This play began with a question: how did Mary Shelley, aged only eighteen, come to write a novel of such weight and power as Frankenstein? I knew the story of the Villa Diodati, and the external impetus for her sitting down to write, but where did the thoughts come from? The themes? For Frankenstein is clearly more than a spine-chiller; it is a novel of ideas.
She dedicated the story to her father, William Godwin, the radical political philosopher. Much has been said about Shelley’s influence on Mary at this time (some have even suggested that he had a hand in writing Frankenstein), but as I began my research, I quickly discovered that Shelley’s own ideas and preoccupations had been inspired to a large degree by Godwinian philosophy. He and Mary shared a passion for her father’s work, and I started to understand that it was this passion more than anything that had equipped her to write so brilliantly about such ideas as the consequences of treating men like beasts.
But there was more. Mary was writing Frankenstein at a time when her relationship with her father was under great strain – when he had refused all contact with her for almost two years. The novel is more than a homage to his philosophies; it is a criticism of his nature and his choices, a warning, a reprimand and a huge cry for understanding. It is these elements, I think, that give Frankenstein its heartfelt urgency and power. I decided to place this complex relationship at the centre of the play, and to see where it took me.
The research I undertook was enormously absorbing and inspiring. Each of the principal characters could be the subject of a play in their own right. I loved delving into Skinner Street – into Mary’s troubled family, patched together from bits and pieces of different relationships, crudely stitched – like the monster himself – into a clumsy, dysfunctional form. I loved discovering her sisters, each of whose fate was so bound up with Mary’s, and learning about the daring and vision of Shelley’s early socialism. It was a pleasure to imagine these people back to life.
And whilst I felt compelled (as Mary did) to depict the very real and awful dangers of putting principles before emotional need, I hope I have not painted too harsh a picture of idealism. For there is something courageous, surely, in striving to break new ground in the perilous business of living. In deciding to deal with the pain, the guilt, the disapproval this entails, in the belief and hope that, ultimately, humanity will be the richer for your efforts.
Helen Edmundson
February 2012