LITERARY WORK.
Having traced Mary's life, as far as space will allow, to the death of
her father, we must now retrace our steps to show the work she did,
which gives the _raison-d'être_ for this biography. It has
already been shown that her second book, _Valperga_, much admired
by Shelley, was written to assist her father in his distress before
his bankruptcy. After her husband's death, while arranging his MSS.,
and noting facts in connection with them, she planned and wrote her
third romance, _The Last Man_.
This highly imaginative work of Mary Shelley's twenty-sixth year
contains some of the author's most powerful ideas; but is marred in
the commencement by some of her most stilted writing.
The account of the events recorded professes to be found in the cave
of the Cumsean Sibyl, near Naples, where they had remained for
centuries, outlasting the changes of nature and, when found, being
still two hundred and fifty years in advance of the time foretold. The
accounts are all written on the sibylline leaves; they are in all
languages, ancient and modern; and those concerning this story are in
English.
We find ourselves in England, in 2073, in the midst of a Republic, the
last king of England having abdicated at the quietly expressed wish of
his subjects. This book, like all Mrs. Shelley's, is full of
biographical reminiscences; the introduction gives the date of her own
visit to Naples with Shelley, in 1818; the places they visited are
there indicated; the poetry, romance, the pleasures and pains of her
own existence, are worked into her subjects; while her imagination
carries her out of her own surroundings. We clearly recognise in the
ideal character of the son of the abdicated king an imaginary portrait
of Shelley as Mary would have him known, not as she knew him as a
living person. To give an adequate idea of genius with all its charm,
and yet with its human imperfections, was beyond Mary's power. Adrian,
the son of kings, the aristocratic republican, is the weakest part,
and one cannot help being struck by Mary Shelley's preference for the
aristocrat over the plebeian. In fact, Mary's idea of a republic still
needed kings' sons by their good manners to grace it, while, at the
same time, the king's son had to be transmuted into an ideal Shelley.
This strange confusion of ideas allowed for, and the fact that over
half a century of perhaps the earth's most rapid period of progress
has passed, the imaginative qualities are still remarkable in Mary.
Balloons, then dreamed of, were attained; but naturally the
steam-engine and other wonders of science, now achieved, were unknown
to Marv. When the-pi ague breaks out she has scope for her fancy, and
she certainly adds vivid pictures of horror and pathos to a subject
which has been handled by masters of thought at different periods. In
this time of horror it is amusing to note how the people's candidate,
Ryland, represented as a vulgar specimen of humanity, succumbs to
abject fear. The description of the deserted towns and grass-grown
streets of London is impressive. The fortunes of the family, to whom
the last man, Lionel Verney, belongs, are traced through their varying
phases, as one by one the dire plague assails them, and Verney, the
only man who recovers from the disease, becomes the leader of the
remnant of the English nation. This small handful of humanity leaves
England, and wanders through France on its way to the favoured
southern countries where human aid, now so scarce, was less needed. On
this journey Mrs. Shelley avails herself of reminiscences of her own
travelling with Shelley some few years before; and we pass the places
noted in her diary; but strange grotesque figures cross the path of
the few wanderers, who are decimated each day. At one moment a dying
acrobat, deserted by his companions, is seen bounding in the air
behind a hedge in the dusk of evening. At another, a black figure
mounted on a horse, which only shows itself after dark, to cause
apprehensions soon calmed by the death of the poor wanderer, who
wished only for distant companionship through dread of contagion.
Dijon is reached and passed, and here the old Countess of Windsor, the
ex-Queen of England, dies: she had only been reconciled to her changed
position by the destruction of humanity. Once, near Geneva, they come
upon the sound of divine music in a church, and find a dying girl
playing to her blind father to keep up the delusion to the last. The
small party, reduced by this time to five, reach Chamouni, and the
grand scenes so familiar to Mary contrast with the final tragedy of
the human race; yet one more dies, and only four of one family remain;
they bury the dead man in an ice cavern, and with this last victim
find the pestilence has ended, after a seven years' reign over the
earth. A weight is lifted from the atmosphere, and the world is before
them; but now alone they must visit her ruins; and the beauty of the
earth and the love of each other, bear them up till none but the last
man remains to complete the Cumsæan Sibyl's prophecy.
Various stories of minor importance followed from Mrs. Shelley's pen,
and preparations were made for the lives of eminent literary men. But
it was not till the year preceding her father's death that we have
_Lodore_, published in 1835. Of this novel we have already spoken
in relation to the separation of Shelley and Harriet.
Mary had too much feeling of art in her work to make an imaginary
character a mere portrait, and we are constantly reminded in her
novels of the different wonderful and interesting personages whom she
knew intimately, though most of their characters were far too subtle
and complex to be unravelled by her, even with her intimate knowledge.
Indeed, the very fact of having known some of the greatest people of
her age, or of almost any age, gives an appearance of affectation to
her novels, as it fills them with characters so far from the common
run that their place in life cannot be reduced to an ordinary
fashionable level. Romantic episodes there may be, but their true
place is in the theatre of time of which they are the movers, not the
Lilliputians of life who are slowly worked on and moulder by them, and
whose small doings are the material of most novels. We know of few
novelists who have touched at all successfully on the less known
characters. This accomplishment seems to need the great poet himself.
The manner in which Lady Lodore is influenced seems to point to
Harriet; but the unyielding and revengeful side of her character has
certainly more of Lady Byron. She is charmingly described, and shows a
great deal of insight on Mary's part into the life of fashionable
people of her time, which then, perhaps more than now, was the
favourite theme with novelists. This must be owing to a certain innate
Tory propensity in the English classes or masses for whom Mary Shelley
had to work hard, and for whose tendencies in this respect she
certainly had a sympathy. Mary's own life, at the point we have now
reached, is also here touched on in the character of Ethel, Lord and
Lady Lodore's daughter, who is brought up in America by her father,
and on his death entrusted to an aunt, with injunctions in his will
that she is not to be allowed to be brought in contact with her
mother. Her character is sweetly feminine and trusting, and in her
fortunate love and marriage (in all but early money matters) might be
considered quite unlike Mary's own less fortunate experiences; but in
her perfect love and confidence in her husband, her devotion and
unselfishness through the trials of poverty in London, the
descriptions of which were evidently taken from Mary's own
experiences, there is no doubt of the resemblance, as also in her love
and reverence for all connected with her father. There are also
passages undoubtedly expressive of her own inner feelings--such as
this when describing the young husband and wife at a _tête-à-tête_
supper:--
Mutual esteem and gratitude sanctified the unreserved sympathy which
made each so happy in the other. Did they love the less for not loving
"in sin and fear"? Far from it. The certainty of being the cause of
good to each other tended to foster the most delicate of all passions,
more than the rough ministrations of terror and the knowledge that
each was the occasion of injury. A woman's heart is peculiarly
unfitted to sustain this conflict. Her sensibility gives keenness to
her imagination and she magnifies every peril, and writhes beneath
every sacrifice which tends to humiliate her in her own eyes. The
natural pride of her sex struggles with her desire to confer
happiness, and her peace is wrecked.
What stronger expression of feeling could be needed than this, of a
woman speaking from her heart and her own experiences? Does it not
remind one of the moral on this subject in all George Eliot's writing,
where she shows that the outcome of what by some might be considered
minor transgressions against morality leads even in modern times to
the Nemesis of the most terrible Greek Dramas?
The complicated money transactions carried on with the aid of lawyers
were clearly a reminiscence of Shelley's troubles, and of her own
incapacity to feel all the distress contingent so long as she was with
him, and there was evidently money somewhere in the family, and it
would come some time. In this novel we also perceive that Mary works
off her pent-up feelings with regard to Emilia Viviani. It cannot be
supposed that the corporeal part of Shelley's creation of
_Epipsychidion_ (so exquisite in appearance and touching in
manner and story as to give rise, when transmitted through the poet's
brain, to the most perfect of love ideals) really ultimately became
the fiery-tempered worldly-minded virago that Mary Shelley indulges
herself in depicting, after first, in spite of altering some relations
and circumstances, clearly showing whom the character was intended
for. It is true that Shelley himself, after investing her with
divinity to serve the purposes of art, speaks later of her as a very
commonplace worldly-minded woman; but poets, like artists, seem at
times to need lay figures to attire with their thoughts. Enough has
been shown to prove that there is genuine subject of interest in this
work of Mary's thirty-seventh year.
The next work, _Falkner_, published in 1837, is the last novel we
have by Mary Shelley; and as we see from her letter she had been
passing through a period of ill-health and depression while writing
it, this may account for less spontaneity in the style, which is
decidedly more stilted; but, here again, we feel that we are admitted
to some of the circle which Mary had encountered in the stirring times
of her life, and there is undoubted imagination with some fine
descriptive passages.
The opening chapter introduces a little deserted child in a
picturesque Cornish village. Her parents had died there in apartments,
one after the other, the husband having married a governess against
the wishes of his relations; consequently, the wife was first
neglected on her husband's death; and on her own sudden death, a few
months later, the child was simply left to the care of the poor people
of the village--a dreamy, poetic little thing, whose one pleasure was
to stroll in the twilight to the village churchyard and be with her
mamma. Here she was found by Falkner, the principal character of the
romance, who had selected this very spot to end a ruined existence; in
which attempt he was frustrated by the child jogging his arm to move
him from her mother's grave. His life being thus saved by the child's
instrumentality, he naturally became interested in her. He is allowed
to look through the few remaining papers of the parents. Among these
he finds an unfinished letter of the wife, evidently addressed to a
lady he had known, and also indications who the parents were. He was
much moved, and offered to relieve the poor people of the child and to
restore her to her relations.
The mother's unfinished letter to her friend contains the following
passage, surely autobiographical:--
When I lost Edwin (the husband), I wrote to Mr. Raby (the husband's
father) acquainting him with the sad intelligence, and asking for a
maintenance for myself and my child. The family solicitor answered my
letter. Edwin's conduct had, I was told, estranged his family from
him, and they could only regard me as one encouraging his disobedience
and apostasy. I had no claim on them. If my child were sent to them,
and I would promise to abstain from all intercourse with her, she
should be brought up with her cousins, and treated in all respects
like one of the family. I declined their barbarous offer, and
haughtily and in few words relinquished every claim on their bounty,
declaring my intention to support and bring up my child myself. This
was foolishly done, I fear; but I cannot regret it, even now.
I cannot regret the impulse that made me disdain these unnatural and
cruel relatives, or that led me to take my poor orphan to my heart
with pride as being all my own. What had they done to merit such a
treasure? And did they show themselves capable of replacing a fond and
anxious mother? This reminds the reader of the correspondence between
Mary and her father on Shelley's death.
It suffices to say that Falkner became so attached to the small child,
that by the time he discovered her relations he had not the heart to
confide her to their hard guardianship, and as he was compelled to
leave England shortly, he took her with him, and through all
difficulties he contrived that she should be well guarded and brought
up. There is much in the character of Falkner that reminds the reader
of Trelawny, the gallant and generous friend of Byron and Shelley in
their last years, the brave and romantic traveller. The description of
Falkner's face and figure must have much resembled that of Trelawny
when young, though, of course, the incidents of the story have no
connection with him. In the meantime the little girl is growing up,
and the nurses are replaced by an English governess, whom Falkner
engages abroad, and whose praises and qualifications he hears from
everyone at Odessa. The story progresses through various incidents
foreshadowing the cause of Falkner's mystery. Elizabeth, the child,
now grown up, passes under his surname. While travelling in Germany
they come across a youth of great personal attraction, who appears,
however, to be of a singularly reckless and misanthropical disposition
for one so young. Elizabeth seeming attracted by his daring and
beauty, Falkner suddenly finds it necessary to return to England.
Shortly afterwards, he is moved to go to Greece during the War of
Independence, and wishes to leave Elizabeth with her relations in
England; but this she strenuously opposes so far as to induce Falkner
to let her accompany him to Greece, where he places her with a family
while he rushes into the thick of the danger, only hoping to end his
life in a good cause. In this he nearly succeeds, but Elizabeth,
hearing of his danger, hastens to his side, and nurses him assiduously
through the fever brought on from his wounds and the malarious
climate. By short stages and the utmost care, she succeeds in reaching
Malta on their homeward journey, and Falkner, a second time rescued
from death by his beloved adopted child, determines not again to
endanger recklessly the life more dear to her than that of many
fathers. Again, at Malta, during a fortnight's quarantine, the
smallness of the world of fashionable people brings them in contact
with an English party, a Lord and Lady Cecil, who are travelling with
their family. Falkner is too ill to see anyone, and when Elizabeth
finally gets him on board a vessel to proceed to Genoa, he seems
rapidly sinking. In his despair and loneliness, feeling unable to cope
with all the difficulties of burning sun and cold winds, help
unexpectedly comes: a gentleman whom Elizabeth has not before
perceived, and whom now she is too much preoccupied to observe,
quietly arranges the sail to shelter the dying man from sun and wind,
places pillows, and does all that is possible; he even induces the
poor girl to go below and rest on a couch for a time while he watches.
Falkner becomes easier in the course of the night; he sleeps and gains
in strength, and from this he progresses till, while at Marseilles, he
hears the name, Neville, of the unknown friend who had helped to
restore him to life. He becomes extremely agitated and faints. On
being restored to consciousness he begs Elizabeth to continue the
journey with him alone, as he can bear no one but her near him. The
mystery of Falkner's life seems to be forcing itself to the surface.
The travellers reach England, and Elizabeth is sought out by Lady
Cecil, who had been much struck by her devotion to her father.
Elizabeth is invited to stay with Lady Cecil, as she much needs rest
in her turn. During a pleasant time of repose near Hastings, Elizabeth
hears Lady Cecil talk much of her brother Gerard; but it is not till
he, too, arrives on a visit, that she acknowledges to herself that he
is really the same Mr. Neville whom she had met, and from whom she had
received such kindness. Nor had Gerard spoken of Elizabeth; he had
been too much drawn towards her, as his life also is darkened by a
mystery. They spend a short tranquil time together, when a letter
announces the approaching arrival of Sir Boyvill Neville, the young
man's father (although Lady Cecil called Gerard her brother, they were
not really related; Sir Boyvill had married the mother of Lady Cecil,
who was the offspring of a previous marriage).
Gerard Neville at once determines to leave the house, but before going
refers Elizabeth to his sister, Lady Cecil, to hear the particulars of
the tragedy which surrounds him. The story told is this. Sir Boyvill
Neville was a man of the world with all the too frequent disbelief in
women and selfishness. This led to his becoming very tyrannical when
he married, at the age of 45, Alethea, a charming young woman who had
recently lost her mother, and whose father, a retired naval officer of
limited means, would not hear of her refusing so good an offer as Sir
Boyvill's. After their marriage Sir Boyvill, feeling himself too
fortunate in having secured so charming and beautiful a wife, kept out
of all society, and after living abroad for some years took her to an
estate he possessed in Cumberland. They lived there shut out from all
the world, except for trips which he took himself to London, or
elsewhere, whenever _ennui_ assailed him. They had, at the time
we are approaching, two charming children, a beautiful boy of some ten
years and a little girl of two. At this time while Alethea was
perfectly happy with her children, and quite contented with her
retirement, which she perceived took away the jealous tortures of her
husband, he left home for a week, drawn out to two months, on one of
his periodical visits to the capital. Lady Neville's frequent letters
concerning her home and her children were always cheerful and placid,
and the time for her husband's return was fixed. He arrived at the
appointed hour in the evening. The servants were at the door to
receive him, but in an instant alarm prevailed; Lady Neville and her
son Gerard were not with him. They had left the house some hours
before to walk in the park, and had not since been seen or heard of,
an unprecedented occurrence. The alarm was raised; the country
searched in all directions, but ineffectually, during a fearful
tempest. Ultimately the poor boy was found unconscious on the ground,
drenched to the skin. On his being taken home, and his father
questioning him, all that could be heard were his cries "Come back,
mamma; stop, stop for me!" Nothing else but the tossings of fever.
Once again, "Then she has come back," he cried, "that man did not take
her quite away; the carriage drove here at last." The story slowly
elicited from the child on his gaining strength was this. On his going
for a walk with his mother in the park, she took the key of a gate
which led into a lane. A gentleman was waiting outside. Gerard had
never seen him before, but he heard his mother call him Rupert. They
walked together through the lane accompanied by the child, and talked
earnestly. She wept, and the boy was indignant. When they reached a
cross-road, a carriage was waiting. On approaching it the gentleman
pulled the child's hands from hers, lifted her in, sprang in after,
and the coachman drove like the wind, leaving the child to hear his
mother shriek in agony, "My child--my son!" Nothing more could be
discovered; the country was ransacked in vain. The servants only
stated that ten days ago a gentleman called, asked for Lady Neville
and was shown in to her; he remained some two hours, and on his
leaving it was remarked that she had been weeping. He had called again
but was not admitted. One letter was found, signed "Rupert," begging
for one more meeting, and if that were granted he would leave her and
his just revenge for ever; otherwise, he could not tell what the
consequences might be on her husband's return that night. In answer to
this letter she went, but with her child, which clearly proved her
innocent intention. Months passed with no fresh result, till her
husband, beside himself with wounded pride, determined to be avenged
by obtaining a Bill of Divorce in the House of Lords, and producing
his son Gerard as evidence against his lost mother, whom he so dearly
loved. The poor child by this time, by dint of thinking and weighing
every word he could remember, such as "I grieve deeply for you,
Rupert: my good wishes are all I have to give you," became more and
more convinced that his mother was taken forcibly away, and would
return at any moment if she were able. He only longed for the time
when he should be old enough to go and seek her through the world. His
father was relentless, and the child was brought before the House of
Lords to repeat the evidence he had innocently given against her; but
when called on to speak in that awful position, no word could be drawn
from him except "She is innocent." The House was moved by the brave
child's agony, and resolved to carry on the case without him, from the
witnesses whom he had spoken to, and finally they pronounced a decree
of divorce in Sir Boyvill's favour. The struggle and agony of the poor
child are admirably described, as also his subsequent flight from his
father's house, and wanderings round his old home in Cumberland. In
his fruitless search for his mother he reached a deserted sea-coast.
After wandering about for two months barefoot, and almost starving but
for the ewe's milk and bread given him by the cottagers, he was
recognized. His father, being informed, had him seized and brought
home, where he was confined and treated as a criminal. His state
became so helpless that even his father was at length moved to some
feeling of self-restraint, and finally took Gerard with him abroad,
where he was first seen at Baden by Elizabeth and Palkner. There also
he first met his sister by affinity, Lady Cecil. With her he lost
somewhat his defiant tone, and felt that for his mother's sake he must
not appear to others as lost in sullenness and despair. He now talked
of his mother, and reasoned about her; but although he much interested
Lady Cecil, he did not convince her really of his mother's innocence,
so much did all circumstances weigh against her. But now, during
Elizabeth's visit to Lady Cecil, a letter is received by Gerard and
his father informing them that one Gregory Hoskins believed he could
give some information; he was at Lancaster. Sir Boyvill, only anxious
to hush up the matter by which his pride had suffered, hastened to
prevent his son from taking steps to re-open the subject. This Hoskins
was originally a native of the district round Dromoor, Neville's home,
and had emigrated to America at the time of Sir Boyvill's marriage. At
one time--years ago--he met a man named Osborne, who confided to him
how he had gained money before coming to America by helping a
gentleman to carry off a lady, and how terribly the affair ended, as
the lady got drowned in a river near which they had placed her while
nearly dead from fright, on the dangerous coast of Cumberland. On
returning to England, and hearing the talk about the Nevilles in his
native village, this old story came to his mind, and he wrote his
letter. Neville, on hearing this, instantly determined to proceed to
Mexico, trace out Osborne, and bring him to accuse his mother's
murderer.
All these details were written by Elizabeth to her beloved father.
After some delay, one line entreated her to come to him instantly for
one day.
Falkner could not ignore the present state of things--the mutual
attraction of his Elizabeth and of Gerard. Yet how, with all he knew,
could that be suffered to proceed? Never, except by eternal separation
from his adored child; but this should be done. He would now tell her
his story. He could not speak, but he wrote it, and now she must come
and receive it from him. He told of all his solitary, unloved youth,
the miseries and tyranny of school to the unprotected--a reminiscence
of Shelley; how, on emerging from, childhood, one gleam of happiness
entered his life in the friendship of a lady, an old friend of his
mother's, who had one lovely daughter; of the happy, innocent time
spent in their cottage during holidays; of the dear lady's death; of
her daughter's despair; then how he was sent off to India; of letters
he wrote to the daughter Alethea, letters unanswered, as the father,
the naval officer, intercepted all; of his return, after years, to
England, his one hope that which had buoyed him up through years of
constancy, to meet and marry his only love, for that he felt she was
and must remain. He recounted his return, and the news lie received;
his one rash visit to her to judge for himself whether she was
happy--this, from her manner, he could not feel, in spite of her
delight in her children; his mad request to see her; mad plot, and
still madder execution of it, till he had her in his arms, dashing
through the country, through storm and thunder, unable to tell whether
she lived or died; the first moment of pause; the efforts to save the
ebbing life in a ruined hut; the few minutes' absence to seek
materials for fire; the return, to find her a floating corpse in the
wild little river flowing to the sea; the rescue of her body from the
waves; her burial on the sea-shore; and his own subsequent life of
despair, saved twice by Elizabeth. All this was told to the son, to
whom Falkner denounced himself as his mother's destroyer. He named the
spot where the remains would be found. And now what was left to be
done? Only to wait a little, while Sir Boyvill and Gerard Neville
proved his words, and traced out the grave. An inquest was held, and
Falkner apprehended. A few days passed, and then Elizabeth found her
father gone; and by degrees it was broken to her that he was in
Carlisle gaol on the charge of murder. She, who had not feared the
dangers in Greece of war and fever, was not to be deterred now; she,
who believed in his innocence. No minutes were needed to decide her to
go straight to Carlisle, and remain as near as she could to the dear
father who had rescued and cared for her when deserted. Gerard, who
was with his father when the bones were exhumed at the spot indicated,
soon realised the new situation. His passion for justice to his mother
did not deaden his feeling for others. He felt that Falkner's story
was true, and though nothing could restore his mother's life, her
honour was intact. Sir Boyvill would leave no stone unturned to be
revenged, rightly or wrongly, on the man who had assailed his domestic
peace; but Gerard saw Elizabeth, gave what consolation he could, and
determined to set off at once to America to seek Osborne, as the only
witness who could exculpate Falkner from the charge of murder. After
various difficulties Osborne was found in England, where he had
returned in terror of being taken in America as accomplice in the
murder. With great difficulty he is brought to give evidence, for all
his thoughts and fears are for himself; but at length, when all hopes
seem failing, he is induced by Elizabeth to give his evidence, which
fully confirms Falkner's statement.
At length the day of trial came. The news of liberty arrived. "Not
Guilty!" Who can imagine the effect but those who have passed
innocently through the ordeal? Once more all are united. Gerard has to
remain for the funeral of his father, who had died affirming his
belief, which in fact he had always entertained, in Falkner's
innocence. Lady Cecil had secured for Elizabeth the companionship of
Mrs. Raby, her relation on the father's side. She takes Falkner and
Elizabeth home to the beautiful ancestral Belleforest. Here a time of
rest and happiness ensues. Those so much tried by adversity would not
let real happiness escape for a chimera; honour being restored love
and friendship remained, and Gerard, Elizabeth and Falkner felt that
now they ought to remain, together, death not having disunited them.
Too much space may appear to be here given to one romance; but it
seems just to show the scope of Mary's imaginative conception. There
are certainly both imagination and power in carrying it out. It is
true that the idea seems founded, to some extent, on Godwin's Caleb
Williams, the man passing through life with a mystery; the similar
names of Falkner and Falkland may even be meant to call attention to
this fact. The three-volume form, in this as in many novels, seems to
detract from the strength of the work in parts, the second volume
being noticeably drawn out here and there. It may be questioned, also,
whether the form adopted in this as in many romances of giving the
early history by way of narrative told by one of the _dramatis
personæ_ to another, is the desirable one--a point to which we have
already adverted in relation to _Frankenstein_. Can it be true to
nature to make one character give a description, over a hundred pages
long, repeating at length, word for word, long conversations which he
has never heard, marking the changes of colour which he has not
seen--and all this with a minuteness which even the firmest memory and
the most loquacious tongue could not recall? Does not this give an
unreality to the style incompatible with art, which ought to be the
mainspring of all imaginative work? This, however, is not Mrs.
Shelley's error alone, but is traceable through many masterpieces. The
author, the creator, who sees the workings of the souls of his
characters, has, naturally, memory and perception for all. Yet Mary
Shelley, in this as in most of her work, has great insight into
character. Elizabeth's grandfather in his dotage is quite a photograph
from life; old Oswig Raby, who was more shrivelled with narrowness of
mind than with age, but who felt himself and his house, the oldest in
England, of more importance than aught else he knew of. His
daughter-in-law, the widow of his eldest son, is also well drawn; a
woman of upright nature who can acknowledge the faults of the family,
and try to retrieve them, and who finally does her best to atone for
the past.