronti; great at heart as a Titan; gallant and heroic as all the world and age of chivalry; leader of the might of England; commander of her strength on the deep; hurler of her thunder over the flood. 

           After the death by drowning of Mary’s husband, the poet Percy Shelley, in 1822, the spectacular reanimation of a corpse into a living body would, we can assume, no longer preoccupy a woman more closely absorbed in publishing her late husband's Posthumous Poems (1824).
          Besides, due in part to the sensational central proposition of Frankenstein in the context of the contemporary prevalence of grave-robbing gangs who supplied surgeons with newly buried bodies for dissection, the anatomy reform debates of the 1820s began to change the public’s perceptions of this seminal SciFi novel.

           Mary Shelley had good reasons to revise her intimations of immortality; the woman who had believed, like Frankenstein, that she ‘might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing’, kept Shelley’s heart wrapped up in silk until she died.

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley; Percy Bysshe Shelley
by George J. Stodart, after monument by Henry Weekes.
Stipple engraving (1853).

Summer of a Dormouse?

One last mystery remains. Did Mary Shelley ever conduct a love affair with Lord Byron, as often rumoured? (Indeed her step-sister, Claire Clairmont, in the manner of a procuress, wrote to Byron before Mary’s 1816 visit to Lake Geneva, predicting an affair between Mary and the celebrated poet: ‘. . . you will I dare say fall in love with her; she is very handsome & very amiable & you will no doubt be blest in your attachment . . .’)
           There is an encrypted answer to this conundrum in Byron’s famous aphorism: ‘When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning — how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse.’
            Mary Shelley’s pet name was ‘Dormouse’, because of her shyness. In 1822, the year of Percy Shelley’s drowning, she wrote to Byron, ‘. . . If I am awkward at first, forgive me. I would, like a dormouse, roll myself in cotton at the bottom of my cage, & never peep out.’ 
            Was the ‘Frankenstein summer’ of 1816 truly a Byronic ‘summer of a Dormouse’ – in quite another amatory sense?
            And, at a deeper level of religio-intellectual mythologising, did both Mary and Charlotte, as Ur-feminists, seek in their narratives to usurp the omnipotence of a patriarchal godhead and, by that empowerment, conceive legends in which their archetypes could raise the dead and heal the lame and the blind?
            Or, in truth, is the Frankenstein myth of Mary, a recently bereft mother, a more elemental work altogether, delineating a young mother’s trauma and guilt of afterbirth, as many feminists with great perception propose. In her persuasive and emotionally grounded keynote article on Feminine Gothic, Ellen Moers writes: 

. . . Mary Shelley’s book is most interesting, most powerful, and most feminine: in the motif of revulsion against newborn life, and the drama of guilt, dread, and flight surrounding birth and its consequences. Most of the novel, roughly two of its three volumes, can be said to deal with the retribution visited upon monster and creator for deficient infant care.  

On March 6 1815, Mary’s two-months-premature daughter Clara died, less than a month old. The baby had been conceived when Mary was aged seventeen.
           A fortnight later, on March 19 1815, Mary records a powerful dream:

Dream that my little baby came to life again; that it had only been cold, and that we rubbed it before the fire and it lived. Awake and find no baby. I think about the little thing all day. Not in good spirits . . .

          Needless to remark that Mary, who remythologised Prometheus (her original title, as we know, was Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus), also in her dream sought Promethean fire, the divine gift to mortals, to knead cold human clay into living flesh.   
          Nevertheless, I remain convinced that, beyond this primal stimulus for Mary Shelley’s novel, the symbolic reanimation of Britain’s greatest national saviour, the archetype for a dismembered hero, is a kind of ‘fantasia variation’ (to employ a useful musical term for this intertext) freely evolving, as I have attempted to demonstrate, from the predominating theme of Gothic resurrectionism propelling her epic tale.  

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Dammit, Brigid. Miaow! (18.08.2019)

Wouldn’t you know it! Now fourteen years after I wrote this text (originally to mark the 2005 Nelson Bicentennial of his victory and death) oh dear, oh dear, today I read this passage from a 1967 critique of Jane Eyre by Brigid Brophy:

It is more to the point, however, that Charlotte Brontë’s daydreams had clearly been formed by the Oedipal stress. The little girl [viz. Jane Eyre/father-figure Rochester] can escape the guilt of her erotic relation to her father if her father is castrated : before Jane Eyre can marry her father-figure, he is mutilated in the fire that destroys his house. He loses an arm and almost all his sight — an emphatic symbolic castration, betokened twice over, by the direct loss of a limb and by the blinding that is the symbol used in the Oedipus story itself. (Mr Rochester is phallicized and castrated yet again by being likened to a tree — whose blasting by lightning forecasts, according to Mrs [Q.D.] Leavis [literary critic], his mutilation.) Charlotte Brontë’s choice of mutilations was, perhaps, influenced also by an historical example. The sightless and armless Mr Rochester seems to be formed on the lines less of the clubfooted Lord Byron than of the war-wounded Lord Nelson (duke, of course, of Brontë). 

These words are from the excoriating Fifty Works of English Literature we could do without, which displays the bared claws of Brigid Brophy’s feline wit to full advantage (this 1967 demolition job on English and American classics has contributions from BB and Michael Levey and Charles Osborne). I assume this passage is by BB as it seems characteristic of her insights but, please note, all fifty hatchet jobs have no byelines.

For my appreciation of the enviable wit of Brigid Brophy, see:
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2013/10/slaves-to-seconal-droguee.html

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Catherine Eisner believes passionately in plot-driven suspense fiction, a devotion to literary craft that draws on studies in psychoanalytical criminology and psychoactive pharmacology to explore the dark side of motivation, and ignite plot twists with unexpected outcomes. Within these disciplines Eisner’s fictions seek to explore variant literary forms derived from psychotherapy and criminology to trace the traumas of characters in extremis. Compulsive recurring sub-themes in her narratives examine sibling rivalry, rivalrous cousinhood, pathological imposture, financial chicanery, and the effects of non-familial male pheromones on pubescence, 

see Eisner’s Sister Morphine (2008)

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/sister-morphine.html

and Listen Close to Me (2011)

http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/published-this-autumn-listen-close-to.html 

and A Bad Case (2015)
http://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.co.uk/2015/07/a-bad-case-and-other-adventures-of.html