WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY, VOLUME I (OF 2)***


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THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

I

[Illustration: Photogravure by Annan & Swan

_MRS SHELLEY._

_After a portrait by Rothwell,_

_in the possession of Sir Percy F. Shelley, Bart._]


THE LIFE & LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

by

MRS. JULIAN MARSHALL

With Portraits and Facsimile

In Two Volumes

VOL. I







London
Richard Bentley & Son
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1889




PREFACE


The following biography was undertaken at the request of Sir Percy and
Lady Shelley, and has been compiled from the MS. journals and letters in
their possession, which were entrusted to me, without reserve, for this
purpose.

The earlier portions of the journal having been placed also at Professor
Dowden's disposal for his _Life of Shelley_, it will be found that in my
first volume many passages indispensable to a life of Mary Shelley have
already appeared, in one form or another, in Professor Dowden's pages.
This fact I have had to ignore, having indeed settled on the quotations
necessary to my narrative before the _Life of Shelley_ appeared. They are
given without comment or dilution, just as they occur; where omissions are
made it is in order to avoid repetition, or because the everyday entries
refer to trivial circumstances uninteresting to the general reader.

Letters which have previously been published are shortened when they are
only of moderate interest; unpublished letters are given complete wherever
possible.

Those who hope to find in these pages much new circumstantial evidence on
the vexed subject of Shelley's separation from his first wife will be
disappointed. No contemporary document now exists which puts the case
beyond the reach of argument. Collateral evidence is not wanting, but even
were this not beyond the scope of the present work it would be wrong on
the strength of it to assert more than that Shelley himself felt certain
of his wife's unfaithfulness. Of that there is no doubt, nor of the fact
that all such evidence as did afterwards transpire went to prove him more
likely to have been right than wrong in his belief.

My first thanks are due to Sir Percy and Lady Shelley for the use of their
invaluable documents,--for the photographs of original pictures which form
the basis of the illustrations,--and last, not least, for their kindly
help and sympathy during the fulfilment of my task.

I wish especially to express my gratitude to Mrs. Charles Call for her
kind permission to me to print the letters of her father, Mr. Trelawny,
which are among the most interesting of my unpublished materials.

I have to thank Miss Stuart, from whom I obtained important letters from
Mr. Baxter and Godwin; and Mr. A. C. Haden, through whom I made the
acquaintance of Miss Christy Baxter.

To Professor Dowden, and, above all, to Mr. Garnett, I am indebted for
much valuable help, I may say, of all kinds.

FLORENCE A. MARSHALL.




CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGES

CHAPTER I

  Introductory remarks--Account of William Godwin and Mary
  Wollstonecraft.

  1797. Their marriage--Birth of their daughter--Death of Mary
  Godwin                                                            1-11


  CHAPTER II

  AUGUST 1797-JUNE 1812

  1797. Godwin goes to reside at the "Polygon."

  1798-99. His despondency--Repeated proposals of marriage to
  various ladies.

  1801. Marriage with Mrs. Clairmont.

  1805. Enters business as a publisher--Books for children.

  1807. Removes to Skinner Street, Holborn.

  1808. Aaron Burr's first visit to England.

  1811. Mrs. Godwin and the children go to Margate and
  Ramsgate--Mary's health improves--She remains till Christmas
  at Miss Petman's.

  1812. Aaron Burr's sojourn in England--Intimacy with the
  Godwins--Extracts from his journal--Mary is invited to stay
  with the Baxters at Dundee                                       12-26


  CHAPTER III

  JUNE 1812-MAY 1814

  1812. Mary sails for Dundee--Godwin's letter to Mr. Baxter--
  The Baxters--Mary stays with them five months--Returns to
  London with Christy Baxter--The Shelleys dine in Skinner
  Street (Nov. 11)--Christy's enjoyment of London.

  1813. Godwin's letter to an anonymous correspondent
  describing Fanny and Mary--Mary and Christy go back to Dundee
  (June 3)--Mary's reminiscences of this time in the preface to
  _Frankenstein_.

  1814. Mary returns home (March 30)--Domestic trials--Want of
  guidance--Mrs. Godwin's jealousy--Shelley calls on Godwin
  (May 5)                                                          27-41


  CHAPTER IV

  APRIL-JUNE 1814

  Account of Shelley's first introduction of himself to
  Godwin--His past history--Correspondence (1812)--Shelley
  goes to Ireland--Publishes address to the Irish people--
  Godwin disapproves--Failure of Shelley's schemes--Godwin's
  fruitless journey to Lynmouth (1813)--The Godwins and
  Shelleys meet in London--The Shelleys leave town (Nov. 12).

  1814. Mary makes acquaintance with Shelley in May--
  Description of her--Shelley's depression of spirits--His
  genius and personal charm--He and Mary become intimate--Their
  meetings by Mary Wollstonecraft's grave--Episode described by
  Hogg--Godwin's distress for money and dependence on
  Shelley--Shelley constantly at Skinner Street--He and Mary
  own their mutual love--He gives her his copy of "Queen
  Mab"--His inscription--Her inscription--Hopelessness             42-56


  CHAPTER V

  JUNE-AUGUST 1814

  Retrospective history of Shelley's first marriage--
  Estrangement between him and Harriet after their visit to
  Scotland in 1813--Deterioration in Harriet--Shelley's deep
  dejection--He is much attracted by Mrs. Boinville and her
  circle--His conclusions respecting Harriet--Their effect on
  him--Harriet is at Bath--She becomes anxious to hear of
  him--Godwin writes to her--She comes to town and sees
  Shelley, who informs her of his intentions--Godwin goes to
  see her--He talks to Shelley and to Jane Clairmont--The
  situation is intolerable--Shelley tells Mary everything--
  They leave England precipitately, accompanied by Jane
  Clairmont (July 28)                                              57-67


  CHAPTER VI

  AUGUST-SEPTEMBER 1814

  1814. (July).--They cross to Calais--Mrs. Godwin arrives in
  pursuit of Jane--Jane thinks of returning, but changes her
  mind and remains--Mrs. Godwin departs--Joint journal of
  Shelley and Mary--They arrive at Paris without any money--
  They procure some, and set off to walk through France with
  a donkey--It is exchanged for a mule, and that for a
  carriage--Journal--They arrive in Switzerland, and having
  settled themselves for the winter, at once start to come
  home--They arrive in England penniless, and have to obtain
  money through Harriet--They go into lodgings in London           68-81


  CHAPTER VII

  SEPTEMBER 1814-MAY 1815

  1814. (September).--Godwin's mortification at what had
  happened--False reports concerning him--Keeps Shelley well
  in sight, but will only communicate with him through a
  solicitor--General demoralisation of the household--Mrs.
  Godwin and Fanny peep in at Shelley's windows--Poverty of
  the Shelleys--Harriet's creditors--Shelley's many
  dependents--He has to hide from bailiffs--Jane's
  excitability--Studious habits of Shelley and Mary--Extracts
  from journal.

  1815. Shelley's grandfather dies--Increase of income--Mary's
  first baby born--It dies--Her regret--Fanny comes to see
  her--Frequent change of lodgings--Hogg a constant visitor--
  Peacock imprisoned for debt--He writes to the Shelleys--Jane
  a source of much annoyance--She chooses to be called
  "Clara"--Plans for her future--She departs to Lynmouth          82-114


  CHAPTER VIII

  MAY 1815-SEPTEMBER 1816

  1815. Objections raised to Clara's return to Skinner Street--
  Her letter to Fanny Godwin from Lynmouth--The Shelleys make a
  tour in South Devon--Shelley seeks for houses--Letter from
  Mary--They settle at Bishopsgate--Boating expedition--Happy
  summer--Shelley writes "Alastor."

  1816. Mary's son William born--List of books read by Shelley
  and Mary in 1815--Clara's project of going on the stage--Her
  connection with Byron--She introduces him to the Shelleys--
  Shelley's efforts to raise money for Godwin--Godwin's
  rapacity--Refuses to take a cheque made out in Shelley's
  name--Shelley escapes from England--Is persuaded by Clara
  (now called "Clare" or "Claire") to go to Geneva--Mary's
  descriptive letters--Byron arrives at Geneva--Association of
  Shelley and Byron--Origin of _Frankenstein_ as related by
  Mary--She begins to write it--Voyage of Shelley and Byron
  round the lake of Geneva--Tour to the valley of Chamouni--
  Journal--Return to England (August)--Mary and Clare go to
  Bath, and Shelley to Marlow                                    115-157


  CHAPTER IX

  SEPTEMBER 1816-FEBRUARY 1817

  1816. Life in lodgings at Bath--Anxieties--Letters from
  Fanny--Her pleadings on Godwin's behalf--Her own
  disappointment--She leaves home in despair--Dies by her own
  hand at Swansea (October 9)--Shelley's visit to Marlow--
  Letter from Mary--Shelley's search for Harriet--He hears of
  her death--His yearning after his children--Marriage with
  Mary (Dec. 29).

  1817. Birth of Clare's infant (Jan. 13)--Visit of the
  Shelleys to the Leigh Hunts at Hampstead--Removal to Marlow    158-181


  CHAPTER X

  MARCH 1817-MARCH 1818

  1817 (March).--Albion House--Description--Visit of the Leigh
  Hunts--Shelley's benevolence to the poor--Lord Eldon's
  decree depriving Shelley of the custody of his children--His
  indignation and grief--Godwin's continued impecuniosity and
  exactions--Charles Clairmont's requests--Mary's visit to
  Skinner Street--_Frankenstein_ is published--_Journal of a
  Six Weeks' Tour_--Shelley writes _Revolt of Islam_--Allegra's
  presence the cause of serious annoyance to the Shelleys--Mr.
  Baxter's visit of discovery to Marlow--Birth of Mary's
  daughter Clara (Sept. 2)--Mr. Baxter's second visit--His warm
  appreciation of Shelley--Fruitless efforts to convert his
  daughter Isabel to his way of thinking--The Shelleys
  determine to leave Marlow--Shelley's ill-health--Mary's
  letters to him in London--Desirability of sending Allegra to
  her father--They decide on going abroad and taking her.

  1818. Stay in London--The Booths and Baxters break off
  acquaintance with the Shelleys--Shelley suffers from
  ophthalmia--Preparations for departure--The three children
  are christened--The whole party leave England (March 12)       182-210


  CHAPTER XI

  MARCH 1818-JUNE 1819

  1818 (March).--Journey to Milan--Allegra sent to Venice--
  Leghorn--Acquaintance with the Gisbornes--Lucca--Mary's wish
  for literary work--Shelley and Clare go to Venice--The
  Hoppners--Byron's villa at Este--Clara's illness--Letters--
  Shelley to Mary--Mary to Mrs. Gisborne--Journey to Venice--
  Clara dies--Godwin's letter to Mary--Este--Venice--Journey to
  Rome--Naples--Shelley's depression of spirits.

  1819. Discovery of Paolo's intrigue with Elise--They are
  married--Return to Rome--Enjoyment--Shelley writes
  _Prometheus Unbound_ and the _Cenci_--Miss Curran--Delay in
  leaving Rome--William Shelley's illness and death              211-243


  CHAPTER XII

  JUNE 1819-SEPTEMBER 1820

  1819 (August).--Leghorn--Journal--Mary's misery and utter
  collapse of spirits--Letters to Miss Curran and Mrs. Hunt--
  The Gisbornes--Henry Reveley's project of a steamboat--
  Shelley's ardour--Letter from Godwin--Removal to Florence--
  Acquaintance with Mrs. Mason (Lady Mountcashel)--Birth of
  Percy (Nov. 19).

  1820. Mary writes _Valperga_--Alarm about money--Removal to
  Pisa--Paolo's infamous plot--Shelley seeks legal aid--Casa
  Ricci, Leghorn--"Letter to Maria Gisborne"--Uncomfortable
  relations of Mary and Clare--Godwin's distress and petitions
  for money--Vexations and anxieties--Baths of San Giuliano--
  General improvement--Shelley writes _Witch of Atlas_           244-268


  CHAPTER XIII

  SEPTEMBER 1820-AUGUST 1821

  1820. Abandonment of the steamboat project--Disappointment--
  Wet season--The Serchio in flood--Return to Pisa--Medwin--His
  illness--Clare takes a situation at Florence.

  1821. Pisan acquaintances--Pacchiani--Sgricci--Prince
  Mavrocordato--Emilia Viviani--Mary's Greek studies--Shelley's
  trance of Emilia--It passes--The Williams' arrive--Friendship
  with the Shelleys--Allegra placed in a convent--Clare's
  despair--Shelley's passion for boating--They move to
  Pugnano--"The boat on the Serchio"--Mary sits to E. Williams
  for her portrait--Shelley visits Byron at Ravenna              269-293


  CHAPTER XIV

  AUGUST-NOVEMBER 1821

  1821. Letters from Shelley to Mary--He hears from Lord Byron
  of a scandalous story current about himself--Mary, at his
  request, writes to Mrs. Hoppner confuting the charges--Letter
  entrusted to Lord Byron, who neglects to forward it--Shelley
  visits Allegra at Bagnacavallo--Winter at Pisa--"Tre Palazzi
  di Chiesa"--Letters: Mary to Miss Curran; Clare to Mary;
  Shelley to Ollier--_Valperga_ is sent to Godwin--His letter
  accepting the gift (Jan. 1822)--Extracts                       294-315


  CHAPTER XV

  NOVEMBER 1821-APRIL 1822

  1822. Byron comes to Pisa--Letter from Mary to Mrs.
  Gisborne--Journal--Trelawny arrives--Mary's first impression
  of him--His description of her--His wonder on seeing
  Shelley--Life at Pisa--Letters from Mary to Mrs. Gisborne
  and Mrs. Hunt--Clare's disquiet--Her plans for getting
  possession of Allegra--Affair of the dragoon--Judicial
  inquiry--Projected colony at Spezzia--Shelley invites Clare
  to come--She accepts--Difficulty in finding houses--
  Allegra's death                                                316-342


  CHAPTER XVI

  APRIL-JULY 1822

  1822 (April).--Difficulty in breaking the news to Clare--
  Mary in weak health--Clare, Mary, and Percy sent to Spezzia--
  Letter from Shelley--He follows with the Williams'--Casa
  Magni--Clare hears the truth--Her grief--Domestic worries--
  Mary's illness and suffering--Shelley's great enjoyment of
  the sea--Williams' journal--The _Ariel_--Godwin's affairs and
  threatened bankruptcy--Cruel letters--They are kept back from
  Mary--Mary's letter to Mrs. Gisborne--Her serious illness--
  Shelley's nervous attacks, dreams and visions--Mrs. Williams'
  society soothing to him--Arrival of the Leigh Hunts at
  Genoa--Shelley and Williams go to meet them at Pisa--They
  sail for Leghorn--Mary's gloomy forebodings--Letters from
  Shelley and Mrs. Williams--The voyagers' return is anxiously
  awaited--They never come--Loss of the _Ariel_                  343-369




THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY




CHAPTER I

  They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,
  Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child.
  I wonder not, for one then left the earth
  Whose life was like a setting planet mild,
  Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled
  Of its departing glory: still her fame
  Shines on thee thro' the tempest dark and wild
  Which shakes these latter days; and thou canst claim
  The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name.
                                            SHELLEY.


"So you really have seen Godwin, and had little Mary in your arms! the
only offspring of a union that will certainly be matchless in the present
generation." So, in 1798, wrote Sir Henry Taylor's mother to her husband,
who had travelled from Durham to London for the purpose of making
acquaintance with the famous author of _Political Justice_.

This "little Mary," the daughter of William and Mary Wollstonecraft
Godwin, was destined herself to form a union the memory of which will live
even longer than that of her illustrious parents. She is remembered as
_Mary Shelley_, wife of the poet. In any complete account of his life she
plays, next to his, the most important part. Young as she was during the
few years they passed together, her character and her intellect were
strong enough to affect, to modify, in some degree to mould his. That he
became what he did is in great measure due to her. This, if nothing more
were known of her, would be sufficient to stamp her as a remarkable woman,
of rare ability and moral excellence, well deserving of a niche in the
almost universal biographical series of the present day. But, besides
this, she would have been eminent among her sex at any time, in any
circumstances, and would, it cannot be doubted, have achieved greater
personal fame than she actually did but for the fact that she became, at a
very early age, the wife of Shelley. Not only has his name overshadowed
her, but the circumstances of her association with him were such as to
check to a considerable extent her own sources of invention and activity.
Had that freedom been her lot in which her mother's destiny shaped itself,
her talents must have asserted themselves as not inferior, as in some
respects superior, to those of Mary Wollstonecraft. This is the answer to
the question, sometimes asked,--as if, in becoming Shelley's wife, she had
forfeited all claim to individual consideration,--why any separate Life of
her should be written at all. Even as a completion of Shelley's own story,
Mary's Life is necessary. There remains the fact that her husband's
biographers have been busy with her name. It is impossible now to pass it
over in silence and indifference. She has been variously misunderstood. It
has been her lot to be idealised as one who gave up all for love, and to
be condemned and anathematised for the very same reason. She has been
extolled for perfections she did not possess, and decried for the absence
of those she possessed in the highest degree. She has been lauded as a
genius, and depreciated as one overrated, whose talent would never have
been heard of at all but for the name of Shelley. To her husband she has
been esteemed alternately a blessing and the reverse.

As a fact, it is probable that no woman of like endowments and promise
ever abdicated her own individuality in favour of another so
transcendently greater. To consider Mary altogether apart from Shelley is,
indeed, not possible, but the study of the effect, on life and character,
of this memorable union is unique of its kind. From Shelley's point of
view it has been variously considered; from Mary's, as yet, not at all.


Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin was born on the 30th of August 1797.

Her father, the philosopher and philosophical novelist, William Godwin,
began his career as a Dissenting minister in Norfolk, and something of the
preacher's character adhered to him all his life. Not the apostolic
preacher. No enthusiasm of faith or devotion, no constraining fervour,
eliciting the like in others, were his, but a calm, earnest, philosophic
spirit, with an irresistible impulse to guide and advise others.

This same calm rationalism got the better, in no long time, of his
religious creed, which he seems to have abandoned slowly, gradually, and
deliberately, without painful struggle. His religion, of the head alone,
was easily replaced by other views for which intellectual qualities were
all-sufficient. Of a cool, unemotional temperament, safe from any snares
of passion or imagination, he became the very type of a town philosopher.
Abstractions of the intellect and the philosophy of politics were his
world. He had a true townsman's love of the theatre, but external nature
for the most part left him unaffected, as it found him. With the most
exalted opinion of his own genius and merit, he was nervously susceptible
to the criticism of others, yet always ready to combat any judgment
unfavourable to himself. Never weary of argument, he thought that by its
means, conducted on lines of reason, all questions might be finally
settled, all problems satisfactorily and speedily solved. Hence the
fascination he possessed for those in doubt and distress of mind. Cool
rather than cold-hearted, he had a certain benignity of nature which,
joined to intellectual exaltation, passed as warmth and fervour. His
kindness was very great to young men at the "storm and stress" period of
their lives. They for their part thought that, as he was delighted to
enter into, discuss and analyse their difficulties, he must, himself, have
felt all these difficulties and have overcome them; and, whether they
followed his proffered advice or not, they never failed to look up to him
as an oracle.

Friendships Godwin had, but of love he seems to have kept absolutely clear
until at the age of forty-three he met Mary Wollstonecraft. He had not
much believed in love as a disturbing element, and had openly avowed in
his writings that he thought it usurped far too large a place in the
ordinary plan of human life. He did not think it needful to reckon with
passion or emotion as factors in the sum of existence, and in his ideal
programme they played no part at all.

Mary Wollstonecraft was in all respects his opposite. Her ardent,
impulsive, Irish nature had stood the test of an early life of much
unhappiness. Her childhood's home had been a wretched one; suffering and
hardship were her earliest companions. She had had not only to maintain
herself, but to be the support of others weaker than herself, and many of
these had proved unworthy of her devotion. But her rare nature had risen
superior to these trials, which, far from crushing her, elicited her
finest qualities.

The indignation aroused in her by injustice and oppression, her revolt
against the consecrated tyranny of conventionality, impelled her to raise
her voice in behalf of the weak and unfortunate. The book which made her
name famous, _A Vindication of the Rights of Women_, won for her then, as
it has done since, an admiration from half of mankind only equalled by the
reprobation of the other half. Yet most of its theories, then considered
so dangerously extreme, would to-day be contested by few, although the
frankness of expression thought so shocking now attracted no special
notice then, and indicated no coarseness of feeling, but only the habit of
calling things by their names.

In 1792, desiring to become better acquainted with the French language,
and also to follow on the spot the development of France's efforts in the
cause of freedom, she went to Paris, where, in a short time, owing to the
unforeseen progress of the Revolution, she was virtually imprisoned, in
the sense of being unable to return to England. Here she met Captain
Gilbert Imlay, an American, between whom and herself an attachment sprang
up, and whose wife, in all but the legal and religious ceremony, she
became. This step she took in full conscientiousness. Had she married
Imlay she must have openly declared her true position as a British
subject, an act which would have been fraught with the most dangerous,
perhaps fatal consequences to them both. A woman of strong religious
feeling, she had upheld the sanctity of marriage in her writings, yet not
on religious grounds. The heart of marriage, and reason for it, with her,
was love. She regarded herself as Imlay's lawful wife, and had perfect
faith in his constancy. It wore out, however, and after causing her much
suspense, anxiety, and affliction, he finally left her with a little girl
some eighteen months old. Her grief was excessive, and for a time
threatened to affect her reason. But her healthy temperament prevailed,
and the powerful tie of maternal love saved her from the consequences of
despair. It was well for her that she had to work hard at her literary
occupations to support herself and her little daughter.

It was at this juncture that she became acquainted with William Godwin.
They had already met once, before Mary's sojourn in France, but at this
first interview neither was impressed by the other. Since her return to
London he had shunned her because she was too much talked about in
society. Imagining her to be obtrusively "strong-minded" and deficient in
delicacy, he was too strongly prejudiced against her even to read her
books. But by degrees he was won over. He saw her warmth of heart, her
generous temper, her vigour of intellect; he saw too that she had
suffered. Such susceptibility as he had was fanned into warmth. His
critical acumen could not but detect her rare quality and worth, although
the keen sense of humour and Irish charm which fascinated others may, with
him, have told against her for a time. But the nervous vanity which formed
his closest link with ordinary human nature must have been flattered by
the growing preference of one so widely admired, and whom he discovered to
be even more deserving of admiration and esteem than the world knew. As to
her, accustomed as she was to homage, she may have felt that for the first
time she was justly appreciated, and to her wounded and smarting
susceptibilities this balm of appreciation must have been immeasurable.
Her first freshness of feeling had been wasted on a love which proved to
have been one-sided and which had recoiled on itself. To love and be
loved again was the beginning of a new life for her. And so it came about
that the coldest of men and the warmest of women found their happiness in
each other. Thus drawn together, the discipline afforded to her nature by
the rudest realities of life, to his by the severities of study, had been
such as to promise a growing and a lasting companionship and affection.

In the short memoir of his wife, prefixed by Godwin to his published
collection of her letters, he has given his own account, a touching one,
of the growth and recognition of their love.

    The partiality we conceived for each other was in that mode which I
    have always considered as the purest and most refined style of love.
    It would have been impossible for the most minute observer to have
    said who was before and who was after. One sex did not take the
    priority which long-established custom has awarded it, nor the other
    overstep that delicacy which is so severely imposed. I am not
    conscious that either party can assume to have the agent or the
    patient, the toil spreader or the prey, in the affair. When in the
    course of things the disclosure came, there was nothing in a manner
    for either party to disclose to the other....

    There was no period of throes and resolute explanation attendant on
    the tale. It was friendship melting into love.

They did not, however, marry at once. Godwin's opinion of marriage, looked
on as indissoluble, was that it was "a law, and the worst of all laws." In
accordance with this view, the ceremony did not take place till their
union had lasted some months, and when it did, it was regarded by Godwin
in the light of a distinct concession. He expresses himself most
decisively on this point in a letter to his friend, Mr. Wedgwood of
Etruria (printed by Mr. Kegan Paul in his memoirs of Godwin), announcing
his marriage, which had actually taken place a month before, but had been
kept secret.

    Some persons have found an inconsistency between my practice in this
    instance and my doctrines. But I cannot see it. The doctrine of my
    _Political Justice_ is, that an attachment in some degree permanent
    between two persons of opposite sexes is right, but that marriage, as
    practised in European countries, is wrong. I still adhere to that
    opinion. Nothing but a regard for the happiness of the individual,
    which I have no right to ignore, could have induced me to submit to an
    institution which I wish to see abolished, and which I would recommend
    to my fellow-men never to practise but with the greatest caution.
    Having done what I thought was necessary for the peace and
    respectability of the individual, I hold myself no otherwise bound
    than I was before the ceremony took place.

It is certain that he did not repent his concession. But their wedded
happiness was of short duration. On 30th August 1797 a little girl was
born to them.

All seemed well at first with the mother. But during the night which
followed alarming symptoms made their appearance. For a time it was hoped
that these had been overcome, and a deceptive rally of two days set
Godwin free from anxiety. But a change for the worst supervened, and after
four days of intense suffering, sweetly and patiently borne, Mary died,
and Godwin was again alone.




CHAPTER II

AUGUST 1797-JUNE 1812


Alone, in the sense of absence of companionship, but not alone in the
sense that he was before, for, when he lost his wife, two helpless little
girl-lives were left dependent on him. One was Fanny, Mary
Wollstonecraft's child by Imlay, now three and a half years old; the other
the newly-born baby, named after her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, and the
subject of this memoir.

The tenderness of her mother's warm heart, her father's ripe wisdom, the
rich inheritance of intellect and genius which was her birthright, all
these seemed to promise her the happiest of childhoods. But these bright
prospects were clouded within a few hours of her birth by that change in
her mother's condition which, ten days later, ended in death.

The little infant was left to the care of a father of much theoretic
wisdom but profound practical ignorance, so confirmed in his old bachelor
ways by years and habit that, even when love so far conquered him as to
make him quit the single state, he declined family life, and carried on a
double existence, taking rooms a few doors from his wife's home, and
combining the joys--as yet none of the cares--of matrimony with the
independence, and as much as possible of the irresponsibility, of
bachelorhood. Godwin's sympathies with childhood had been first elicited
by his intercourse with little Fanny Imlay, whom, from the time of his
union, he treated as his own daughter, and to whom he was unvaryingly kind
and indulgent.

He moved at once after his wife's death into the house, Polygon, Somers
Town, where she had lived, and took up his abode there with the two
children. They had a nurse, and various lady friends of the Godwins, Mrs.
Reveley and others, gave occasional assistance or superintendence. An
experiment was tried of a lady-housekeeper which, however, failed, as the
lady in becoming devoted to the children showed a disposition to become
devoted to Godwin also, construing civilities into marked attentions,
resenting fancied slights, and becoming at last an insupportable thorn in
the poor philosopher's side. His letters speak of his despondency and
feeling of unfitness to have the care of these young creatures devolved on
him, and with this sense there came also the renewed perception of the
rare maternal qualities of the wife he had lost.

    "The poor children!" he wrote, six weeks after his bereavement. "I am
    myself totally unfitted to educate them. The scepticism which perhaps
    sometimes leads me right in matters of speculation is torment to me
    when I would attempt to direct the infant mind. I am the most unfit
    person for this office; she was the best qualified in the world. What
    a change! The loss of the children is less remediless than mine. You
    can understand the difference."

The immediate consequence of this was that he, who had passed so many
years in contented bachelorhood, made, within a short time, repeated
proposals of marriage to different ladies, some of them urged with a
pertinacity nothing short of ludicrous, so ingenuously and argumentatively
plain does he make it that he found it simply incredible any woman should
refuse him to whom he had condescended to propose. His former objections
to marriage are never now alluded to and seem relegated to the category of
obsolete theories. Nothing testifies so strongly to his married happiness
as his constant efforts to recover any part of it, and his faith in the
possibility of doing so. In 1798 he proposed again and again to a Miss Lee
whom he had not seen half a dozen times. In 1799 he importuned the
beautiful Mrs. Reveley, who had, herself, only been a widow for a month,
to marry him. He was really attached to her, and was much wounded when,
not long after, she married a Mr. Gisborne.

During Godwin's preoccupations and occasional absences, the kindest and
most faithful friend the children had was James Marshall, who acted as
Godwin's amanuensis, and was devotedly attached to him and all who
belonged to him.

In 1801 Godwin married a Mrs. Clairmont, his next-door neighbour, a widow
with a son, Charles, about Fanny's age, and a daughter, Jane, somewhat
younger than little Mary. The new Mrs. Godwin was a clever, bustling,
second-rate woman, glib of tongue and pen, with a temper undisciplined and
uncontrolled; not bad-hearted, but with a complete absence of all the
finer sensibilities; possessing a fund of what is called "knowledge of the
world," and a plucky, enterprising, happy-go-lucky disposition, which
seemed to the philosophic and unpractical Godwin, in its way, a
manifestation of genius. Besides, she was clever enough to admire Godwin,
and frank enough to tell him so, points which must have been greatly in
her favour.

Although her father's remarriage proved a source of lifelong unhappiness
to Mary, it may not have been a bad thing for her and Fanny at the time.
Instead of being left to the care of servants, with the occasional
supervision of chance friends, they were looked after with solicitous, if
not always the most judicious care. The three little girls were near
enough of an age to be companions to each other, but Fanny was the senior
by three years and a half. She bore Godwin's name, and was considered and
treated as the eldest daughter of the house.

Godwin's worldly circumstances were at all times most precarious, nor had
he the capability or force of will to establish them permanently on a
better footing. His earnings from his literary works were always
forestalled long before they were due, and he was in the constant habit of
applying to his friends for loans or advances of money which often could
only be repaid by similar aid from some other quarter.

In the hope of mending their fortunes a little, Mrs. Godwin, in 1805,
induced her husband to make a venture as a publisher. He set up a small
place of business in Hanway Street, in the name of his foreman, Baldwin,
deeming that his own name might operate prejudicially with the public on
account of his advanced political and social opinions, and also that his
own standing in the literary world might suffer did it become known that
he was connected with trade.

Mrs. Godwin was the chief practical manager in this business, which
finally involved her husband in ruin, but for a time promised well enough.
The chief feature in the enterprise was a "Magazine of Books for the use
and amusement of children," published by Godwin under the name of Baldwin;
books of history, mythology, and fable, all admirably written for their
special purpose. He used to test his juvenile works by reading them to
his children and observing the effect. Their remark would be (so he says),
"How easy this is! Why, we learn it by heart almost as fast as we read
it." "Their suffrage," he adds, "gave me courage, and I carried on my work
to the end." Mrs. Godwin translated, for the business, several childrens'
books from the French. Among other works specially written, Lamb's _Tales
from Shakespeare_ owes its existence to "M. J. Godwin & Co.," the name
under which the firm was finally established.

New and larger premises were taken in Skinner Street, Holborn, and in the
autumn of 1807 the whole family, which now included five young ones, of
whom Charles Clairmont was the eldest, and William, the son of Godwin and
his second wife, the youngest, removed to a house next door to the
publishing office. Here they remained until 1822.

No continuous record exists of the family life, and the numerous letters
of Godwin and Mrs. Godwin when either was absent from home contain only
occasional references to it. Both parents were too much occupied with
business systematically to superintend the children's education. Mrs.
Godwin, however, seems to have taken a bustling interest in ordering it,
and scrupulously refers to Godwin all points of doubt or discussion. From
his letters one would judge that, while he gave due attention to each
point, discussing _pros_ and _cons_ with his deliberate impartiality, his
wife practically decided everything. Although they sometimes quarrelled
(on one occasion to the extent of seriously proposing to separate) they
always made it up again, nor is there any sign that on the subject of the
children's training they ever had any real difference of opinion. Mrs.
Godwin's jealous fussiness gave Godwin abundant opportunities for the
exercise of philosophy, and to the inherent untruthfulness of her manner
and speech he remained strangely and philosophically blind. From allusions
in letters we gather that the children had a daily governess, with
occasional lessons from a master, Mr. Burton. It is often asserted that
Mrs. Godwin was a harsh and cruel stepmother, who made the children's home
miserable. There is nothing to prove this. Later on, when moral guidance
and sympathy were needed, she fell short indeed of what she might have
been. But for the material wellbeing of the children she cared well
enough, and was at any rate desirous that they should be happy, whether or
not she always took the best means of making them so. And Godwin placed
full confidence in her practical powers.

In May 1811 Mrs. Godwin and all the children except Fanny, who stayed at
home to keep house for Godwin, went for sea-bathing to Margate, moving
afterwards to Ramsgate. This had been urged by Mr. Cline, the family
doctor, for the good of little Mary, who, during some years of her
otherwise healthy girlhood, suffered from a weakness in one arm. They
boarded at the house of a Miss Petman, who kept a ladies' school, but had
their sleeping apartments at an inn or other lodging. Mary, however, was
sent to stay altogether at Miss Petman's, in order to be quiet, and in
particular to be out of the way of little William, "he made so boisterous
a noise when going to bed at night."

The sea-breezes soon worked the desired effect. "Mary's arm is better,"
writes Mrs. Godwin on the 10th of June. "She begins to move and use it."
So marked and rapid was the improvement that Mrs. Godwin thought it would
be as well to leave her behind for a longer stay when the rest returned to
town, and wrote to consult Godwin about it. His answer is characteristic.

    When I do not answer any of the lesser points in your letters, it is
    because I fully agree with you, and therefore do not think it
    necessary to draw out an answer point by point, but am content to
    assent by silence.... This was the case as to Mary's being left in the
    care of Miss Petman. It was recommended by Mr. Cline from the first
    that she should stay six months; to this recommendation we both
    assented. It shall be so, if it can, and undoubtedly I conceived you,
    on the spot, most competent to select the residence.

Mary accordingly remained at Miss Petman's as a boarder, perhaps as a
pupil also, till 19th December, when, from her father's laconic but minute
and scrupulously accurate diary, we learn that she returned home. For the
next five months she was in Skinner Street, participating in its busy,
irregular family life, its ups and downs, its anxieties, discomforts, and
amusements, its keen intellectual activity and lively interest in social
and literary matters, in all of which the young people took their full
share. Entries are frequent in Godwin's diary of visits to the theatre, of
tea-drinkings, of guests of all sorts at home. One of these guests affords
us, in his journal, some agreeable glimpses into the Godwin household.

This was the celebrated Aaron Burr, sometime Vice-President of the United
States, now an exile and a wanderer in Europe.

At the time of his election he had got into disgrace with his party, and,
when nominated for the Governorship of New York, he had been opposed and
defeated by his former allies. The bitter contest led to a duel between
him and Alexander Hamilton, in which the latter was killed. Disfranchised
by the laws of New York for having fought a duel, and indicted (though
acquitted) for murder in New Jersey, Burr set out on a journey through the
Western States, nourishing schemes of sedition and revenge. When he
purchased 400,000 acres of land on the Red River, and gave his adherents
to understand that the Spanish Dominions were to be conquered, his
proceedings excited alarm. President Jefferson issued a proclamation
against him, and he was arrested on a charge of high treason. Nothing
could, however, be positively proved, and after a six months' trial he was
liberated. He at once started for Europe, having planned an attack on
Mexico, for which he hoped to get funds and adherents. He was
disappointed, and during the four years which he passed in Europe he often
lived in the greatest poverty.

On his first visit to England, in 1808, Burr met Godwin only once, but the
entry in his journal, besides bearing indirect witness to the great
celebrity of Mary Wollstonecraft in America, gives an idea of the kind of
impression made on a stranger by the second Mrs. Godwin.

"I have seen the two daughters of Mary Wollstonecraft," he writes. "They
are very fine children (the eldest no longer a child, being now fifteen),
but scarcely a discernible trace of the mother. Now Godwin has been seven
or eight years married to a second wife, a sensible, amiable woman."

For the next four years Burr was a wanderer in Holland and France. His
journal, kept for the benefit of his daughter Theodosia, to whom he also
addressed a number of letters, is full of strange and stirring interest.
In 1812 he came back to England, where it was not long before he drifted
to Godwin's door. Burr's character was licentious and unscrupulous, but
his appearance and manners were highly prepossessing; he made friends
wherever he went. The Godwin household was full of hospitality for such
Bohemian wanderers as he. Always itself in a precarious state of fortune,
it held out the hand of fellowship to others whose existence from day to
day was uncertain. A man of brains and ideas, of congenial and lively
temperament, was sure of a fraternal welcome. And though many of Godwin's
older friends were, in time, estranged from him through their antipathy to
his wife, she was full of patronising good-nature for a man like Burr, who
well knew how to ingratiate himself.

    _Burr's Journal, February 15, 1812._--Had only time to get to
    Godwin's, where we dined. In the evening William, the only son of
    William Godwin, a lad of about nine years old, gave his weekly
    lecture: having heard how Coleridge and others lectured, he would also
    lecture, and one of his sisters (Mary, I think) writes a lecture which
    he reads from a little pulpit which they have erected for him. He went
    through it with great gravity and decorum. The subject was "The
    influence of government on the character of a people." After the
    lecture we had tea, and the girls danced and sang an hour, and at nine
    came home.

Nothing can give a pleasanter picture of the family, the lively-minded
children keenly interested in all the subjects and ideas they heard
freely discussed around them; the elders taking pleasure in encouraging
the children's first essays of intellect; Mary at fourteen already showing
her powers of thought and inborn vocation to write, and supplying her
little brother with ideas. The reverse of the medal appears in the next
entry, for the genial unconventional household was generally on the verge
of ruin, and dependent on some expected loan for subsistence in the next
few months. When once the sought-for assistance came they revelled in
momentary relief from care.

    _Journal, February 18._--Have gone this evening to Godwin's. They are
    in trouble. Some financial affair.

It did not weigh long on their spirits.

    _February 24._--Called at Godwin's to leave the newspapers which I
    borrowed yesterday, and to get that of to-day. _Les goddesses_ (so he
    habitually designates the three girls) kept me by acclamation to tea
    with _la printresse_ Hopwood. I agreed to go with the girls to call on
    her on Friday.

    _February 28._--Was engaged to dine to-day at Godwin's, and to walk
    with the four dames. After dinner to the Hopwoods. All which was done.

    _March 7._--To Godwin's, where I took tea with the children in their
    room.

    _March 14._--To Godwin's. He was out. Madame and _les enfans_ upstairs
    in the bedroom, where they received me, and I drank tea with his
    _enfans_.... Terribly afraid of vigils to-night, for Jane made my tea,
    and, I fear, too strong. It is only Fan that I can trust.

    _March 17._--To Godwin's, where took tea with the children, who always
    have it at 9. Mr. and Madame at 7.

    _March 22._--On to Godwin's; found him at breakfast and joined him.
    Madame a-bed.

    _Later._--Mr. and Mrs. Godwin would not give me their account, which
    must be five or six pounds, a very serious sum for them. They say that
    when I succeed in the world they will call on me for help.

This probably means that the Godwins had lent him money. He was well-nigh
penniless, and Mrs. Godwin exerted herself to get resources for him, to
sell one or two books of value which he had, and to get a good price for
his watch. She knew a good deal of the makeshifts of poverty, and none of
the family seemed to have grudged time or trouble if they could do a good
turn to this companion in difficulties. It is a question whether, when
they talked of his succeeding in the world, they were aware of the
particular form of success for which he was scheming; in any case they
seem to have been content to take him as they found him. They were the
last friends from whom he parted on the eve of sailing for America. His
entry just before starting is--

    Called and passed an hour with the Godwins. That family does really
    love me. Fanny, Mary, and Jane, also little William: you must not
    forget, either, Hannah Hopwood, _la printresse_.

These few months were, very likely, the brightest which Mary ever passed
at home. Her rapidly growing powers of mind and observation were nourished
and developed by the stimulating intellectual atmosphere around her; to
the anxieties and uncertainties which, like birds of ill-omen, hovered
over the household and were never absent for long together, she was well
accustomed, besides which she was still too young to be much affected by
them. She was fond of her sisters, and devoted to her father. Mrs.
Godwin's temperament can never have been congenial to hers, but occasions
of collision do not appear to have been frequent, and Fanny, devoted and
unselfish, only anxious for others to be happy and ready herself to serve
any of them, was the link between them all. Mary's health was, however,
not yet satisfactory, and before the summer an opportunity which offered
itself of change of air was willingly accepted on her behalf by Mr. and
Mrs. Godwin. In 1809 Godwin had made the acquaintance of Mr. William
Baxter of Dundee, on the introduction of Mr. David Booth, who afterwards
became Baxter's son-in-law. Baxter, a man of liberal mind, independence of
thought and action, and kindly nature, shared to the full the respect
entertained by most thinking men of that generation for the author of
_Political Justice_. Godwin, always accessible to sympathetic strangers,
was at once pleased with this new acquaintance.

"I thank you," he wrote to Booth, "for your introduction of Mr. Baxter. I
dare swear he is an honest man, and he is no fool." During Baxter's
several visits to London they became better acquainted. Charles Clairmont
too, went to Edinburgh in 1811, as a clerk in Constable's printing office,
where he met and made friends with Baxter's son Robert, who, as well as
his father, visited the Skinner Street household in London, and through
whom the intimacy was cemented. In this way it was that Mary was invited
to come on a long visit to the Baxters at their house, "The Cottage," on
the banks of the Tay, just outside Dundee, on the road to Broughty Ferry.
The family included several girls, near Mary's own age, and with true
Scotch hospitality they pressed her to make one of their family circle for
an indefinite length of time, until sea-air and sea-bathing should have
completed the recovery begun the year before at Ramsgate, but which could
not be maintained in the smoky air and indoor life of London. Accordingly,
Mary sailed for Dundee on the 8th of June 1812.




CHAPTER III

JUNE 1812-MAY 1814


    GODWIN TO BAXTER.

    SKINNER STREET, LONDON.
    _8th June 1812._

    MY DEAR SIR--I have shipped off to you by yesterday's packet, the
    _Osnaburgh_, Captain Wishart, my only daughter. I attended her, with
    her two sisters, to the wharf, and remained an hour on board, till the
    vessel got under way. I cannot help feeling a thousand anxieties in
    parting with her, for the first time, for so great a distance, and
    these anxieties were increased by the manner of sending her, on board
    a ship, with not a single face around her that she had ever seen till
    that morning. She is four months short of fifteen years of age. I,
    however, spoke to the captain, using your name; I beside gave her in
    charge to a lady, by name I believe Mrs. Nelson, of Great St. Helen's,
    London, who was going to your part of the island in attendance upon an
    invalid husband. She was surrounded by three daughters when I spoke to
    her, and she answered me very agreeably. "I shall have none of my own
    daughters with me, and shall therefore have the more leisure to attend
    to yours."

    I daresay she will arrive more dead than alive, as she is extremely
    subject to sea-sickness, and the voyage will, not improbably, last
    nearly a week. Mr. Cline, the surgeon, however, decides that a
    sea-voyage would probably be of more service to her than anything.

    I am quite confounded to think what trouble I am bringing on you and
    your family, and to what a degree I may be said to have taken you in
    when I took you at your word in your invitation upon so slight an
    acquaintance. The old proverb says, "He is a wise father who knows his
    own child," and I feel the justness of the apothegm on the present
    occasion.

    There never can be a perfect equality between father and child, and if
    he has other objects and avocations to fill up the greater part of his
    time, the ordinary resource is for him to proclaim his wishes and
    commands in a way somewhat sententious and authoritative, and
    occasionally to utter his censures with seriousness and emphasis.

    It can, therefore, seldom happen that he is the confidant of his
    child, or that the child does not feel some degree of awe or restraint
    in intercourse with him. I am not, therefore, a perfect judge of
    Mary's character. I believe she has nothing of what is commonly called
    vices, and that she has considerable talent. But I tremble for the
    trouble I may be bringing on you in this visit. In my last I desired
    that you would consider the first two or three weeks as a trial, how
    far you can ensure her, or, more fairly and impartially speaking, how
    far her habits and conceptions may be such as to put your family very
    unreasonably out of their way; and I expect from the frankness and
    ingenuousness of yours of the 29th inst. (which by the way was so
    ingenuous as to come without a seal) that you will not for a moment
    hesitate to inform me if such should be the case. When I say all this,
    I hope you will be aware that I do not desire that she should be
    treated with extraordinary attention, or that any one of your family
    should put themselves in the smallest degree out of their way on her
    account. I am anxious that she should be brought up (in this respect)
    like a philosopher, even like a cynic. It will add greatly to the
    strength and worth of her character. I should also observe that she
    has no love of dissipation, and will be perfectly satisfied with your
    woods and your mountains. I wish, too, that she should be _excited_
    to industry. She has occasionally great perseverance, but
    occasionally, too, she shows great need to be roused.

    You are aware that she comes to the sea-side for the purpose of
    bathing. I should wish that you would inquire now and then into the
    regularity of that. She will want also some treatment for her arm, but
    she has Mr. Cline's directions completely in all these points, and
    will probably not require a professional man to look after her while
    she is with you. In all other respects except her arm she has
    admirable health, has an excellent appetite, and is capable of
    enduring fatigue. Mrs. Godwin reminds me that I ought to have said
    something about troubling your daughters to procure a washerwoman. But
    I trust that, without its being necessary to be thus minute, you will
    proceed on the basis of our being earnest to give you as little
    trouble as the nature of the case will allow.--I am, my dear sir, with
    great regard, yours,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

At Dundee, with the Baxters, Mary remained for five months. She was
treated as a sister by the Baxter girls, one of whom, Isabella, afterwards
the wife of David Booth, became her most intimate friend. An elder sister,
Miss Christian Baxter, to whom the present writer is indebted for a few
personal reminiscences of Mary Godwin, only died in 1886, and was probably
the last survivor of those who remembered Mary in her girlhood. They were
all fond of their new companion. She was agreeable, vivacious, and
sparkling; very pretty, with fair hair and complexion, and clear, bright
white skin. The Baxters were people of education and culture, active
minded, fond of reading, and alive to external impressions. The young
people were well and carefully brought up. Mary shared in all their
studies.

Music they did not care for, but all were fond of drawing and painting,
and had good lessons. A great deal of time was spent in touring about, in
long walks and drives through the moors and mountains of Forfarshire. They
took pains to make Mary acquainted with all the country round, besides
which it was laid on her as a duty to get as much fresh air as she could,
and she must greatly have enjoyed the well-ordered yet easy life, the
complete change of scene and companionship. When, on the 10th of November,
she arrived again in Skinner Street, she brought Christy Baxter with her,
for a long return visit to London. If Mary had enjoyed her country outing,
still more keenly did the homely Scotch girl relish her first taste of
London life and society. At ninety-two years old the impression of her
pleasure in it, of her interest in all the notable people with whom she
came in contact, was as vivid as ever.

The literary and artistic circle which still hung about the Skinner Street
philosophers was to Christy a new world, of which, except from books, she
had formed no idea. Books, however, had laid the foundation of keenest
interest in all she was to see. She was constantly in company with Lamb,
Hazlitt, Coleridge, Constable, and many more, hitherto known to her only
by name. Of Charles Lamb especially, of his wit, humour, and quaintness
she retained the liveliest recollection, and he had evidently a great
liking for her, referring jokingly to her in his letters as "Doctor
Christy," and often inviting her, with the Godwin family, to tea, to meet
her relatives, when up in town, or other friends.

On 11th November, the very day after the two girls arrived in London, a
meeting occurred of no special interest to Christy at the time, and which
she would have soon forgotten but for subsequent events. Three guests came
to dinner at Godwin's. These were Percy Bysshe Shelley with his wife
Harriet, and her sister, Eliza Westbrook. Christy Baxter well remembered
this, but her chief recollection was of Harriet, her beauty, her brilliant
complexion and lovely hair, and the elegance of her purple satin dress. Of
Shelley, how he looked, what he said or did, what they all thought of him,
she had observed nothing, except that he was very attentive to Harriet.
The meeting was of no apparent significance and passed without remark:
little indeed did any one foresee the drama soon to follow. Plenty of more
important days, more interesting meetings to Christy, followed during the
next few months. She shared Mary's room during this time, but her memory,
in old age, afforded few details of their everyday intercourse. Indeed,
although they spent so much time together, these two were never very
intimate. Isabella Baxter, afterwards Mrs. Booth, was Mary's especial
friend and chief correspondent, and it is much to be regretted that none
of their girlish letters have been preserved.

The four girls had plenty of liberty, and, what with reading and talk,
with constantly varied society enjoyed in the intimate unconstrained way
of those who cannot afford the _appareil_ of convention, with tolerably
frequent visits at friends' houses and not seldom to the theatre, when
Godwin, as often happened, got a box sent him, they had plenty of
amusement too. Godwin's diary keeps a wonderfully minute skeleton account
of all their doings. Christy enjoyed it all as only a novice can do. All
her recollections of the family life were agreeable; if anything had left
an unpleasing impression it had faded away in 1883, when the present
writer saw her. For Godwin she entertained a warm respect and affection.
They did not see very much of him, but Christy was a favourite of his, and
he would sometimes take a quiet pleasure, not unmixed with amusement, in
listening to their girlish talks and arguments. One such discussion she
distinctly remembered, on the subject of woman's vocation, as to whether
it should be purely domestic, or whether they should engage in outside
interests. Mary and Jane upheld the latter view, Fanny and Christy the
other.

Mrs. Godwin was kind to Christy, who always saw her best side, and never
would hear a word said against her. Her deficiencies were not palpable to
an outsider whom she liked and chose to patronise, nor did Christy appear
to have felt the inherent untruthfulness in Mrs. Godwin's character,
although one famous instance of it was recorded by Isabella Baxter, and is
given at length in Mr. Kegan Paul's _Life of Godwin_.

The various members of the family had more independence of habits than is
common in English domestic life. This was perhaps a relic of Godwin's old
idea, that much evil and weariness resulted from the supposed necessity
that the members of a family should spend all or most of their time in
each other's company. He always breakfasted alone. Mrs. Godwin did so
also, and not till mid-day. The young folks had theirs together. Dinner
was a family meal, but supper seems to have been a movable feast. Jane
Clairmont, of whose education not much is known beyond the fact that she
was sometimes at school, was at home for a part if not all of this time.
She was lively and quick-witted, and probably rather unmanageable. Fanny
was more reflective, less sanguine, more alive to the prosaic obligations
of life, and with a keen sense of domestic duty, early developed in her by
necessity and by her position as the eldest of this somewhat anomalous
family. Godwin, by nature as undemonstrative as possible, showed more
affection to Fanny than to any one else. He always turned to her for any
little service he might require. It seemed, said Christy, as though he
would fain have guarded against the possibility of her feeling that she,
an orphan, was less to him than the others. Christy was of opinion that
Fanny was not made aware of her real position till her quite later years,
a fact which, if true, goes far towards explaining much of her after life.
It seems most likely, at any rate, that at this time she was unacquainted
with the circumstances of her birth. To Godwin she had always seemed like
his own eldest child, the first he had cared for or who had been fond of
him, and his dependence on her was not surprising, for no daughter could
have tended him with more solicitous care; besides which, she was one of
those people, ready to do anything for everybody, who are always at the
beck and call of others, and always in request. She filled the home, to
which Mary, so constantly absent, was just now only a visitor.

It must have been at about this time that Godwin received a letter from an
unknown correspondent, who expressed much curiosity to know whether his
children were brought up in accordance with the ideas, by some considered
so revolutionary and dangerous, of Mary Wollstonecraft, and what the
result was of reducing her theories to actual practice. Godwin's answer,
giving his own description of her two daughters, has often been printed,
but it is worth giving here.

    Your inquiries relate principally to the two daughters of Mary
    Wollstonecraft. They are neither of them brought up with an exclusive
    attention to the system of their mother. I lost her in 1797, and in
    1801 I married a second time. One among the motives which led me to
    choose this was the feeling I had in myself of an incompetence for the
    education of daughters. The present Mrs. Godwin has great strength and
    activity of mind, but is not exclusively a follower of their mother;
    and indeed, having formed a family establishment without having a
    previous provision for the support of a family, neither Mrs. Godwin
    nor I have leisure enough for reducing novel theories of education to
    practice, while we both of us honestly endeavour, as far as our
    opportunities will permit, to improve the minds and characters of the
    younger branches of the family.

    Of the two persons to whom your inquiries relate, my own daughter is
    considerably superior in capacity to the one her mother had before.
    Fanny, the eldest, is of a quiet, modest, unshowy disposition,
    somewhat given to indolence, which is her greatest fault, but sober,
    observing, peculiarly clear and distinct in the faculty of memory, and
    disposed to exercise her own thoughts and follow her own judgment.
    Mary, my daughter, is the reverse of her in many particulars. She is
    singularly bold, somewhat imperious, and active of mind. Her desire
    of knowledge is great, and her perseverance in everything she
    undertakes almost invincible. My own daughter is, I believe, very
    pretty. Fanny is by no means handsome, but, in general, prepossessing.

On the 3d of June Mary accompanied Christy back to Dundee, where she
remained for the next ten months.

No account remains of her life there, but there can be doubt that her
mental and intellectual powers matured rapidly, and that she learned,
read, and thought far more than is common even with clever girls of her
age. The girl who at seventeen is an intellectual companion for a Shelley
cannot often have needed to be "excited to industry," unless indeed when
she indulged in day-dreams, as, from her own account given in the preface
to her novel of _Frankenstein_, we know she sometimes did. Proud of her
parentage, idolising the memory of her mother, about whom she gathered and
treasured every scrap of information she could obtain, and of whose
history and writings she probably now learned more than she had done at
home, accustomed from her childhood to the daily society of authors and
literary men, the pen was her earliest toy, and now the attempt at
original composition was her chosen occupation.

    "As a child," she says, "I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during
    the hours given me for recreation, was to 'write stories.' Still I had
    a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in
    the air,--the indulging in waking dreams,--the following up trains of
    thought which had for their subject the formation of a succession of
    imaginary incidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and
    agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close imitator,
    rather doing as others had done than putting down the suggestions of
    my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye--my
    childhood's companion and friend" (probably Isabel Baxter)--"but my
    dreams were all my own. I accounted for them to nobody; they were my
    refuge when annoyed, my dearest pleasure when free.

    "I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a
    considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more
    picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and
    dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on
    retrospection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the
    eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could
    commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then, but in a most
    commonplace style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging
    to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near,
    that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were
    born and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life
    appeared to me too commonplace an affair as regarded myself. I could
    not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever
    be my lot; but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could
    people the hours with creations far more interesting to me, at that
    age, than my own sensations."

From the entry in Godwin's diary, "M. W. G. at supper," for 30th March
1814, we learn that Mary returned to Skinner Street on that day. She now
resumed her place in the home circle, a very different person from the
little Mary who went to Ramsgate in 1811. Although only sixteen and a
half she was in the bloom of her girlhood, very pretty, very interesting
in appearance, thoughtful and intelligent beyond her years. She did not
settle down easily into her old place, and probably only realised
gradually how much she had altered since she last lived at home. Perhaps,
too, she saw that home in a new light. After the well-ordered, cheerful
family life of the Baxters, the somewhat Bohemianism of Skinner Street may
have seemed a little strange. A household with a philosopher for one of
its heads, and a fussy, unscrupulous woman of business for the other, may
have its amusing sides, and we have seen that it had; but it is not
necessarily comfortable, still less sympathetic to a young and earnest
nature, just awakening to a consciousness of the realities of life, at
that transition stage when so much is chaotic and confusing to those who
are beginning to think and to feel. One may well imagine that all was not
smooth for poor Mary. Her stepmother's jarring temperament must have
grated on her more keenly than ever after her long absence. Years and
anxieties did not improve Mrs. Godwin's temper, nor bring refinement or a
nice sense of honour to a nature singularly deficient in both. Mary must
have had to take refuge from annoyance in day-dreams pretty frequently,
and this was a sure and constant source of irritation to her stepmother.
Jane Clairmont, wilful, rebellious, witty, and probably a good deal
spoilt, whose subsequent conduct shows that she was utterly unamenable to
her mother's authority, was, at first, away at school. Fanny was the good
angel of the house, but her persistent defence of every one attacked, and
her determination to make the best of things and people as they were,
seemed almost irritating to those who were smarting under daily and hourly
little grievances. Compliance often looks like cowardice to the young and
bold. Nor did Mary get any help from her father. A little affection and
kindly sympathy from him would have gone a long way with her, for she
loved him dearly. Long afterwards she alluded to his "calm, silent
disapproval" when displeased, and to the bitter remorse and unhappiness it
would cause her, although unspoken, and only instinctively felt by her.
All her stepmother's scoldings would have failed to produce a like effect.
But Godwin, though sincerely solicitous about the children's welfare, was
self-concentrated, and had little real insight into character. Besides, he
was, as usual, hampered about money matters; and when constant anxiety as
to where to get his next loan was added to the preoccupation of
authorship, and the unavoidable distraction of such details as reached him
of the publishing business, he had little thought or attention to bestow
on the daughter who had arrived at so critical a time of her mental and
moral history. He welcomed her home, but then took little more notice of
her. If she and her stepmother disagreed, Godwin, when forced to take part
in the matter, probably found it the best policy to side with his wife.
Yet the situation would have been worth his attention. Here was this girl,
Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter, who had left home a clever, unformed
child, who had returned to it a maiden in her bloom, pretty and
attractive, with ardour, ability, and ambition, with conscious powers that
had not found their right use, with unsatisfied affections seeking an
object. True, she might in time have found threads to gather up in her own
home. But she was young, impatient, and unhappy. Mrs. Godwin was
repellent, uncongenial, and very jealous of her. All that a daughter could
do for Godwin seemed to be done by Fanny. When Jane came home it was on
her that Mary was chiefly thrown for society. Her lively spirits and quick
wit made her excellent company, and she was ready enough to make the most
of grievances, and to head any revolt. Fanny, far more deserving of
sisterly sympathy and far more in need of it, seemed to belong to the
opposite camp.

Time, kindly judicious guidance, and sustained effort on her own part
might have cleared Mary's path and made things straight for her. Her
heart was as sound and true as her intellect, but this critical time was
rendered more dangerous, it may well be, by her knowledge of the existence
of many theories on vexed subjects, making her feel keenly her own
inexperience and want of a guide.

The guide she found was one who himself had wandered till now over many
perplexing paths, led by the light of a restless, sleepless genius, and an
inextinguishable yearning to find, to know, to do, to be the best.

Godwin's diary records on the 5th of May "Shelley calls." As far as can be
known this was the first occasion since the dinner of the 11th of November
1812, when Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin saw Percy Bysshe Shelley.




CHAPTER IV

APRIL-JUNE 1814


Although she had seen Shelley only once, Mary had heard a good deal about
him. More than two years before this time Godwin had received a letter
from a stranger, a very young man, desirous of becoming acquainted with
him. The writer had, it said, been under the impression that the great
philosopher, the object of his reverential admiration, whom he now
addressed, was one of the mighty dead. That such was not the case he had
now learned for the first time, and the most ardent wish of his heart was
to be admitted to the privilege of intercourse with one whom he regarded
as "a luminary too bright for the darkness which surrounds him." "If," he
concluded, "desire for universal happiness has any claim upon your
preference, that desire I can exhibit."

Such neophytes never knelt to Godwin in vain. He did not, at first, feel
specially interested in this one; still, the kindly tone of his reply led
to further correspondence, in the course of which the new disciple, Mr.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, gave Godwin a sketch of the events of his past life.
Godwin learned that his correspondent was the son of a country squire in
Sussex, was heir to a baronetcy and a considerable fortune; that he had
been expelled from Oxford for publishing, and refusing to deny the
authorship of, a pamphlet called "The Necessity of Atheism"; that his
father, having no sympathy either with his literary tastes or speculative
views, and still less with his method of putting the latter in practice,
had required from him certain concessions and promises which he had
declined to make, and so had been cast off by his family, his father
refusing to communicate with him, except through a solicitor, allowing him
a sum barely enough for his own wants, and that professedly to "prevent
his cheating strangers." That, undeterred by all this, he had, at
nineteen, married a woman three years younger, whose "pursuits, hopes,
fears, and sorrows" had been like his own; and that he hoped to devote his
life and powers to the regeneration of mankind and society.

There was something remarkable about these letters, something that bespoke
a mind, ill-balanced it might be, but yet of no common order. Whatever the
worth of the writer's opinions, there could be no doubt that he had the
gift of eloquence in their expression. Half interested and half amused,
with a vague perception of Shelley's genius, and a certain instinctive
deference of which he could not divest himself towards the heir to L6000 a
year, Godwin continued the correspondence with a frequency and an
unreserve most flattering to the younger man.

Not long after this, the disciple announced that he had gone off, with his
wife and her sister, to Ireland, for the avowed purpose of forwarding the
Catholic Emancipation and the Repeal of the Union. His scheme was "the
organisation of a society whose institution shall serve as a bond to its
members for the purposes of virtue, happiness, liberty, and wisdom, by the
means of intellectual opposition to grievances." He published and
distributed an "Address to the Irish People," setting before them their
grievances, their rights, and their duties.

This object Godwin regarded as an utter mistake, its practical furtherance
as extremely perilous. Dreading the contagion of excitement, its tendency
to prevent sober judgment and promote precipitate action, he condemned
associations of men for any public purpose whatever. His calm temperament
would fain have dissevered impulse and action altogether as cause and
effect, and he had a shrinking, constitutional as well as philosophic,
from any tendency to "strike while the iron is hot."

"The thing most to be desired," he wrote, "is to keep up the intellectual,
and in some sense the solitary fermentation, and to procrastinate the
contact and consequent action." "Shelley! you are preparing a scene of
blood," was his solemn warning.

Nothing could have been further from Shelley's thoughts than such a scene.
Surprised and disappointed, he ingenuously confessed to Godwin that his
association scheme had grown out of notions of political justice, first
generated by Godwin's own book on that subject; and the mentor found
himself in the position of an involuntary illustration of his own theory,
expressed in the _Enquirer_ (Essay XX), "It is by no means impossible that
the books most pernicious in their effects that ever were produced, were
written with intentions uncommonly elevated and pure."

Shelley, animated by an ardent enthusiasm of humanity, looked to
association as likely to spread a contagion indeed, but a contagion of
good. The revolution he preached was a Millennium.

    If you are convinced of the truth of your cause, trust wholly to its
    truth; if you are not convinced, give it up. In no case employ
    violence; the way to liberty and happiness is never to transgress the
    rules of virtue and justice.

    Before anything can be done with effect, habits of sobriety,
    regularity, and thought must be entered into and firmly resolved on.

    I will repeat, that virtue and wisdom are necessary to true happiness
    and liberty.

    Before the restraints of government are lessened, it is fit that we
    should lessen the necessity for them. Before government is done away
    with, we must reform ourselves. It is this work which I would
    earnestly recommend to you. O Irishmen, reform yourselves.[1]

Whatever evil results Godwin may have apprehended from Shelley's
proceedings, these sentiments taken in the abstract could not but enlist
his sympathies to some extent on behalf of the deluded young optimist, nor
did he keep the fact a secret. Shelley's letters, as well as the Irish
pamphlet, were eagerly read and discussed by all the young philosophers of
Skinner Street.

"You cannot imagine," Godwin wrote to him, "how much all the females of my
family--Mrs. Godwin and three daughters--are interested in your letters
and your history."

Publicly propounded, however, Shelley's sentiments proved insufficiently
attractive to those to whom they were addressed. At a public meeting where
he had ventured to enjoin on Catholics a tolerance so universal as to
embrace not only Jews, Turks, and Infidels, but Protestants also, he
narrowly escaped being mobbed. It was borne in upon him before long that
the possibility, under existing conditions, of realising his scheme for
associations of peace and virtue, was doubtful and distant. He abandoned
his intention and left Ireland, professedly in submission to Godwin, but
in fact convinced by what he had seen. Godwin was delighted.

"Now I can call you a friend," he wrote, and the good understanding of the
two was cemented.

After repeated but fruitless invitations from the Shelleys to the whole
Godwin party to come and stay with them in Wales, Godwin, early in the
autumn of this year (1812) actually made an expedition to Lynmouth, where
his unknown friends were staying, in the hope of effecting a personal
acquaintance, but his object was frustrated, the Shelleys having left the
place just before he arrived.

They first met in London, in the month of October, and frequent, almost
daily intercourse took place between the families. On the last day of
their stay in town the Shelleys, with Eliza Westbrook, dined in Skinner
Street. Mary Godwin, who had been for five months past in Scotland, had
returned, as we know, with Christy Baxter the day before, and was, no
doubt, very glad not to miss this opportunity of seeing the interesting
young reformer of whom she had heard so much. His wife he had always
spoken of as one who shared his tastes and opinions. No doubt they all
thought her a fortunate woman, and Mary in after years would well recall
her smiling face, and pink and white complexion, and her purple satin
gown.

During the year and a half that had elapsed since that time Mary had
been chiefly away, and had heard little if anything of Shelley. In the
spring of 1814, however, he came up to town to see her father on
business,--business in which Godwin was deeply and solely concerned, about
which he was desperately anxious, and in which Mary knew that Shelley was
doing all in his power to help him. These matters had been going on for
some time, when, on the 5th of May, he came to Skinner Street, and Mary
and he renewed acquaintance. Both had altered since the last time they
met. Mary, from a child had grown into a young, attractive, and
interesting girl. Hers was not the sweet sensuous loveliness of her
mother, but with her well-shaped head and intellectual brow, her fine fair
hair and liquid hazel eyes, and a skin and complexion of singular
whiteness and purity, she possessed beauty of a rare and refined type. She
was somewhat below the medium height; very graceful, with drooping
shoulders and swan-like throat. The serene eloquent eyes contrasted with a
small mouth, indicative of a certain reserve of temperament, which, in
fact, always distinguished her, and beneath which those who did not know
her might not have suspected her vigour of intellect and fearlessness of
thought.

Shelley, too, was changed; why, was in his case not so evident. Mary
would have heard how, just before her return home, he had been remarried
to his wife; Godwin, the opponent of matrimony, having, mysteriously
enough, been instrumental in procuring the licence for this superfluous
ceremony; superfluous, as the parties had been quite legally married in
Scotland three years before. His wife was not now with him in London. He
was alone, and appeared saddened in aspect, ailing in health, unsettled
and anxious in mind. It was impossible that Mary should not observe him
with interest. She saw that, although so young a man, he not only could
hold his own in discussion of literary, philosophical, or political
questions with the wisest heads and deepest thinkers of his generation,
but could throw new light on every subject he touched. His glowing
imagination transfigured and idealised what it dwelt on, while his magical
words seemed to recreate whatever he described. She learned that he was a
poet. His conversation would call up her old day-dreams again, though,
before it, they paled and faded like morning mists before the sun. She
saw, too, that his disposition was most amiable, his manners gentle, his
conversation absolutely free from suspicion of coarseness, and that he was
a disinterested and devoted friend.

Before long she must have become conscious that he took pleasure in
talking with her. She could not but see that, while his melancholy and
disquiet grew upon him every day, she possessed the power of banishing it
for the time. Her presence illumined him; life and hopeful enthusiasm
would flash anew from him if she was by. This intercourse stimulated all
her intellectual powers, and its first effect was to increase her already
keen desire of knowledge. To keep pace with the electric mind of this
companion required some effort on her part, and she applied herself with
renewed zeal to her studies. Nothing irritated her stepmother so much as
to see her deep in a book, and in order to escape from Mrs. Godwin's petty
persecution Mary used, whenever she could, to transport herself and her
occupations to Old St. Pancras Churchyard, where she had been in the habit
of coming to visit her mother's grave. There, under the shade of a willow
tree, she would sit, book in hand, and sometimes read, but not always. The
day-dreams of Dundee would now and again return upon her. How long she
seemed to have lived since that time! Life no longer seemed "so
commonplace an affair," nor yet her own part in it so infinitesimal if
Shelley thought her conversation and companionship worth the having.

Before very long he had found out the secret of her retreat, and used to
meet her there. He revered the memory of Mary Wollstonecraft, and her
grave was to him a consecrated shrine of which her daughter was the
priestess.

By June they had become intimate friends, though Mary was still ignorant
of the secret of his life.

On the 8th of June occurred the meeting described by Hogg in his _Life of
Shelley_. The two friends were walking through Skinner Street when Shelley
said to Hogg, "I must speak with Godwin; come in, I will not detain you
long." Hogg continues--

    I followed him through the shop, which was the only entrance, and
    upstairs we entered a room on the first floor; it was shaped like a
    quadrant. In the arc were windows; in one radius a fireplace, and in
    the other a door, and shelves with many old books. William Godwin was
    not at home. Bysshe strode about the room, causing the crazy floor of
    the ill-built, unowned dwelling-house to shake and tremble under his
    impatient footsteps. He appeared to be displeased at not finding the
    fountain of Political Justice.

    "Where is Godwin?" he asked me several times, as if I knew. I did not
    know, and, to say the truth, I did not care. He continued his uneasy
    promenade; and I stood reading the names of old English authors on the
    backs of the venerable volumes, when the door was partially and softly
    opened. A thrilling voice called "Shelley!" A thrilling voice answered
    "Mary!" and he darted out of the room, like an arrow from the bow of
    the far-shooting king. A very young female, fair and fair-haired, pale
    indeed, and with a piercing look, wearing a frock of tartan, an
    unusual dress in London at that time, had called him out of the room.
    He was absent a very short time, a minute or two, and then returned.

    "Godwin is out, there is no use in waiting." So we continued our walk
    along Holborn.

    "Who was that, pray?" I asked, "a daughter?"

    "Yes."

    "A daughter of William Godwin?"

    "The daughter of Godwin and Mary."

Hogg asked no more questions, but something in this momentary interview
and in the look of the fair-haired girl left an impression on his mind
which he did not at once forget.

Godwin was all this time seeking and encouraging Shelley's visits. He was
in feverish distress for money, bankruptcy was hanging over his head; and
Shelley was exerting all his energies and influence to raise a large sum,
it is said as much as L3000, for him. It is a melancholy fact that the
philosopher had got to regard those who, in the thirsty search for truth
and knowledge, had attached themselves to him, in the secondary light of
possible sources of income, and, when in difficulties, he came upon them
one after another for loans or advances of money, which, at first begged
for as a kindness, came to be claimed by him almost as a right.

Shelley's own affairs were in a most unsatisfactory state. L200 a year
from his father, and as much from his wife's father was all he had to
depend upon, and his unsettled life and frequent journeys, generous
disposition and careless ways, made fearful inroads on his narrow income,
notwithstanding the fact that he lived with Spartan frugality as far as
his own habits were concerned. Little as he had, he never knew how little
it was nor how far it would go, and, while he strained every nerve to save
from ruin one whom he still considered his intellectual father, he was
himself sorely hampered by want of money.

Visits to lawyers by Godwin, Shelley, or both, were of increasingly
frequent occurrence during May; in June we learn of as many as two or
three in a day. While this was going on, Shelley, the forlorn hope of
Skinner Street, could not be lost sight of. If he seemed to find pleasure
in Mary's society, this probably flattered Mary's father, who, though
really knowing little of his child, was undoubtedly proud of her, her
beauty, and her promise of remarkable talent. Like other fathers, he
thought of her as a child, and, had there been any occasion for suspicion
or remark, the fact of Shelley's being a married man with a lovely wife,
would take away any excuse for dwelling on it. The Shelleys had not been
favourites with Mrs. Godwin, who, the year before, had offended or chosen
to quarrel with Harriet Shelley. The respective husbands had succeeded in
smoothing over the difficulty, which was subsequently ignored. No love was
lost, however, between the Shelleys and the head of the firm of M. J.
Godwin & Co., who, however, was not now likely to do or say anything
calculated to drive from the house one who, for the present, was its sole
chance of existence.

From the 20th of June until the end of the month Shelley was at Skinner
Street every day, often to dinner.

By that time he and Mary had realised, only too well, the depth of their
mutual feeling, and on some one day, what day we do not know, they owned
it to each other. His history was poured out to her, not as it appears in
the cold impartial light of after years perhaps, but as he felt it then,
aching and smarting from life's fresh wounds and stings. She heard of his
difficulties, his rebuffs, his mistakes in action, his disappointments in
friendship, his fruitless sacrifices for what he held to be the truth; his
hopes and his hopelessness, his isolation of soul and his craving for
sympathy. She guessed, for he was still silent on this point, that he
found it not in his home. She faced her feelings then; they were past
mistake. But it never occurred to her mind that there was any possible
future but a life's separation to souls so situated. She could be his
friend, never anything more to him.

As a memento of that interview Shelley gave or sent her a copy of _Queen
Mab_, his first published poem. This book (still in existence) has,
written in pencil inside the cover, the name "Mary Wollstonecraft
Godwin," and, on the inner flyleaf, the words, "You see, Mary, I have not
forgotten you." Under the printed dedication to his wife is the enigmatic
but suggestive remark, carefully written in ink, "Count Slobendorf was
about to marry a woman, who, attracted solely by his fortune, proved her
selfishness by deserting him in prison."[2] On the flyleaves at the end
Mary wrote in July 1814--

    This book is sacred to me, and as no other creature shall ever look
    into it, I may write what I please. Yet what shall I write? That I
    love the author beyond all powers of expression, and that I am parted
    from him. Dearest and only love, by that love we have promised to each
    other, although I may not be yours, I can never be another's. But I am
    thine, exclusively thine.

      By the kiss of love, the glance none saw beside,
      The smile none else might understand,
      The whispered thought of hearts allied,
      The pressure of the thrilling hand.[3]

    I have pledged myself to thee, and sacred is the gift. I remember your
    words. "You are now, Mary, going to mix with many, and for a moment I
    shall depart, but in the solitude of your chamber I shall be with
    you." Yes, you are ever with me, sacred vision.

      But ah! I feel in this was given
      A blessing never meant for me,
      Thou art too like a dream from heaven
      For earthly love to merit thee.[4]

With this mutual consciousness, yet obliged inevitably to meet, thrown
constantly in each other's way, Mary obliged too to look on Shelley as her
father's benefactor and support, their situation was a miserable one. As
for Shelley, when he had once broken silence he passed rapidly from tender
affection to the most passionate love. His heart and brain were alike on
fire, for at the root of his deep depression and unsettlement lay the
fact, known as yet only to himself, of complete estrangement between
himself and his wife.




CHAPTER V

JUNE-AUGUST 1814


Perhaps of all the objects of Shelley's devotion up to this time, Harriet,
his wife, was the only one with whom he had never, in the ideal sense,
been in love. Possibly this was one reason that against her alone he never
had the violent revulsion, almost amounting to loathing, which was the
usual reaction after his other passionate illusions. He had eloped with
her when they were but boy and girl because he found her ready to elope
with him, and because he was persuaded that she was a victim of tyranny
and oppression, which, to this modern knight-errant, was tantamount to an
obligation laid on him to rescue her. Having eloped with her, he had
married her, for her sake, and from a sense of chivalry, only with a
quaint sort of apology to his friend Hogg for this early departure from
his own principles and those of the philosophic writers who had helped to
mould his views. His affection for his wife had steadily increased after
their marriage; she was fond of him and satisfied with her lot, and had
made things very easy for him. She could not give him anything very deep
in the way of love, but in return she was not very exacting; accommodating
herself with good humour to all his vagaries, his changes of mood and
plan, and his romantic friendships. Even the presence of her elder sister
Eliza, who at an early period established herself as a member of their
household, did not destroy although it did not add to their peace. It was
during their stay in Scotland, in 1813, that the first shadow arose
between them, and from this time Harriet seems to have changed. She became
cold and indifferent. During the next winter, when they lived at
Bracknell, she grew frivolous and extravagant, even yielding to habits of
self-indulgence most repugnant to one so abstemious as Shelley. He, on his
part, was more and more drawn away from the home which had become
uncongenial by the fascinating society of his brilliant, speculative
friend, Mrs. Boinville (the white-haired "Maimuna"), her daughter and
sister. They were kind and encouraging to him, and their whole circle was
cheerful, genial, and intellectual. This intimacy tended to widen the
breach between husband and wife, while supplying none of the moral help
which might have braced Shelley to meet his difficulty. His letters and
the stanza addressed to Mrs. Boinville[5] show the profound depression
under which he laboured in April and May. His pathetic poem to Harriet,
written in May, expresses only too plainly what he suffered from her
alienation, and also his keen consciousness of the moral dangers that
threatened him from the loosening of old ties, if left to himself
unsupported by sympathy at home. But such feeling as Harriet had was at
this time quite blunted. She had treated his unsettled depression and
gloomy abstraction as coldness and sullen discontent, and met them with
careless unconcern. Always a puppet in the hands of some one stronger than
herself, she was encouraged by her elder sister, "the ever-present Eliza,"
the object of Shelley's abhorrence, to meet any want of attention on his
part by this attitude of indifference; presumably on the assumption that
men do not care for what they can have cheaply, and that the best way for
a wife to keep a husband's affection is to show herself independent of it.
Good-humoured and shallow, easy-going and fond of amusement, she probably
yielded to these counsels without difficulty. She was much admired by
other men, and accepted their admiration willingly. From evidence which
came to light not many years later, it appears Shelley thought he had
reason to believe she had been misled by one of these admirers, and that
he became aware of this in June 1814. No word of it was breathed by him at
the time, and the painful story might never have been divulged but for
subsequent events which dragged into publicity circumstances which he
intended should be buried in oblivion. This is not a life of Shelley, and
the evidence of all this matter,--such evidence, that is, as has escaped
destruction,--must be looked for elsewhere. In the lawsuit which he
undertook after Harriet's death to obtain possession of his children by
her, he was content to state, "I was united to a woman of whom delicacy
forbids me to say more than that we were disunited by incurable
dissensions."

That time only confirmed his conviction of 1814 is clearly proved by his
letter, written six years afterwards, to Southey, who had accused him of
guilt towards both his first and second wives.

    I take God to witness, if such a Being is now regarding both you and
    me, and I pledge myself if we meet, as perhaps you expect, before Him
    after death, to repeat the same in His presence, that you accuse me
    wrongfully. I am innocent of ill, either done or intended, the
    consequences you allude to flowed in no respect from me. If you were
    my friend, I could tell you a history that would make you open your
    eyes, but I shall certainly never make the public my familiar
    confidant.

It is quite certain that in June 1814 Shelley, who had for months found
his wife heartless, became convinced that she had also been faithless. A
breach of the marriage vow was not, now or at any other time, regarded by
him in the light of a heinous or unpardonable sin. Like his master Godwin,
who held that right and wrong in these matters could only be decided by
the circumstances of each individual case, he considered the vow itself to
be the mistake, superfluous where it was based on mutual affection,
tyrannic or false where it was not. Nor did he recognise two different
laws, for men and for women, in these respects. His subsequent relations
with Harriet show that, deeply as she had wounded him, he did not consider
her criminally in fault. Could she indeed be blamed for applying in her
own way the dangerous principles of which she had heard so much? But she
had ceased to care for him, and the death of mutual love argued, to his
mind, the loosening of the tie. He had been faithful to her; her
faithlessness cut away the ground from under his feet and left him
defenceless against a new affection.

No wonder that when his friend Peacock went, by his request, to call on
him in London, he

    showed in his looks, in his gestures, in his speech, the state of a
    mind, "suffering like a little kingdom, the nature of an
    insurrection." His eyes were bloodshot, his hair and dress disordered.
    He caught up a bottle of laudanum and said, "I never part from this!"
    He added, "I am always repeating to myself your lines from Sophocles--

      Man's happiest lot is not to be,
      And when we tread life's thorny steep
      Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
      Descend to death's eternal sleep."

Harriet had been absent for some time at Bath, but now, growing anxious at
the rarity of news from her husband, she wrote up to Hookham, his
publisher, entreating to know what had become of him, and where he was.

Godwin, who called at Hookham's the next day, heard of this letter, and
began at last to awaken to the consciousness that something he did not
understand was going on between Shelley and his daughter. It is strange
that Mrs. Godwin, a shrewd and suspicious woman, should not before now
have called his attention to the fact. His diary for 8th July records a
"Talk with Mary." What passed has not transpired. Probably Godwin
"restricted himself to uttering his censures with seriousness and
emphasis,"[6] probably Mary said little of any sort.

On the 14th of July Harriet Shelley came up to town, summoned thither by a
letter from her husband. He informed her of his determination to
separate, and of his intention to take immediate measures securing her a
sufficient income for her support. He fully expected that Harriet would
willingly concur in this arrangement, but she did no such thing; perhaps
she did not believe he would carry it out. She never at any time took life
seriously; she looked on the rupture between herself and Shelley as
trivial and temporary, and had no wish to make it otherwise. Godwin called
on her two or three times; he was aware of the estrangement, and probably
hoped by argument and discussion to restore matters to their old footing
and bring peace and equanimity to his own household. But although Harriet
was quite aware of Shelley's love for Godwin's daughter, and knew, too,
that deeds were being prepared to assure her own separate maintenance, she
said nothing to Godwin, nor did her family give him any hint. The
impending elopement, with all its consequences to Godwin, were within her
power to prevent, but she allowed matters to take their course. Godwin,
evidently very uncomfortable, chronicles a "Talk with P. B. S.," and, on
22d July, a "Talk with Jane." But circumstances moved faster than he
expected, and these many talks and discussions and complicated moves and
counter-moves only made the position intolerable, and precipitated the
final crisis. Towards the close of that month Shelley's confession was
wrung from him: he told Mary the whole truth, and how, though legally
bound, he held himself morally free to offer himself to her if she would
be his.

To her, passionately devoted to the one man who was and was ever to remain
the sun and centre of her existence, the thought of a wife indifferent to
him, hard to him, false to him, was sacrilege; it was torture. She had not
been brought up to look on marriage as a divine institution; she had
probably never even heard it discussed but on grounds of expediency.
Harriet was his legal wife, so he could not marry Mary, but what of that,
after all? if there was a sacrifice in her power to make for him, was not
that the greatest joy, the greatest honour that life could have in store
for her?

That her father would openly condemn her she knew, for she must have known
that Godwin's practice did not move on the same lofty plane as his
principles. Was he not at that moment making himself debtor to a man whose
integrity he doubted? Had he not, in twice marrying, taken care to
proclaim, both to his friends and the public, that he did so _in spite_ of
his opinions, which remained unchanged and unretracted, until some
inconvenient application of them forced from him an expression of
disapproval?

Her mother too, had she not held that ties which were dead should be
buried? and though not, like Godwin, condemning marriage as an
institution, had she not been twice induced to form a connection which in
one instance never was, in the other was not for some time consecrated by
law? Who was Mary herself, that she should withstand one whom she felt to
be the best as well as the cleverest man she had ever known? To talent she
had been accustomed all her life, but here she saw something different,
and what of all things calls forth most ardent response from a young and
pure-minded girl, _a genius for goodness_; an aspiration and devotion such
as she had dreamed of but never known, with powers which seemed to her
absolutely inspired. She loved him, and she appreciated him,--as time
abundantly showed,--rightly. She conceived that she wronged by her action
no one but herself, and she did not hesitate. She pledged her heart and
hand to Shelley for life, and she did not disappoint him, nor he her.

To the end of their lives, tried as they were to be by every kind of
trouble, neither one nor the other ever repented the step they now took,
nor modified their opinion of the grounds on which they took it. How
Shelley regarded it in after years we have already seen. Mary, writing
during her married life, when her judgment had been matured and her
youthful buoyancy of spirit only too well sobered by stern and bitter
experience, can find no harder name for it than "an imprudence." Many
years after, in 1825, alluding to Shelley's separation from Harriet, she
remarks, "His justification is, to me, obvious." And at a later date
still, when she had been seventeen years a widow, she wrote in the preface
to her edition of Shelley's _Poems_--

    I abstain from any remark on the occurrences of his private life,
    except inasmuch as the passions they engendered inspired his poetry.
    This is not the time to relate the truth, and I should reject any
    colouring of the truth. No account of these events has ever been given
    at all approaching reality in their details, either as regards himself
    or others; nor shall I further allude to them than to remark that the
    errors of action committed by a man as noble and generous as Shelley,
    may, as far as he only is concerned, be fearlessly avowed by those who
    loved him, in the firm conviction that, were they judged impartially,
    his character would stand in fairer and brighter light than that of
    any contemporary.

But they never "made the public their familiar confidant." They screened
the erring as far as it was in their power to do so, although their
reticence cost them dear, for it lent a colouring of probability to the
slanders and misconstruction of all kinds which it was their constant fate
to endure for others' sake, which pursued them to their lives' end, and
beyond it.

Life, which is to no one what he expects, had many clouds for them. Mary's
life reached its zenith too suddenly, and with happiness came care in
undue proportion. The future of intellectual expansion and creation which
might have been hers was not to be fully realised, but perfections of
character she might never have attained developed themselves as her nature
was mellowed and moulded by time and by suffering.

Shelley's rupture with his first wife marks the end of his boyhood. Up to
that time, thanks to his poetic temperament, his were the strong and
simple, but passing impulses and feelings of a child. "A being of large
discourse" he assuredly was, but not as yet "looking before and after."
Now he was to acquire the doubtful blessing of that faculty. Like Undine
when she became endued with a soul, he gained an immeasurable good, while
he lost a something that never returned.

Early in the morning of 28th July 1814 Mary Godwin secretly left her
father's house, accompanied by Jane Clairmont, and they started with
Shelley in a post-chaise for Dover.




CHAPTER VI

AUGUST 1814-JANUARY 1816


From the day of their departure a joint journal was kept by Shelley and
Mary, which tells their subsequent adventures and vicissitudes with the
utmost candour and _naivete_. A great deal of the earlier portion is
written by Shelley, but after a time Mary becomes the principal diarist,
and the latter part is almost entirely hers. Its account of their first
wanderings in France and Switzerland was put into narrative form by her
two or three years later, and published under the title _Journal of a Six
Weeks' Tour_. But the transparent simplicity of the journal is invaluable,
and carries with it an absolute conviction which no studied account can
emulate or improve upon. Considerable portions are, therefore, given in
their entirety.

That 28th of July was a hotter day than had been known in England for many
years. Between the sultry heat and exhaustion from the excitement and
conflicting emotions of the last days, poor Mary was completely overcome.

    "The heat made her faint," wrote Shelley, "it was necessary at every
    stage that she should repose. I was divided between anxiety for her
    health and terror lest our pursuers should arrive. I reproached myself
    with not allowing her sufficient time to rest, with conceiving any
    evil so great that the slightest portion of her comfort might be
    sacrificed to avoid it.

    "At Dartford we took four horses, that we might outstrip pursuit. We
    arrived at Dover before four o'clock."

    "On arriving at Dover," writes Mary,[7] "I was refreshed by a
    sea-bath. As we very much wished to cross the Channel with all
    possible speed, we would not wait for the packet of the following day
    (it being then about four in the afternoon), but hiring a small boat,
    resolved to make the passage the same evening, the seamen promising us
    a voyage of two hours.

    "The evening was most beautiful; there was but little wind, and the
    sails flapped in the flagging breeze; the moon rose, and night came
    on, and with the night a slow, heavy swell and a fresh breeze, which
    soon produced a sea so violent as to toss the boat very much. I was
    dreadfully sea-sick, and, as is usually my custom when thus affected,
    I slept during the greater part of the night, awaking only from time
    to time to ask where we were, and to receive the dismal answer each
    time, 'Not quite halfway.'

    "The wind was violent and contrary; if we could not reach Calais the
    sailors proposed making for Boulogne. They promised only two hours'
    sail from shore, yet hour after hour passed, and we were still far
    distant, when the moon sunk in the red and stormy horizon and the
    fast-flashing lightning became pale in the breaking day.

    "We were proceeding slowly against the wind, when suddenly a thunder
    squall struck the sail, and the waves rushed into the boat: even the
    sailors acknowledged that our situation was perilous; but they
    succeeded in reefing the sail; the wind was now changed, and we drove
    before the gale directly to Calais."

    _Journal_ (Shelley).--Mary did not know our danger; she was resting
    between my knees, that were unable to support her; she did not speak
    or look, but I felt that she was there. I had time in that moment to
    reflect, and even to reason upon death; it was rather a thing of
    discomfort and disappointment than horror to me. We should never be
    separated, but in death we might not know and feel our union as now. I
    hope, but my hopes are not unmixed with fear for what may befall this
    inestimable spirit when we appear to die.

    The morning broke, the lightning died away, the violence of the wind
    abated. We arrived at Calais, whilst Mary still slept; we drove upon
    the sands. Suddenly the broad sun rose over France.

Godwin's diary for 28th July runs,

    "_Five in the morning._ M. J. for Dover."

Mrs. Godwin, in fact, started in pursuit of the fugitives as soon as they
were missed. Neither Shelley nor Mary were the objects of her anxiety, but
her own daughter. Jane Clairmont, who cared no more for her mother than
she did for any one else, had guessed Mary's secret or insinuated herself
into her confidence some time before the final _denouement_ of the
love-affair. Wild and wayward, ready for anything in the shape of a
romantic adventure, and longing for freedom from the restraints of home,
she had sympathised with, and perhaps helped Shelley and Mary. She was in
no wise anxious to be left to mope alone, nor to be exposed to
cross-questioning she could ill have met. She claimed to escape with them
as a return for her good offices, and whatever Mary may have thought or
wished, Shelley was not one to leave her behind "in slavery." Mrs. Godwin
arrived at Calais by the very packet the fugitives had refused to wait
for.

    _Journal_ (Shelley).--In the evening Captain Davidson came and told us
    that a fat lady had arrived who said I had run away with her daughter;
    it was Mrs. Godwin. Jane spent the night with her mother.

    _July 30._--Jane informs us that she is unable to withstand the pathos
    of Mrs. Godwin's appeal. She appealed to the Municipality of Paris, to
    past slavery and to future freedom. I counselled her to take at least
    half an hour for consideration. She returned to Mrs. Godwin and
    informed her that she resolved to continue with us.

    Mrs. Godwin departed without answering a word.

It is difficult to understand how this mother had so little authority over
her own girl of sixteen. She might rule Godwin, but she evidently could
not influence, far less rule her daughter. Shelley's influence, as far as
it was exerted at all, was used in favour of Jane's remaining with them,
and he paid dearly in after years for the heavy responsibility he now
assumed.

The travellers proceeded to Paris, where they were obliged to remain
longer than they intended, finding themselves so absolutely without money,
nothing having been prearranged in their sudden flight, that Shelley had
to sell his watch and chain for eight napoleons. Funds were at last
procured through Tavernier, a French man of business, and they were free
to put into execution the plan they had resolved upon, namely, to _walk_
through France, buying an ass to carry their portmanteau and one of them
by turns.

    _Journal, August 8_ (Mary).--Jane and Shelley go to the ass merchant;
    we buy an ass. The day spent in preparation for departure.

Their landlady tried to dissuade them from their design.

    She represented to us that a large army had been recently disbanded,
    that the soldiers and officers wandered idle about the country, and
    that _les dames seroient certainement enlevees_. But we were proof
    against her arguments, and, packing up a few necessaries, leaving the
    rest to go by the diligence, we departed in a _fiacre_ from the door
    of the hotel, our little ass following.[8]

    _Journal_ (Mary).--We set out to Charenton in the evening, carrying
    the ass, who was weak and unfit for labour, like the Miller and his
    Son.

    We dismissed the coach at the barrier. It was dusk, and the ass seemed
    totally unable to bear one of us, appearing to sink under the
    portmanteau, though it was small and light. We were, however, merry
    enough, and thought the leagues short. We arrived at Charenton about
    ten. Charenton is prettily situated in a valley, through which the
    Seine flows, winding among banks variegated with trees. On looking at
    this scene C... (Jane) exclaimed, "Oh! this is beautiful enough; let
    us live here." This was her exclamation on every new scene, and as
    each surpassed the one before, she cried, "I am glad we did not live
    at Charenton, but let us live here."[9]

    _August 9_ (Shelley).--We sell our ass and purchase a mule, in which
    we much resemble him who never made a bargain but always lost half.
    The day is most beautiful.

    (Mary).--About nine o'clock we departed; we were clad in black silk. I
    rode on the mule, which carried also our portmanteau. S. and C. (Jane)
    followed, bringing a small basket of provisions. At about one we
    arrived at Gros-Bois, where, under the shade of trees, we ate our
    bread and fruit, and drank our wine, thinking of Don Quixote and
    Sancho Panza.

    _Thursday, August 11_ (Mary).--From Provins we came to Nogent. The
    town was entirely desolated by the Cossacks; the houses were reduced
    to heaps of white ruins, and the bridge was destroyed. Proceeding on
    our way we left the great road and arrived at St. Aubin, a beautiful
    little village situated among trees. This village was also completely
    destroyed. The inhabitants told us the Cossacks had not left one cow
    in the village. Notwithstanding the entreaties of the people, who
    eagerly desired us to stay all night, we continued our route to Trois
    Maisons, three long leagues farther, on an unfrequented road, and
    which in many places was hardly perceptible from the surrounding
    waste....

    As night approached our fears increased that we should not be able to
    distinguish the road, and Mary expressed these fears in a very
    complaining tone. We arrived at Trois Maisons at nine o'clock. Jane
    went up to the first cottage to ask our way, but was only answered by
    unmeaning laughter. We, however, discovered a kind of an _auberge_,
    where, having in some degree satisfied our hunger by milk and sour
    bread, we retired to a wretched apartment to bed. But first let me
    observe that we discovered that the inhabitants were not in the habit
    of washing themselves, either when they rose or went to bed.

    _Friday, August 12._--We did not set out from here till eleven
    o'clock, and travelled a long league under the very eye of a burning
    sun. Shelley, having sprained his leg, was obliged to ride all day.

    _Saturday, August 13_ (Troyes).--We are disgusted with the excessive
    dirt of our habitation. Shelley goes to inquire about conveyances. He
    sells the mule for forty francs and the saddle for sixteen francs. In
    all our bargains for ass, saddle, and mule we lose more than fifteen
    napoleons. Money we can but little spare now. Jane and Shelley seek
    for a conveyance to Neufchatel.

From Troyes Shelley wrote to Harriet, expressing his anxiety for her
welfare, and urging her in her own interests to come out to Switzerland,
where he, who would always remain her best and most disinterested friend,
would procure for her some sweet retreat among the mountains. He tells her
some details of their adventures in the simplest manner imaginable; never,
apparently, doubting for a moment but that they would interest her as much
as they did him. Harriet, it is needless to say, did not come. Had she
done so, she would not have found Shelley, for, as the sequel shows, he
was back in London almost as soon as she could have got to Switzerland.

    _Journal, August 14_ (Mary).--At four in the morning we depart from
    Troyes, and proceed in the new vehicle to Vandeuvres. The village
    remains still ruined by the war. We rest at Vandeuvres two hours, but
    walk in a wood belonging to a neighbouring chateau, and sleep under
    its shade. The moss was so soft; the murmur of the wind in the leaves
    was sweeter than Aeolian music; we forgot that we were in France or in
    the world for a time.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _August 17._--The _voiturier_ insists upon our passing the night at
    the village of Mort. We go out on the rocks, and Shelley and I read
    part of _Mary_, a fiction. We return at dark, and, unable to enter the
    beds, we pass a few comfortless hours by the kitchen fireside.

    _Thursday, August 18._--We leave Mort at four. After some hours of
    tedious travelling, through a most beautiful country, we arrive at
    Noe. From the summit of one of the hills we see the whole expanse of
    the valley filled with a white, undulating mist, over which the piny
    hills pierced like islands. The sun had just risen, and a ray of the
    red light lay on the waves of this fluctuating vapour. To the west,
    opposite the sun, it seemed driven by the light against the rock in
    immense masses of foaming cloud until it becomes lost in the distance,
    mixing its tints with the fleecy sky. At Noe, whilst our postillion
    waited, we walked into the forest of pines; it was a scene of
    enchantment, where every sound and sight contributed to charm.

    Our mossy seat in the deepest recesses of the wood was enclosed from
    the world by an impenetrable veil. On our return the postillion had
    departed without us; he left word that he expected to meet us on the
    road. We proceeded there upon foot to Maison Neuve, an _auberge_ a
    league distant. At Maison Neuve he had left a message importing that
    he should proceed to Pontarlier, six leagues distant, and that unless
    he found us there he should return. We despatched a boy on horseback
    for him; he promised to wait for us at the next village; we walked two
    leagues in the expectation of finding him there. The evening was most
    beautiful; the horned moon hung in the light of sunset that threw a
    glow of unusual depth of redness above the piny mountains and the dark
    deep valleys which they included. At Savrine we found, according to
    our expectation, that M. le Voiturier had pursued his journey with the
    utmost speed. We engaged a _voiture_ for Pontarlier. Jane very unable
    to walk. The moon becomes yellow and hangs close to the woody horizon.
    It is dark before we arrive at Pontarlier. The postillion tells many
    lies. We sleep, for the first time in France, in a clean bed.

    _Friday, August 19._--We pursue our journey towards Neufchatel. We
    pass delightful scenes of verdure surpassing imagination; here first
    we see clear mountain streams. We pass the barrier between France and
    Switzerland, and, after descending nearly a league, between lofty
    rocks covered with pines and interspersed with green glades, where the
    grass is short and soft and beautifully verdant, we arrive at St.
    Sulpice. The mule is very lame; we determined to engage another horse
    for the remainder of the way. Our _voiturier_ had determined to leave
    us, and had taken measures to that effect. The mountains after St.
    Sulpice become loftier and more beautiful. Two leagues from Neufchatel
    we see the Alps; hill after hill is seen extending its craggy outline
    before the other, and far behind all, towering above every feature of
    the scene, the snowy Alps; they are 100 miles distant; they look like
    those accumulated clouds of dazzling white that arrange themselves on
    the horizon in summer. This immensity staggers the imagination, and so
    far surpasses all conception that it requires an effort of the
    understanding to believe that they are indeed mountains. We arrive at
    Neufchatel and sleep.

    _Saturday, August 20._--We consult on our situation. There are no
    letters at the _bureau de poste_; there cannot be for a week. Shelley
    goes to the banker's, who promises an answer in two hours; at the
    conclusion of the time he sends for Shelley, and, to our astonishment
    and consolation, Shelley returns staggering under the weight of a
    large canvas bag full of silver. Shelley alone looks grave on the
    occasion, for he alone clearly apprehends that francs and ecus and
    louis d'or are like the white and flying cloud of noon, that is gone
    before one can say "Jack Robinson." Shelley goes to secure a place in
    the diligence; they are all taken. He meets there with a Swiss who
    speaks English; this man is imbued with the spirit of true politeness.
    He endeavours to perform real services, and seems to regard the mere
    ceremonies of the affair as things of very little value. He makes a
    bargain with a _voiturier_ to take us to Lucerne for eighteen ecus.

    We arrange to depart at four the next morning. Our Swiss friend
    appoints to meet us there.

    _Sunday, August 21._--Go from Neufchatel at six; our Swiss accompanies
    us a little way out of town. There is a mist to-day, so we cannot see
    the Alps; the drive, however, is interesting, especially in the latter
    part of the day. Shelley and Jane talk concerning Jane's character. We
    arrive before seven at Soleure. Shelley and Mary go to the
    much-praised cathedral, and find it very modern and stupid.

    _Monday, August 22._--Leave Soleure at half-past five; very cold
    indeed, but we now again see the magnificent mountains of Le Valais.
    Mary is not well, and all are tired of wheeled machines. Shelley is in
    a jocosely horrible mood. We dine at Zoffingen, and sleep there two
    hours. In our drive after dinner we see the mountains of St. Gothard,
    etc. Change our plan of going over St. Gothard. Arrive tired to death;
    find at the room of the inn a horrible spinet and a case of stuffed
    birds. Sup at _table d'hote_.

    _Tuesday, August 23._--We leave at four o'clock and arrive at Lucerne
    about ten. After breakfast we hire a boat to take us down the lake.
    Shelley and Mary go out to buy several needful things, and then we
    embark. It is a most divine day; the farther we advance the more
    magnificent are the shores of the lake--rock and pine forests covering
    the feet of the immense mountains. We read part of L'Abbe Barruel's
    _Histoire du Jacobinisme_. We land at Bessen, go to the wrong inn,
    where a most comical scene ensues. We sleep at Brunnen. Before we
    sleep, however, we look out of window.

    _Wednesday, August 24._--We consult on our situation. We cannot
    procure a house; we are in despair; the filth of the apartment is
    terrible to Mary; she cannot bear it all the winter. We propose to
    proceed to Fluelen, but the wind comes from Italy, and will not
    permit. At last we find a lodging in an ugly house they call the
    Chateau for one louis a month, which we take; it consists of two
    rooms. Mary and Shelley walk to the shore of the lake and read the
    description of the Siege of Jerusalem in Tacitus. We come home, look
    out of window and go to bed.

    _Thursday, August 25._--We read Abbe Barruel. Shelley and Jane make
    purchases; we pack up our things and take possession of our house,
    which we have engaged for six months. Receive a visit from the
    _Medecin_ and the old Abbe, whom, it must be owned, we do not treat
    with proper politeness. We arrange our apartment, and write part of
    Shelley's romance.

    _Friday, August 26._--Write the romance till three o'clock. Propose
    crossing Mount St. Gothard. Determine at last to return to England;
    only wait to set off till the washerwoman brings home our linen. The
    little Frenchman arrives with tubs and plums and scissors and salt.
    The linen is not dry; we are compelled to wait until to-morrow. We
    engage a boat to take us to Lucerne at six the following morning.

    _Saturday, August 27._--We depart at seven; it rains violently till
    just the end of our voyage. We conjecture the astonishment of the good
    people at Brunnen. We arrive at Lucerne, dine, then write a part of
    the romance, and read _Shakespeare_. Interrupted by Jane's horrors;
    pack up. We have engaged a boat for Basle.

    _Sunday, August 28._--Depart at six o'clock. The river is exceedingly
    beautiful; the waves break on the rocks, and the descents are steep
    and rapid. It rained the whole day. We stopped at Mettingen to dine,
    and there surveyed at our ease the horrid and slimy faces of our
    companions in voyage; our only wish was to absolutely annihilate such
    uncleanly animals, to which we might have addressed the boatman's
    speech to Pope: "'Twere easier for God to make entirely new men than
    attempt to purify such monsters as these." After a voyage in the rain,
    rendered disagreeable only by the presence of these loathsome
    "creepers," we arrive, Shelley much exhausted, at Dettingen, our
    resting-place for the night.

It never seems to have occurred to them before arriving in Switzerland
that they had no money wherewith to carry out their further plans, that it
was more difficult to obtain it abroad than at home, and that the
remainder of their little store would hardly suffice to take them back to
England. No sooner thought, however, than done. They gave themselves no
rest after their long and arduous journey, but started straight back via
the Rhine, arriving in Rotterdam on 8th September with only twenty ecus
remaining, having been "horribly cheated." "Make arrangements, and talk of
many things, past, present, and to come."

    _Journal, Friday, September 9._--We have arranged with a captain to
    take us to England--three guineas a-piece; at three o'clock we sail,
    and in the evening arrive at Marsluys, where a bad wind obliges us to
    stay.

    _Saturday, September 10._--We remain at Marsluys, Mary begins _Hate_,
    and gives Shelley the greater pleasure. Shelley writes part of his
    romance. Sleep at Marsluys. Wind contrary.

    _Sunday, September 11._--The wind becomes more favourable. We hear
    that we are to sail. Mary writes more of her _Hate_. We depart, cross
    the bar; the sea is horribly tempestuous, and Mary is nearly sick, nor
    is Shelley much better. There is an easterly gale in the night which
    almost kills us, whilst it carries us nearer our journey's end.

    _Monday, September 12._--It is calm; we remain on deck nearly the
    whole day. Mary recovers from her sickness. We dispute with one man
    upon the slave trade.

The wanderers arrived at last at Gravesend, not only penniless, but unable
even to pay their passage money, or to discharge the hackney coach in
which they drove about from place to place in search of assistance. At the
time of Shelley's sudden flight, the deeds by which part of his income was
transferred to Harriet were still in preparation only, and he had,
without thinking of the consequences of his act, written from Switzerland
to his bankers, directing them to honour her calls for money, as far as
his account allowed of it. She must have availed herself so well of this
permission that now he found he could only obtain the sum he wanted by
applying for it to her.

The relations between Shelley and Harriet, must, at first, have seemed to
Mary as incomprehensible as they still do to readers of the _Journal_.
Their interviews, necessarily very frequent in the next few months, were,
on the whole, quite friendly. Shelley was kind and perfectly ingenuous and
sincere; Harriet was sometimes "civil" and good tempered, sometimes cross
and provoking. But on neither side was there any pretence of deep pain, of
wounded pride or bitter constraint.

    _Journal, Tuesday, September 13._--We arrive at Gravesend, and with
    great difficulty prevail on the captain to trust us. We go by boat to
    London; take a coach; call on Hookham. T. H. not at home. C. treats us
    very ill. Call at Voisey's. Henry goes to Harriet. Shelley calls on
    her, whilst poor Mary and Jane are left in the coach for two whole
    hours. Our debt is discharged. Shelley gets clothes for himself. Go to
    Strafford Hotel, dine, and go to bed.

    _Wednesday, September 14._--Talk and read the newspaper. Shelley calls
    on Harriet, who is certainly a very odd creature; he writes several
    letters; calls on Hookham, and brings home Wordsworth's _Excursion_,
    of which we read a part, much disappointed. He is a slave. Shelley
    engages lodgings, to which we remove in the evening.

Shelley now lost no time in putting himself in communication with Skinner
Street, and on the first day after they settled in their new lodgings he
addressed a letter to Godwin.




CHAPTER VII

SEPTEMBER 1814-MAY 1816


Whatever may have been Godwin's degree of responsibility for the opinions
which had enabled Shelley to elope in all good faith with his daughter,
and which saved her from serious scruple in eloping with Shelley, it would
be impossible not to sympathise with the father's feelings after the
event.

People do not resent those misfortunes least which they have helped to
bring on themselves, and no one ever derived less consolation from his own
theories than did Godwin from his, as soon as they were unpleasantly put
into practice. He had done little to win his daughter's confidence, but he
was keenly wounded by the proof she had given of its absence. His pride,
as well as his affection, had suffered a serious blow through her
departure and that of Jane. For a philosopher like him, accustomed to be
looked up to and consulted on matters of education, such a failure in his
own family was a public stigma. False and malicious reports got about,
which had an additional and peculiar sting from their originating partly
in his well-known impecuniosity. It was currently rumoured that he had
sold the two girls to Shelley for L800 and L700 respectively. No wonder
that Godwin, accustomed to look down from a lofty altitude on such minor
matters as money and indebtedness, felt now that he could not hold up his
head. He shunned his old friends, and they, for the most part, felt this
and avoided him. His home was embittered and spoilt. Mrs. Godwin, incensed
at Jane's conduct, vented her wrath in abuse and invective on Shelley and
Mary.

No one has thought it worth while to record how poor Fanny was affected by
the first news of the family calamity. It must have reached her in
Ireland, and her subsequent return home was dismal indeed. The loss of her
only sister was a bitter grief to her; and, strong as was her disapproval
of that sister's conduct, it must have given her a pang to feel that the
culpable Jane had enjoyed Shelley's and Mary's confidence, while she who
loved them with a really unselfish love, had been excluded from it. What
could she now say or do to cheer Godwin? How parry Mrs. Godwin's
inconsiderate and intemperate complaints and innuendos? No doubt Fanny had
often stood up for Mary with her stepmother, and now Mary herself had cut
the ground from under her feet.

Charles Clairmont was at home again; ostensibly on the plea of helping in
the publishing business, but as a fact idling about, on the lookout for
some lucky opening. He cared no more than did Jane for the family
(including his own mother) in Skinner Street: like every Clairmont, he
was an adventurer, and promptly transferred his sympathies to any point
which suited himself. To crown all, William, the youngest son, had become
infected with the spirit of revolt, and had, as Godwin expresses it,
"eloped for two nights," giving his family no little anxiety.

The first and immediate result of Shelley's letter to Godwin was _a visit
to his windows_ by Mrs. Godwin and Fanny, who tried in this way to get a
surreptitious peep at the three truants. Shelley went out to them, but
they would not speak to him. Late that evening, however, Charles Clairmont
appeared. He was to be another thorn in the side of the interdicted yet
indispensable Shelley. He did not mind having a foot in each camp, and had
no scruples about coming as often and staying as long as he liked, or in
retailing a large amount of gossip. They discussed William's escapade, and
the various plans for the immuring of Jane, if she could be caught. This
did not predispose Jane to listen to the overtures subsequently made to
her from time to time by her relatives.

Godwin replied to Shelley's letter, but declined all further communication
with him except through a solicitor. Mrs. Godwin's spirit of rancour was
such that, several weeks later, she, on one occasion, forbade Fanny to
come down to dinner because she had received a lock of Mary's hair,
probably conveyed to her by Charles Clairmont, who, in return, did not
fail to inform Mary of the whole story. In spite, however, of this
vehement show of animosity, Shelley was kept through one channel or
another only too well informed of Godwin's affairs. Indeed, he was never
suffered to forget them for long at a time. No sign of impatience or
resentment ever appears in his journal or letters. Not only was Godwin the
father of his beloved, but he was still, to Shelley, the fountain-head of
wisdom, philosophy, and inspiration. Mary, too, was devoted to her father,
and never wavered in her conviction that his inimical attitude proceeded
from no impulse of his own mind, but that he was upheld in it by the
influence and interference of Mrs. Godwin.

The journal of Shelley and Mary for the next few months is, in its extreme
simplicity, a curious record of a most uncomfortable time; a medley of
lodgings, lawyers, money-lenders, bailiffs, wild schemes, and literary
pursuits. Penniless themselves, they were yet responsible for hundreds and
thousands of pounds of other people's debts; there was Harriet running up
bills at shops and hotels and sending her creditors on to Shelley; Godwin
perpetually threatened with bankruptcy, refusing to see the man who had
robbed him of his daughter, yet with literally no other hope of support
but his help; Jane Clairmont now, as for years to come, entirely dependent
on them for everything; Shelley's friends quartering themselves on him all
day and every day, often taking advantage of his love of society and
intellectual friction, of Mary's youth and inexperience and compliant
good-nature, to live at his expense, and, in one case at least, to obtain
from him money which he really had not got, and could only borrow, at
ruinous interest, on his expectations. He had frequently to be in hiding
from bailiffs, change his lodgings, sleep at friends' houses or at
different hotels, getting his letters when he could make a stealthy
appointment to meet Mary, perhaps at St. Paul's, perhaps at some street
corner or outside some coffee-house,--anywhere where he might escape
observation. He was not always certain how far he could rely on those whom
he had considered his friends, such as the brothers Hookham. Rightly or
wrongly, he was led to imagine that Harriet, from motives of revenge, was
bent on ruining Godwin, and that for this purpose she would aid and abet
in his own arrest, by persuading the Hookhams in such a case to refuse
bail. The rumour of this conspiracy was conveyed to the Shelleys in a note
from Fanny, who, for Godwin's sake and theirs, broke through the stern
embargo laid on all communication.

Yet through all these troubles and bewilderments there went on a perpetual
under-current of reading and study, thought and discussion. The actual
existence was there, and all these external accidents of circumstance, the
realities in ordinary lives were, in these extraordinary lives, treated
really as accidents, as passing hindrances to serious purpose, and no
more.

Nothing but Mary's true love for Shelley and perfect happiness with him
could have tided her over this time. Youth, however, was a wonderful
helper, added to the unusual intellectual vigour and vivacity which made
it possible for her, as it would be to few girls of seventeen, to forget
the daily worries of life in reading and study. Perhaps at no time was the
even balance of her nature more clearly manifested than now, when, after
living through a romance that will last in story as long as the name of
Shelley, her existence revolutionised, her sensibilities preternaturally
stimulated, having taken, as it were, a life's experiences by cumulation
in a few months; weak and depressed in health, too, she still had
sufficient energy and self-control to apply herself to a solid course of
intellectual training.

Jane's presence added to their unsettlement, although at times it may have
afforded them some amusement. Wilful, fanciful, with a sense of humour and
many good impulses, but with that decided dash of charlatanism which
characterised the Clairmonts, and little true sensibility, she was a
willing disciple for any wild flights of fancy, and a keen participator in
all impossible projects and harum-scarum makeshifts. Her presence
stimulated and enlivened Shelley, her whims and fancies did not seriously
affect, beyond amusing him, and she was an indefatigable companion for him
in his walks and wanderings, now that Mary was becoming less and less able
to go about. To Mary, however, she must often have been an incubus, a
perpetual _third_, and one who, if sometimes useful, often gave a great
deal of trouble too. She did not bring to Mary, as she did to Shelley, the
charm of novelty; nor does the unfolding of one girl's character present
to another girl whose character is also in process of development such
attractive problems as it does to a young and speculative man. Mary was
too noble by nature and too perfectly in accord with Shelley to indulge in
actual jealousy of Jane's companionship with him; still, she must often
have had a weary time when those two were scouring the town on their
multifarious errands; misunderstandings, also, would occur, only to be
removed by long and patient explanation. Jane (or "Clara," as about this
time she elected to call herself, in preference to her own less romantic
name) was hardly more than a child, and in some respects a very childish
child. Excitable and nervous, she had no idea of putting constraint upon
herself for others' sake, and gave her neighbours very little rest, as she
preferred any amount of scenes to humdrum quiet. She and Shelley would sit
up half the night, amusing themselves with wild speculations, natural and
supernatural, till she would go off into hysterics or trances, or, when
she had at last gone to bed, would walk in her sleep, see phantoms, and
frighten them all with her terrors. In the end she was invariably brought
to poor Mary, who, delicate in health, had gone early to rest, but had to
bestir herself to bring Jane to reason, and to "console her with her
all-powerful benevolence," as Shelley describes it.

Every page of the journal testifies to the extreme youth of the writers;
likely and unlikely events are chronicled with equal simplicity. Where all
is new, one thing is not more startling than another; and the commonplaces
of everyday life may afford more occasion for surprise than the strangest
anomalies. Specimens only of the diary can be given here, and they are
best given without comment.

    _Sunday, September 18._--Mary receives her first lesson in Greek. She
    reads the _Curse of Kehama_, while Shelley walks out with Peacock, who
    dines. Shelley walks part of the way home with him. Curious account of
    Harriet. We talk, study a little Greek, and go to bed.

    _Tuesday, September 20._--Shelley writes to Hookham and Tavernier;
    goes with Hookham to Ballachy's. Mary reads _Political Justice_ all
    the morning. Study Greek. In the evening Shelley reads _Thalaba_
    aloud.

    _Monday, September 26._--Shelley goes with Peacock to Ballachy's, and
    engages lodgings at Pancras. Visit from Mrs. Pringer. Read _Political
    Justice_ and the _Empire of the Nairs_.

    _Tuesday, September 21._--Read _Political Justice_; finish the
    _Nairs_; pack up and go to our lodgings in Somers Town.

    _Friday, September 30._--After breakfast walk to Hampstead Heath.
    Discuss the possibility of converting and liberating two heiresses;
    arrange a plan on the subject.... Peacock calls; talk with him
    concerning the heiresses and Marian, arrange his marriage.

    _Sunday, October 2._--Peacock comes after breakfast; walk over
    Primrose Hill; sail little boats; return a little before four; talk.
    Read _Political Justice_ in the evening; talk.

    _Monday, October 3._--Read _Political Justice_. Hookham calls. Walk
    with Peacock to the Lake of Nangis and set off little fire-boats.
    After dinner talk and let off fireworks. Talk of the west of Ireland
    plan.

    _Wednesday, October 5._--Peacock at breakfast. Walk to the Lake of
    Nangis and sail fire-boats. Read _Political Justice_. Shelley reads
    the _Ancient Mariner_ aloud. Letter from Harriet, very civil. L400 for
    L2400.

    _Friday, October 7_ (Shelley).--Read _Political Justice_. Peacock
    calls. Jane, for some reason, refuses to walk. We traverse the fields
    towards Hampstead. Under an expansive oak lies a dead calf; the cow,
    lean from grief, is watching it. (Contemplate subject for poem.) The
    sunset is beautiful. Return at 9. Peacock departs. Mary goes to bed at
    half-past 8; Shelley sits up with Jane. Talk of oppression and reform,
    of cutting squares of skin from the soldiers' backs. Jane states her
    conception of the subterranean community of women. Talk of Hogg,
    Harriet, Miss Hitchener, etc. At 1 o'clock Shelley observes that it is
    the witching time of night; he inquires soon after if it is not
    horrible to feel the silence of night tingling in our ears; in half an
    hour the question is repeated in a different form; at 2 they retire
    awestruck and hardly daring to breathe. Shelley says to Jane,
    "Good-night;" his hand is leaning on the table; he is conscious of an
    expression in his countenance which he cannot repress. Jane hesitates.
    "Good-night" again. She still hesitates.

    "Did you ever read the tragedy of _Orra_?" said Shelley.

    "Yes. How horribly you look!--take your eyes off."

    "Good-night" again, and Jane runs to her room. Shelley, unable to
    sleep, kissed Mary, and prepared to sit beside her and read till
    morning, when rapid footsteps descended the stairs. Jane was there;
    her countenance was distorted most unnaturally by horrible dismay--it
    beamed with a whiteness that seemed almost like light; her lips and
    cheeks were of one deadly hue; the skin of her face and forehead was
    drawn into innumerable wrinkles--the lineaments of terror that could
    not be contained; her hair came prominent and erect; her eyes were
    wide and staring, drawn almost from the sockets by the convulsion of
    the muscles; the eyelids were forced in, and the eyeballs, without any
    relief, seemed as if they had been newly inserted, in ghastly sport,
    in the sockets of a lifeless head. This frightful spectacle endured
    but for a few moments--it was displaced by terror and confusion,
    violent indeed, and full of dismay, but human. She asked me if I had
    touched her pillow (her tone was that of dreadful alarm). I said, "No,
    no! if you will come into the room I will tell you." I informed her
    of Mary's pregnancy; this seemed to check her violence. She told me
    that a pillow placed upon her bed had been removed, in the moment that
    she turned her eyes away to a chair at some distance, and evidently by
    no human power. She was positive as to the facts of her
    self-possession and calmness. Her manner convinced me that she was not
    deceived. We continued to sit by the fire, at intervals engaging in
    awful conversation relative to the nature of these mysteries. I read
    part of _Alexy_; I repeated one of my own poems. Our conversation,
    though intentionally directed to other topics, irresistibly recurred
    to these. Our candles burned low; we feared they would not last until
    daylight. Just as the dawn was struggling with moonlight, Jane
    remarked in me that unutterable expression which had affected her with
    so much horror before; she described it as expressing a mixture of
    deep sadness and conscious power over her. I covered my face with my
    hands, and spoke to her in the most studied gentleness. It was
    ineffectual; her horror and agony increased even to the most dreadful
    convulsions. She shrieked and writhed on the floor. I ran to Mary; I
    communicated in few words the state of Jane. I brought her to Mary.
    The convulsions gradually ceased, and she slept. At daybreak we
    examined her apartment and found her pillow on the chair.

    _Saturday, October 8_ (Mary).--Read _Political Justice_. We walked
    out; when we return Shelley talks with Jane, and I read _Wrongs of
    Women_. In the evening we talk and read.

    _Tuesday, October 11._--Read _Political Justice_. Shelley goes to the
    Westminster Insurance Office. Study Greek. Peacock dines. Receive a
    refusal about the money....

    Have a good-humoured letter from Harriet, and a cold and even
    sarcastic one from Mrs. Boinville. Shelley reads the _History of the
    Illuminati_, out of Barruel, to us.

    _Wednesday, October 12._--Read _Political Justice_. A letter from
    Marshall; Jane goes there. When she comes home we go to Cheapside;
    returning, an occurrence. Deliberation until 7; burn the letter; sleep
    early.

    _Thursday, October 13._--Communicate the burning of the letter. Much
    dispute and discussion concerning its probable contents. Alarm.
    Determine to quit London; send for L5 from Hookham. Change our
    resolution. Go to the play. The extreme depravity and disgusting
    nature of the scene; the inefficacy of acting to encourage or maintain
    the delusion. The loathsome sight of men personating characters which
    do not and cannot belong to them. Shelley displeased with what he saw
    of Kean. Return. Alarm. We sleep at the Stratford Hotel.

    _Friday, October 14_ (Shelley).--Jane's insensibility and incapacity
    for the slightest degree of friendship. The feelings occasioned by
    this discovery prevent me from maintaining any measure in security.
    This highly incorrect; subversion of the first principles of true
    philosophy; characters, particularly those which are unformed, may
    change. Beware of weakly giving way to trivial sympathies. Content
    yourself with one great affection--with a single mighty hope; let the
    rest of mankind be the subjects of your benevolence, your justice,
    and, as human beings, of your sensibility; but, as you value many
    hours of peace, never suffer more than one even to approach the
    hallowed circle. Nothing should shake the truly great spirit which is
    not sufficiently mighty to destroy it.

    Peacock calls. I take some interest in this man, but no possible
    conduct of his would disturb my tranquillity.... Converse with Jane;
    her mind unsettled; her character unformed; occasion of hope from some
    instances of softness and feeling; she is not entirely insensible to
    concessions, new proofs that the most exalted philosophy, the truest
    virtue, consists in an habitual contempt of self; a subduing of all
    angry feelings; a sacrifice of pride and selfishness. When you attempt
    benefit to either an individual or a community, abstain from imputing
    it as an error that they despise or overlook your virtue. These are
    incidental reflections which arise only indirectly from the
    circumstances recorded.

    Walk with Peacock to the pond; talk of Marian and Greek metre. Peacock
    dines. In the evening read Cicero and the _Paradoxa_. Night comes;
    Jane walks in her sleep, and groans horribly; listen for two hours; at
    length bring her to Mary. Begin _Julius_, and finish the little volume
    of Cicero.

    The next morning the chimney board in Jane's room is found to have
    walked leisurely into the middle of the room, accompanied by the
    pillow, who, being very sleepy, tried to get into bed again, but sat
    down on his back.

    _Saturday, October 15_ (Mary).--After breakfast read _Political
    Justice_. Shelley goes with Peacock to Ballachy's. A disappointment;
    it is put off till Monday. They then go to Homerton. Finish _St.
    Leon_. Jane writes to Marshall. A letter from my Father. Talking; Jane
    and I walk out. Shelley and Peacock return at 6. Shelley advises Jane
    not to go. Jane's letter to my Father. A refusal. Talk about going
    away, and, as usual, settle nothing.

    _Wednesday, October 19._--Finish _Political Justice_, read _Caleb
    Williams_. Shelley goes to the city, and meets with a total failure.
    Send to Hookham. Shelley reads a part of _Comus_ aloud.

    _Thursday, October 20._--Shelley goes to the city. Finish _Caleb
    Williams_; read to Jane. Peacock calls; he has called on my father,
    who will not speak about Shelley to any one but an attorney. Oh!
    philosophy!...

    _Saturday, October 22._--Finish the _Life of Alfieri_. Go to the tomb
    (Mary Wollstonecraft's), and read the _Essay on Sepulchres_ there.
    Shelley is out all the morning at the lawyer's, but nothing is
    done....

    In the evening a letter from Fanny, warning us of the Hookhams. Jane
    and Shelley go after her; they find her, but Fanny runs away.

    _Monday, October 24._--Read aloud to Jane. At 11 go out to meet
    Shelley. Walk up and down Fleet Street; call at Peacock's; return to
    Fleet Street; call again at Peacock's; return to Pancras; remain an
    hour or two. People call; I suppose bailiffs. Return to Peacock's.
    Call at the coffee-house; see Shelley; he has been to Ballachy's. Good
    hopes; to be decided Thursday morning. Return to Peacock's; dine
    there; get money. Return home in a coach; go to bed soon, tired to
    death.

    _Thursday, October 25._--Write to Shelley. Jane goes to Fanny.... Call
    at Peacock's; go to the hotel; Shelley not there. Go back to
    Peacock's. Peacock goes to Shelley. Meet Shelley in Holborn. Walk up
    and down Bartlett's Buildings.... Come with him to Peacock's; talk
    with him till 10; return to Pancras without him. Jane in the dumps all
    evening about going away.

    _Wednesday, October 26._--A visit from Shelley's old friends;[10] they
    go away much disappointed and very angry. He has written to T. Hookham
    to ask him to be bail. Return to Pancras about 4. Read all the
    evening.

    _Thursday, October 27._--Write to Fanny all morning. We had received
    letters from Skinner Street in the morning. Fanny is very doleful, and
    C. C. contradicts in one line what he had said in the line before.
    After two go to St. Paul's; meet Shelley; go with him in a coach to
    Hookham's; H. is out; return; leave him and proceed to Pancras. He has
    not received a definitive answer from Ballachy; meet a money-lender,
    of whom I have some hopes. Read aloud to Jane in the evening. Jane
    goes to sleep. Write to Shelley. A letter comes enclosing a letter
    from Hookham consenting to justify bail. Harriet has been to work
    there against my Father.

    _Tuesday, November 1._--Learn Greek all morning. Shelley goes to the
    'Change. Jane calls.[11] People want their money; won't send up
    dinner, and we are all very hungry. Jane goes to Hookham. Shelley and
    I talk about her character. Jane returns without money. Writes to
    Fanny about coming to see her; she can't come. Writes to Charles. Goes
    to Peacock to send him to us with some eatables; he is out. Charles
    promises to see her. She returns to Pancras; he goes there, and tells
    the dismal state of the Skinner Street affairs. Shelley goes to
    Peacock's; comes home with cakes. Wait till T. Hookham sends money to
    pay the bill. Shelley returns to Pancras. Have tea, and go to bed.
    Shelley goes to Peacock's to sleep.

These are two specimens of the notes constantly passing between them.

    MARY TO SHELLEY.

    _25th October._

    For what a minute did I see you yesterday. Is this the way, my
    beloved, we are to live till the 6th? In the morning when I wake I
    turn to look on you. Dearest Shelley, you are solitary and
    uncomfortable. Why cannot I be with you, to cheer you and press you to
    my heart? Ah! my love, you have no friends; why, then, should you be
    torn from the only one who has affection for you? But I shall see you
    to-night, and this is the hope I shall live on through the day. Be
    happy, dear Shelley, and think of me! I know how tenderly you love me,
    and how you repine at your absence from me. When shall we be free of
    treachery? I send you the letter I told you of from Harriet, and a
    letter we received yesterday from Fanny; the history of this interview
    I will tell you when I come. I was so dreadfully tired yesterday that
    I was obliged to take a coach home. Forgive this extravagance, but I
    am so very weak at present, and I had been so agitated through the
    day, that I was not able to stand; a morning's rest, however, will set
    me quite right again; I shall be well when I meet you this evening.
    Will you be at the door of the coffee-house at 5 o'clock, as it is
    disagreeable to go into those places. I shall be there exactly at that
    time, and we can go into St. Paul's, where we can sit down.

    I send you _Diogenes_, as you have no books. Hookham was so
    ill-tempered as not to send the book I asked for. So this is the end
    of my letter, dearest love.

    What do they mean?[12] I detest Mrs. Godwin; she plagues my father
    out of his life; and these----Well, no matter. Why will Godwin not
    follow the obvious bent of his affections, and be reconciled to us?
    No; his prejudices, the world, and _she_--all these forbid it. What am
    I to do? trust to time, of course, for what else can I do. Good-night,
    my love; to-morrow I will seal this blessing on your lips. Press me,
    your own Mary, to your heart. Perhaps she will one day have a father;
    till then be everything to me, love; and, indeed, I will be a good
    girl, and never vex you. I will learn Greek and----but when shall we
    meet when I may tell you all this, and you will so sweetly reward me?
    But good-night; I am wofully tired, and so sleepy. One kiss--well,
    that is enough--to-morrow!


    SHELLEY TO MARY.

    _28th October._

    MY BELOVED MARY--I know not whether these transient meetings produce
    not as much pain as pleasure. What have I said? I do not mean it. I
    will not forget the sweet moments when I saw your eyes--the divine
    rapture of the few and fleeting kisses. Yet, indeed, this must cease;
    indeed, we must not part thus wretchedly to meet amid the comfortless
    tumult of business; to part I know not how.

    Well, dearest love, to-morrow--to-morrow night. That eternal clock!
    Oh! that I could "fright the steeds of lazy-paced Time." I do not
    think that I am less impatient now than formerly to repossess--to
    entirely engross--my own treasured love. It seems so unworthy a cause
    for the slightest separation. I could reconcile it to my own feelings
    to go to prison if they would cease to persecute us with
    interruptions. Would it not be better, my heavenly love, to creep into
    the loathliest cave so that we might be together.

    Mary, love, we must be united; I will not part from you again after
    Saturday night. We must devise some scheme. I must return. Your
    thoughts alone can waken mine to energy; my mind without yours is dead
    and cold as the dark midnight river when the moon is down. It seems as
    if you alone could shield me from impurity and vice. If I were absent
    from you long, I should shudder with horror at myself; my
    understanding becomes undisciplined without you. I believe I must
    become in Mary's hands what Harriet was in mine. Yet how differently
    disposed--how devoted and affectionate--how, beyond measure,
    reverencing and adoring--the intelligence that governs me! I repent me
    of this simile; it is unjust; it is false. Nor do I mean that I
    consider you much my superior, evidently as you surpass me in
    originality and simplicity of mind. How divinely sweet a task it is to
    imitate each other's excellences, and each moment to become wiser in
    this surpassing love, so that, constituting but one being, all real
    knowledge may be comprised in the maxim [Greek: gnothi seauton]--(know
    thyself)--with infinitely more justice than in its narrow and common
    application. I enclose you Hookham's note; what do you think of it? My
    head aches; I am not well; I am tired with this comfortless
    estrangement from all that is dear to me. My own dearest love,
    good-night. I meet you in Staples Inn at twelve to-morrow--half an
    hour before twelve. I have written to Hooper and Sir J. Shelley.

    _Journal, Thursday, November 3_ (Mary).--Work; write to Shelley; read
    Greek grammar. Receive a letter from Mr. Booth; so all my hopes are
    over there. Ah! Isabel; I did not think you would act thus. Read and
    work in the evening. Receive a letter from Shelley. Write to him.

    [Letter not transcribed here.]

    _Sunday, November 6._--Talk to Shelley. He writes a great heap of
    letters. Read part of _St. Leon_. Talk with him all evening; this is a
    day devoted to Love in idleness. Go to sleep early in the evening.
    Shelley goes away a little before 10.

    _Wednesday, November 9._--Pack up all morning; leave Pancras about 3;
    call at Peacock's for Shelley; Charles Clairmont has been for L8. Go
    to Nelson Square. Jane gloomy; she is very sullen with Shelley. Well,
    never mind, my love--we are happy.

    _Thursday, November 10._--Jane is not well, and does not speak the
    whole day. We send to Peacock's, but no good news arrives. Lambert has
    called there, and says he will write. Read a little of _Petronius_, a
    most detestable book. Shelley is out all the morning. In the evening
    read Louvet's _Memoirs_--go to bed early. Shelley and Jane sit up till
    12, talking; Shelley talks her into a good humour.

    _Sunday, November 13._--Write in the morning; very unwell all day.
    Fanny sends a letter to Jane to come to Blackfriars Road; Jane cannot
    go. Fanny comes here; she will not see me; hear everything she says,
    however. They think my letter cold and _indelicate_! God bless them.
    Papa tells Fanny if she sees me he will never speak to her again; a
    blessed degree of liberty this! He has had a very impertinent letter
    from Christy Baxter. The reason she comes is to ask Jane to Skinner
    Street to see Mrs. Godwin, who they say is dying. Jane has no clothes.
    Fanny goes back to Skinner Street to get some. She returns. Jane goes
    with her. Shelley returns (he had been to Hookham's); he disapproves.
    Write and read. In the evening talk with my love about a great many
    things. We receive a letter from Jane saying she is very happy, and
    she does not know when she will return. Turner has called at Skinner
    Street; he says it is too far to Nelson Square. I am unwell in the
    evening.

    _Journal, November 14_ (Shelley).--Mary is unwell. Receive a note from
    Hogg; cloth from Clara. I wish this girl had a resolute mind. Without
    firmness understanding is impotent, and the truest principles
    unintelligible. Charles calls to confer concerning Lambert; walk with
    him. Go to 'Change, to Peacock's, to Lambert's; receive L30. In the
    evening Hogg calls; perhaps he still may be my friend, in spite of the
    radical differences of sympathy between us; he was pleased with Mary;
    this was the test by which I had previously determined to judge his
    character. We converse on many interesting subjects, and Mary's
    illness disappears for a time.

    _Thursday, November 15_ (Shelley).--Disgusting dreams have occupied
    the night.

    (Mary).--Very unwell. Jane calls; converse with her. She goes to
    Skinner Street; tells Papa that she will not return; comes back to
    Nelson Square with Shelley; calls at Peacock's. Shelley read aloud to
    us in the evening out of Adolphus's _Lives_.

    _Wednesday, November 16._--Very ill all day. Shelley and Jane out all
    day shopping about the town. Shelley reads _Edgar Huntley_ to us.
    Shelley and Jane go to Hookham's. Hogg comes in the meantime; he stops
    all the evening. Shelley writes his critique till half-past 3.

    _Saturday, November 19._--Very ill. Shelley and Jane go out to call at
    Mrs. Knapp's; she receives Jane kindly; promises to come and see me. I
    go to bed early. Charles Clairmont calls in the evening, but I do not
    see him.

    _Sunday, November 20._--Still very ill; get up very late. In the
    evening Shelley reads aloud out of the _Female Revolutionary
    Plutarch_. Hogg comes in the evening.... Get into an argument about
    virtue, in which Hogg makes a sad bungle; quite muddled on the point,
    I perceive.

    _Tuesday, November 29._--Work all day. Heigh ho! Clara and Shelley go
    before breakfast to Parker's. After breakfast, Shelley is as badly off
    as I am with my work, for he is out all day with those lawyers. In the
    evening Shelley and Jane go in search of Charles Clairmont; they
    cannot find him. Read _Philip Stanley_--very stupid.

    _Tuesday, December 6._--Very unwell. Shelley and Clara walk out, as
    usual, to heaps of places. Read _Agathon_, which I do not like so well
    as _Peregrine_.... A letter from Hookham, to say that Harriet has been
    brought to bed of a son and heir. Shelley writes a number of circular
    letters of this event, which ought to be ushered in with ringing of
    bells, etc., for it is the son _of his wife_. Hogg comes in the
    evening; I like him better, though he vexed me by his attachment to
    sporting. A letter from Harriet confirming the news, in a letter from
    a _deserted wife_!! and telling us he has been born a week.

    _Wednesday, December 7._--Clara and Shelley go out together; Shelley
    calls on the lawyers and on Harriet, who treats him with insulting
    selfishness; they return home wet and very tired. Read _Agathon_. I
    like it less to-day; he discovers many opinions which I think
    detestable. Work. In the evening Charles Clairmont comes. Hear that
    Place is trying to raise L1200 to pay Hume on Shelley's _post obit_;
    affairs very bad in Skinner Street; afraid of a call for the rent; all
    very bad. Shelley walks home with Charles Clairmont; goes to Hookham's
    about the L100 to lend my Father. Hookham out. He returns; very tired.
    Work in the evening.

    _Thursday, December 8._--Shelley and Clara go to Hookham's; get the
    L90 for my father; they are out, as usual, all morning. Finish
    _Agathon_. I do not like it; Wieland displays some most detestable
    opinions; he is one of those men who alter all their opinions when
    they are about forty, and then think it will be the same with every
    one, and that they are themselves the only proper monitors of youth.
    Work. When Shelley and Clara return, Shelley goes to Lambert's; out.
    Work. In the evening Hogg comes; talk about a great number of things;
    he is more sincere this evening than I have seen him before. Odd
    dreams.

    _Friday, December 16._--Still ill; heigh ho! Finish _Jane Talbot_.
    Hume calls at half-past 12; he tells of the great distress in Skinner
    Street; I do not see him. Hookham calls; hasty little man; he does not
    stay long. In the evening Hogg comes. Shelley and Clara are at first
    out; they have been to look for Charles Clairmont; they find him, and
    walk with him some time up and down Ely Place. Shelley goes to sleep
    early; very tired. We talk about flowers and trees in the evening; a
    country conversation.

    _Saturday, December 17._--Very ill. Shelley and Clara go to Pike's;
    when they return, Shelley goes to walk round the Square. Talk with
    Shelley in the evening; he sleeps, and I lie down on the bed. Jane
    goes to Pike's at 9. Charles Clairmont comes, and talks about several
    things. Mrs. Godwin did not allow Fanny to come down to dinner on her
    receiving a lock of my hair. Fanny of course behaves slavishly on the
    occasion. He goes at half-past 11.

    _Sunday, December 18._--Better, but far from well. Pass a very happy
    morning with Shelley. Charles Clairmont comes at dinner-time, the
    Skinner Street folk having gone to dine at the Kennie's. Jane and he
    take a long walk together. Shelley and I are left alone. Hogg comes
    after Clara and her brother return. C. C. flies from the field on his
    approach. Conversation as usual. Get worse towards night.

    _Monday, December 19_ (Shelley).--Mary rather better this morning.
    Jane goes to Hume's about Godwin's bills; learn that Lambert is
    inclined, but hesitates. Hear of a woman--supposed to be the daughter
    of the Duke of Montrose--who has the head of a hog. _Suetonius_ is
    finished, and Shelley begins the _Historia Augustana_. Charles
    Clairmont comes in the evening; a discussion concerning female
    character. Clara imagines that I treat her unkindly; Mary consoles her
    with her all-powerful benevolence. I rise (having already gone to bed)
    and speak with Clara; she was very unhappy; I leave her tranquil.

    _Tuesday, December 20_ (Mary).--Shelley goes to Pike's; take a short
    walk with him first. Unwell. A letter from Harriet, who threatens
    Shelley with her lawyer. In the evening read _Emilia Galotti_. Hogg
    comes. Converse of various things. He goes at twelve.

    _Wednesday, December 21_ (Shelley).--Mary is better. Shelley goes to
    Pike's, to the Insurance Offices, and the lawyer's; an agreement
    entered into for L3000 for L1000. A letter from Wales, offering _post
    obit_. Shelley goes to Hume's; Mary reads Miss Baillie's plays in the
    evening. Shelley goes to bed at 8; Mary at 11.

    _Saturday, December 24_ (Mary).--Read _View of French Revolution_.
    Walk out with Shelley, and spend a dreary morning waiting for him at
    Mr. Peacock's. In the evening Hogg comes. I like him better each time;
    it is a pity that he is a lawyer; he wasted so much time on that trash
    that might be spent on better things.

    _Sunday, December 25._--Christmas Day. Have a very bad side-ache in
    the morning, so I rise late. Charles Clairmont comes and dines with
    us. In the afternoon read Miss Baillie's plays. Hogg spends the
    evening with us; conversation, as usual.

    _Monday, December 26_ (Shelley).--The sweet Maie asleep; leave a note
    with her. Walk with Clara to Pike's, etc. Go to Hampstead and look for
    a house; we return in a return-chaise; find that Laurence has arrived,
    and consult for Mary; she has read Miss Baillie's plays all day. Mary
    better this evening. Shelley very much fatigued; sleeps all the
    evening. Read _Candide_.

    _Tuesday, December 27_ (Mary).--Not very well; Shelley very unwell.
    Read _De Montfort_, and talk with Shelley in the evening. Read _View
    of the French Revolution_. Hogg comes in the evening; talk of heaps of
    things. Shelley's odd dream.

    _Wednesday, December 28._--Shelley and Clara out all the morning. Read
    _French Revolution_ in the evening. Shelley and I go to Gray's Inn to
    get Hogg; he is not there; go to Arundel Street; can't find him. Go to
    Garnerin's. Lecture on electricity; the gases, and the phantasmagoria;
    return at half-past 9. Shelley goes to sleep. Read _View of French
    Revolution_ till 12; go to bed.

    _Friday, December 30._--Shelley and Jane go out as usual. Read Bryan
    Edwards's _Account of West Indies_. They do not return till past
    seven, having been locked into Kensington Gardens; both very tired.
    Hogg spends the evening with us.

    _Saturday, December 31_ (Shelley).--The poor Maie was very weak and
    tired all day. Shelley goes to Pike's and Humes' and Mrs.
    Peacock's;[13] return very tired, and sleeps all the evening. The Maie
    goes to sleep early. New Year's Eve.

In January 1815 Shelley's grandfather, Sir Bysshe, died, and his father,
Mr. Timothy Shelley, succeeded to the baronetcy and estate. By an
arrangement with his father, according to which he relinquished all claim
on a certain portion of his patrimony, Shelley now became possessed of
L1000 a year (L200 a year of which he at once set apart for Harriet), as
well as a considerable sum of ready money for the relief of his present
necessities. L200 of this he also sent to Harriet to pay her debts. The
next few entries in the journal were, however, written before this event.

    _Thursday, January 5_ (Mary).--Go to breakfast at Hogg's; Shelley
    leaves us there and goes to Hume's. When he returns we go to Newman
    Street; see the statue of Theoclea; it is a divinity that raises your
    mind to all virtue and excellence; I never beheld anything half so
    wonderfully beautiful. Return home very ill. Expect Hogg in the
    evening, but he does not come. Too ill to read.

    _Friday, January 6._--Walk to Mrs. Peacock's with Clara. Walk with
    Hogg to Theoclea; she is ten thousand times more beautiful to-day than
    ever; tear ourselves away. Return to Nelson Square; no one at home.
    Hogg stays a short time with me. Shelley had stayed at home till 2 to
    see Ryan;[14] he does not come. Goes out about business. In the
    evening Shelley and Clara go to Garnerin's.... Very unwell. Hogg
    comes. Shelley and Clara return at ten. Conversation as usual. Shelley
    reads "Ode to France" aloud, and repeats the poem to "Tranquillity."
    Talk with Shelley afterwards for some time; at length go to sleep.
    Shelley goes out and sits in the other room till 5; I then call him.
    Talk. Shelley goes to sleep; at 8 Shelley rises and goes out.

The next entry is made during Shelley's short absence in Sussex, after his
grandfather's death. Clara had accompanied him on his journey.

    _(Date between January 7 and January 13)._--Letter from Peacock to say
    that he is in prison.... His debt is L40.... Write to Peacock and
    send him L2. Hogg dines with me and spends the evening; letter from
    Hookham.

    _Friday, January 13._--A letter from Clara. While I am at breakfast
    Shelley and Clara arrive. The will has been opened, and Shelley is
    referred to Whitton. His father would not allow him to enter Field
    Place; he sits before the door and reads _Comus_. Dr. Blocksome comes
    out; tells him that his father is very angry with him. Sees my name in
    Milton.... Hogg dines, and spends the evening with us.

    _Sunday, January 24._--In the evening Shelley, Clara, and Hogg sleep.
    Read Gibbon.... Hogg goes at half-past 11. Shelley and Clara explain
    as usual.

    _Monday, January 30._--Work all day. Shelley reads Livy. In the
    evening Shelley reads _Paradise Regained_ aloud, and then goes to
    sleep. Hogg comes at 9. Talk and work. Hogg sleeps here.

    _Wednesday, February 1._--Read Gibbon (end of vol. i.) Shelley reads
    Livy in the evening. Work. Shelley and Clara sleep. Hogg comes and
    sleeps here. Mrs. Hill calls.

    _Sunday, February 5._--Read Gibbon. Take a long walk in Kensington
    Gardens and the Park; meet Clairmont as we return, and hear that my
    father wishes to see a copy of the codicil, because he thinks Shelley
    is acting rashly. All this is very odd and inconsistent, but I never
    quarrel with inconsistency; folks must change their minds. After
    dinner talk. Shelley finishes Gibbon's _Memoirs_ aloud. Clara,
    Shelley, and Hogg sleep. Read Gibbon. Shelley writes to Longdill and
    Clairmont. Hogg ill, but we cannot persuade him to stay; he goes at
    half-past 11.

    _Wednesday, February 8._--Ash Wednesday. So Hogg stays all day. We are
    to move to-day, so Shelley and Clara go out to look for lodgings. Hogg
    and I pack, and then talk. Shelley and Clara do not return till 3;
    they have not succeeded; go out again; they get apartments at Hans
    Place; move. In the evening talk and read Gibbon. Letters. Pike calls;
    insolent plague. Hogg goes at half-past 11.

    _Tuesday, February 14_ (Shelley).--Shelley goes to Longdill's and
    Hayward's, and returns feverish and fatigued. Maie finishes the third
    volume of Gibbon. All unwell in the evening. Hogg comes and puts us to
    bed. Hogg goes at half-past 11.

In this month, probably on the 22d (but that page of the diary is torn),
when they had been hardly more than a week in their last new lodgings, a
little girl was born. Although her confinement was premature, Mary had a
favourable time; the infant, a scarcely seven months' child, was not
expected to live; it survived, however, for some days. It might possibly
have been saved, had it had an ordinary chance of life given it, but, on
the ninth day of its existence, the whole family moved yet again to new
lodgings. How the young mother ever recovered from the fatigues, risks,
and worries she had to go through at this critical time may well be
wondered. It is more than probable that the unreasonable demands made on
her strength and courage during this month and those which preceded it
laid the foundation of much weak health later on. The child was
sacrificed. Four days after the move it was found in the morning dead by
its mother's side. The poor little thing was a mere passing episode in
Shelley's troubled, hurried existence. Only to Mary were its birth and
death a deep and permanent experience. Apart from her love for Shelley,
her affections had been chiefly of the intellectual kind, and even in her
relation with him mental affinity had played a great part. A new chord in
her temperament was set vibrating by the advent of this baby, the maternal
one, quite absent from her disposition before, and which was to assert
itself at last as the keynote of her nature.

Hogg, who was almost constantly with them at this time, seems to have been
kind, helpful, and sympathetic.

The baby's birth was too much for Fanny Godwin's endurance and fortitude.
Up to this time she had, in accordance with what she conceived to be her
duty, held aloof from the Shelleys, but, the barrier once broken down, she
came repeatedly to see them. Mrs. Godwin showed that she had a soft spot
in her heart by sending Mary, through Fanny, a present of linen, no doubt
most welcome at this unprepared-for crisis. Beyond this she was
unrelenting. Her pride, however, was not so strong as her feminine
curiosity, which she indulged still by parading before the windows and
trying to get peeps at the people behind them. She was annoyed with Fanny,
who now, however, held her own course, feeling that her duty could not be
all on one side while her family consented to be dependent, and that every
moment of her father's peace and safety were due entirely to this Shelley
whom he would not see.

    _Journal, February 22_ (Shelley) (after the baby's birth).--Maie
    perfectly well and at ease. The child is not quite seven months; the
    child not expected to live. Shelley sits up with Maie, much exhausted
    and agitated. Hogg sleeps here.

    _Thursday, February 23._--Mary quite well; the child unexpectedly
    alive, but still not expected to live. Hogg returns in the evening at
    half-past 7. Shelley writes to Fanny requesting her to come and see
    Maie. Fanny comes and remains the whole night, the Godwins being
    absent from home. Charles comes at 11 with linen from Mrs. Godwin.
    Hogg departs at 11. L30 from Longdill.

    _Friday, February 24._--Maie still well; favourable symptoms in the
    child; we may indulge some hopes. Hogg calls at 2. Fanny departs. Dr.
    Clarke calls; confirms our hopes of the child. Shelley finishes second
    volume of Livy, p. 657. Hogg comes in the evening. Shelley very unwell
    and exhausted.

    _Saturday, February 25._--The child very well; Maie very well also;
    drawing milk all day. Shelley is very unwell.

    _Sunday, February 26_ (Mary).--Maie rises to-day. Hogg comes; talk;
    she goes to bed at 6. Hogg calls at the lodgings we have taken. Read
    _Corinne_. Shelley and Clara go to sleep. Hogg returns; talk with him
    till past 11. He goes. Shelley and Clara go down to tea. Just settling
    to sleep when a knock comes to the door; it is Fanny; she came to see
    how we were; she stays talking till half-past 3, and then leaves the
    room that Shelley and Mary may sleep. Shelley has a spasm.

    _Monday, February 27._--Rise; talk and read _Corinne_. Hogg comes in
    the evening. Shelley and Clara go out about a cradle....

    _Tuesday, February 28._--I come downstairs; talk, nurse the baby, read
    _Corinne_, and work. Shelley goes to Pemberton about his health.

    _Wednesday, March 1._--Nurse the baby, read _Corinne_, and work.
    Shelley and Clara out all morning. In the evening Peacock comes. Talk
    about types, editions, and Greek letters all the evening. Hogg comes.
    They go away at half-past 11. Bonaparte invades France.

    _Thursday, March 2._--A bustle of moving. Read _Corinne_. I and my
    baby go about 3. Shelley and Clara do not come till 6. Hogg comes in
    the evening.

    _Friday, March 3._--Nurse my baby; talk, and read _Corinne_. Hogg
    comes in the evening.

    _Saturday, March 4._--Read, talk, and nurse. Shelley reads the _Life
    of Chaucer_. Hogg comes in the evening and sleeps.

    _Sunday, March 5._--Shelley and Clara go to town. Hogg here all day.
    Read _Corinne_ and nurse my baby. In the evening talk. Shelley
    finishes the _Life of Chaucer_. Hogg goes at 11.

    _Monday, March 6._--Find my baby dead. Send for Hogg. Talk. A
    miserable day. In the evening read _Fall of the Jesuits_. Hogg sleeps
    here.

    _Tuesday, March 7._--Shelley and Clara go after breakfast to town.
    Write to Fanny. Hogg stays all day with us; talk with him, and read
    the _Fall of the Jesuits_ and _Rinaldo Rinaldini_. Not in good
    spirits. Hogg goes at 11. A fuss. To bed at 3.

    _Wednesday, March 8._--Finish _Rinaldini_. Talk with Shelley. In very
    bad spirits, but get better; sleep a little in the day. In the evening
    net. Hogg comes; he goes at half-past 11. Clara has written for Fanny,
    but she does not come.

    _Thursday, March 9._--Read and talk. Still think about my little baby.
    'Tis hard, indeed, for a mother to lose a child. Hogg and Charles
    Clairmont come in the evening. C. C. goes at 11. Hogg stays all night.
    Read Fontenelle, _Plurality of Worlds_.

    _Friday, March 10._--Hogg's holidays begin. Shelley, Hogg, and Clara
    go to town. Hogg comes back soon. Talk and net. Hogg now remains with
    us. Put the room to rights.

    _Saturday, March 11._--Very unwell. Hogg goes to town. Talk about
    Clara's going away; nothing settled; I fear it is hopeless. She will
    not go to Skinner Street; then our house is the only remaining place,
    I see plainly. What is to be done? Hogg returns. Talk, and Hogg reads
    the _Life of Goldoni_ aloud.

    _Sunday, March 4._--Talk a great deal. Not well, but better. Very
    quiet all the morning, and happy, for Clara does not get up till 4. In
    the evening read Gibbon, fourth volume; go to bed at 12.

    _Monday, March 13._--Shelley and Clara go to town. Stay at home; net,
    and think of my little dead baby. This is foolish, I suppose; yet,
    whenever I am left alone to my own thoughts, and do not read to divert
    them, they always come back to the same point--that I was a mother,
    and am so no longer. Fanny comes, wet through; she dines, and stays
    the evening; talk about many things; she goes at half-past 9. Cut out
    my new gown.

    _Tuesday, March 14._--Shelley calls on Dr. Pemberton. Net till
    breakfast. Shelley reads _Religio Medici_ aloud, after Hogg has gone
    to town. Work; finish Hogg's purse. Shelley and I go upstairs and talk
    of Clara's going; the prospect appears to me more dismal than ever;
    not the least hope. This is, indeed, hard to bear. In the evening Hogg
    reads Gibbon to me. Charles Clairmont comes in the evening.

    _Sunday, March 19._--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. Shelley is very unwell. Read Gibbon. Charles
    Clairmont comes. Hogg goes to town till dinner-time. Talk with Charles
    Clairmont about Skinner Street. They are very badly off there. I am
    afraid nothing can be done to save them. C. C. says that he shall go
    to America; this I think a rather wild project in the Clairmont style.
    Play a game of chess with Clara. In the evening Shelley and Hogg play
    at chess. Shelley and Clara walk part of the way with Charles
    Clairmont. Play chess with Hogg, and then read Gibbon.

    _Monday, March 20._--Dream again about my baby. Work after breakfast,
    and then go with Shelley, Hogg, and Clara to Bullock's Museum; spend
    the morning there. Return and find more letters for A. Z.--one from a
    "Disconsolate Widow."[15]

    _Wednesday, March 22._--Talk, and read the papers. Read Gibbon all
    day. Charles Clairmont calls about Shelley lending L100. We do not
    return a decisive answer.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Thursday, March 23._--Read Gibbon. Shelley reads Livy. Walk with
    Shelley and Hogg to Arundel Street. Read _Le Diable Boiteux_. Hear
    that Bonaparte has entered Paris. As we come home, meet my father and
    Charles Clairmont.... C. C. calls; he tells us that Papa saw us, and
    that he remarked that Shelley was so beautiful, it was a pity he was
    so wicked.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Tuesday, March 28._--Work in the morning and then walk out to look at
    house.

    _Saturday, April 8._--Peacock comes at breakfast-time; Hogg and he go
    to town. Read _L'Esprit des Nations_. Settle to go to Virginia Water.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Sunday, April 9._--Rise at 8. Charles Clairmont comes to breakfast at
    10. Read some lines of Ovid before breakfast; after, walk with
    Shelley, Hogg, Clara, and C. C. to pond in Kensington Gardens; return
    about 2. C. C. goes to Skinner Street. Read Ovid with Hogg (finish
    second fable). Shelley reads Gibbon and _Pastor Fido_ with Clara. In
    the evening read _L'Esprit des Nations_. Shelley reads Gibbon, _Pastor
    Fido_, and the story of Myrrha in Ovid.

    _Monday, April 10._--Read Voltaire before breakfast. After breakfast
    work. Shelley passes the morning with Harriet, who is in a
    surprisingly good humour. Mary reads third fable of Ovid: Shelley and
    Clara read _Pastor Fido_. Shelley reads Gibbon. Mrs. Godwin after
    dinner parades before the windows. Talk in the evening with Hogg
    about mountains and lakes and London.

    _Tuesday, April 11._--Work in the morning. Receive letters from
    Skinner Street to say that Mamma had gone away in the pet, and had
    stayed out all night. Read fourth and fifth fables of Ovid.... After
    tea, work. Charles Clairmont comes.

    _Saturday, April 15._--Read Ovid till 3. Shelley and Clara finish
    _Pastor Fido_, and then go out about Clara's lottery ticket; draws.
    Clara's ticket comes up a prize. She buys two desks after dinner. Read
    Ovid (ninety-five lines). Shelley and Clara begin _Orlando Furioso_. A
    very grim dream.

    _Friday, April 21._--After breakfast go with Shelley to Peacock's.
    Shelley goes to Longdill's. Read third canto of the _Lord of the
    Isles_. Return about 2. Shelley goes to Harriet to procure his son,
    who is to appear in one of the courts. After dinner look over W. W.'s
    poems. After tea read forty lines of Ovid. Fanny comes and gives us an
    account of Hogan's threatened arrest of my Father. Shelley walks home
    part of the way with her. Very sleepy. Shelley reads one canto of
    Ariosto.

    _Saturday, April 22._--Read a little of Ovid. Shelley goes to
    Harriet's about his son. Work. Fanny comes. Shelley returns at 4; he
    has been much teased with Harriet. He has been to Longdill's,
    Whitton's, etc., and at length has got a promise that he shall appear
    Monday. After dinner Fanny goes. Read sixty lines of Ovid. Shelley and
    Clara read to the middle of the fourteenth canto of Ariosto.

Shortly after this several leaves of the journal are lost.

    _Friday, May 5._--After breakfast to Marshall's,[16] but do not see
    him. Go to the Tomb. Shelley goes to Longdill's. Return soon. Read
    Spenser; construe Ovid.... After dinner talk with Shelley; then
    Shelley and Clara go out.... Fanny comes; she tells us of Marshall's
    servant's death. Papa is to see Mrs. Knapp to-morrow. Read Spenser.
    Walk home with Fanny and with Shelley.... Shelley reads Seneca.

    _Monday, May 8._--Go out with Shelley to Mrs. Knapp; not at home. Buy
    Shelley a pencil-case. Return at 1. Read Spenser. Go again with
    Shelley to Mrs. Knapp; she cannot take Clara. Read Spenser after
    dinner. Clara goes out with Shelley. Talk with Jefferson (Hogg); write
    to Marshall. Read Spenser. They return at 8. Very tired; go to bed
    early. Jefferson scolds.

    _Wednesday, May 10._--Not very well; rise late. Walk to Marshall's,
    and talk with him for an hour. Go with Jefferson and Shelley to
    British Museum--attend most to the statues; return at 2. Construe
    Ovid. After dinner construe Ovid (100 lines); finish second book of
    Spenser, and read two cantos of the third. Shelley reads Seneca every
    day and all day.

    _Friday, May 12._--Not very well. After breakfast read Spenser.
    Shelley goes out with his friend; he returns first. Construe Ovid (90
    lines); read Spenser. Jefferson returns at half-past 4, and tells us
    that poor Sawyer is to be hung. These blessed laws! After dinner read
    Spenser. Read over the Ovid to Jefferson, and construe about ten lines
    more. Read Spenser. Shelley and the lady walk out. After tea, talk;
    write Greek characters. Shelley and his friend have a last
    conversation.

    _Saturday, May 13._--Clara goes; Shelley walks with her. C. C. comes
    to breakfast; talk. Shelley goes out with him. Read Spenser all day
    (finish Canto 8, Book V.) Jefferson does not come till 5. Get very
    anxious about Shelley; go out to meet him; return; it rains. Shelley
    returns at half-past 6; the business is finished. After dinner Shelley
    is very tired, and goes to sleep. Read Ovid (60 lines). C. C. comes to
    tea. Talk of pictures.

    (Mary).--A tablespoonful of the spirit of aniseed, with a small
    quantity of spermaceti.

    (Shelley)--9 drops of human blood, 7 grains of gunpowder, 1/2 oz. of
    putrified brain, 13 mashed grave worms--the Pecksie's doom salve.

    The Maie and her Elfin Knight.

    I begin a new journal with our regeneration.




CHAPTER VIII

MAY 1815-SEPTEMBER 1816


"Our regeneration" meant, in other words, the departure of Jane or "Clara"
Clairmont who, on the plea of needing change of air, went off by herself
into cottage lodgings at Lynmouth, in North Devon. She had never shown any
very great desire to go back to her family in Skinner Street, but even had
it been otherwise, objections had now been raised to her presence there
which made her return difficult if not impossible. Fanny Godwin's aunts,
Everina Wollstonecraft and Mrs. Bishop, were Principals of a select
Ladies' School in Dublin, and intended that, on their own retirement,
their niece should succeed them in its management. They strongly objected
now to her associating with Miss Clairmont, pointing out that, even if her
morals were not injured, her professional prospects must be marred by the
fact being generally known of her connection and companionship with a girl
who undoubtedly had run away from home, and who was, untruly but not
groundlessly, reported to be concerned in a notorious scandal.

Her continued presence in the Shelley household, a thing probably never
contemplated at the time of their hurried flight, was manifestly
undesirable, on many grounds. To Mary it was a perpetual trial, and must,
in the end, have tended towards disagreement between her and Shelley,
while it put Clara herself at great and unjust social disadvantage. Not
that she heeded that, or regretted the barrier that divided her from
Skinner Street, where poverty and anxiety and gloom reigned paramount, and
where she would have been watched with ceaseless and unconcealed
suspicion. She had heard that her relations had even discussed the
advisability of immuring her in a convent if she could be caught,--but she
did not mean to be caught. She advertised for a situation as companion;
nothing, however, came of this. An idea of sending her to board in the
family of a Mrs. Knapp seems to have been entertained for some months both
by Godwins and Shelleys, Charles Clairmont probably acting as a medium
between the two households. But, after appearing well disposed at first,
Mrs. Knapp thought better of the plan. She did not want, and would not
have Clara. The final project, that of the Lynmouth lodgings, was a sudden
idea, suddenly carried out, and devised with the Shelleys independently
of the Godwins, who were not consulted, nor even informed, until it had
been put into execution. So much is to be gathered from the letter which
Clara wrote to Fanny a fortnight after her arrival.

    CLARA TO FANNY.

    _Sunday, 28th May 1815._

    MY DEAR FANNY--Mary writes me that you thought me unkind in not
    letting you know before my departure; indeed, I meant no unkindness,
    but I was afraid if I told you that it might prevent my putting a plan
    into execution which I preferred before all the Mrs. Knapps in the
    world. Here I am at liberty; there I should have been under a
    perpetual restraint. Mrs. Knapp is a forward, impertinent, superficial
    woman. Here there are none such; a few cottages, with little,
    rosy-faced children, scolding wives, and drunken husbands. I wish I
    had a more amiable and romantic picture to present to you, such as
    shepherds and shepherdesses, flocks and madrigals; but this is the
    truth, and the truth is best at all times. I live in a little cottage,
    with jasmine and honeysuckle twining over the window; a little
    downhill garden full of roses, with a sweet arbour. There are only two
    gentlemen's seats here, and they are both absent. The walks and
    shrubberies are quite open, and are very delightful. Mr. Foote's
    stands at top of the hill, and commands distant views of the whole
    country. A green tottering bridge, flung from rock to rock, joins his
    garden to his house, and his side of the bridge is a waterfall. One
    tumbles directly down, and then flows gently onward, while the other
    falls successively down five rocks, and seems like water running down
    stone steps. I will tell you, so far, that it is a valley I live in,
    and perhaps one you may have seen. Two ridges of mountains enclose the
    village, which is situated at the west end. A river, which you may
    step over, runs at the foot of the mountains, and trees hang so
    closely over, that when on a high eminence you sometimes lose sight of
    it for a quarter of a mile. One ridge of hills is entirely covered
    with luxuriant trees, the opposite line is entirely bare, with long
    pathways of slate and gray rocks, so that you might almost fancy they
    had once been volcanic. Well, enough of the valleys and the mountains.

    You told me you did not think I should ever be able to live alone. If
    you knew my constant tranquillity, how cheerful and gay I am, perhaps
    you would alter your opinion. I am perfectly happy. After so much
    discontent, such violent scenes, such a turmoil of passion and hatred,
    you will hardly believe how enraptured I am with this dear little
    quiet spot. I am as happy when I go to bed as when I rise. I am never
    disappointed, for I know the extent of my pleasures; and let it rain
    or let it be fair weather, it does not disturb my serene mood. This is
    happiness; this is that serene and uninterrupted rest I have long
    wished for. It is in solitude that the powers concentre round the
    soul, and teach it the calm, determined path of virtue and wisdom. Did
    you not find this--did you not find that the majestic and tranquil
    mountains impressed deep and tranquil thoughts, and that everything
    conspired to give a sober temperature of mind, more truly delightful
    and satisfying than the gayest ebullitions of mirth?

      The foaming cataract and tall rock
          Haunt me like a passion.

    Now for a little chatting. I was quite delighted to hear that Papa had
    at last got L1000. Riches seem to fly from genius. I suppose, for a
    month or two, you will be easy--pray be cheerful. I begin to think
    there is no situation without its advantages. You may learn wisdom and
    fortitude in adversity, and in prosperity you may relieve and soothe.
    I feel anxious to be wise; to be capable of knowing the best; of
    following resolutely, however painful, what mature and serious thought
    may prescribe; and of acquiring a prompt and vigorous judgment, and
    powers capable of execution. What are you reading? Tell Charles, with
    my best love, that I will never forgive him for having disappointed
    me of Wordsworth, which I miss very much. Ask him, likewise, to lend
    me his Coleridge's poems, which I will take great care of. How is dear
    Willy? How is every one? If circumstances get easy, don't you think
    Papa and Mamma will go down to the seaside to get up their health a
    little? Write me a very long letter, and tell me everything. How is
    your health? Now do not be melancholy; for heaven's sake be cheerful;
    so young in life, and so melancholy! The moon shines in at my window,
    there is a roar of waters, and the owls are hooting. How often do I
    not wish for a curfew!--"swinging slow with sullen roar!" Pray write
    to me. Do, there's a good Fanny.--Affectionately yours,

      M. J. CLAIRMONT.

    Miss Fanny Godwin,
    41 Skinner Street, Snow Hill, London.

How long this delightful life of solitude lasted is not exactly known. For
a year after this time both Clara's journal and that of Shelley and Mary
are lost, and the next thing we hear of Clara is her being in town in the
spring of 1816, when she first made Lord Byron's acquaintance.

Mary, at any rate, enjoyed nearly a year of comparative peace and
_tete-a-tete_ with Shelley, which, after all she had gone through, must
have been happiness indeed. Had she known that it was the only year she
would ever pass with him without the presence of a third person, it may be
that--although her loyalty to Shelley stood every test--her heart might
have sunk within her. But, happily for her, she could not foresee this.
Her letter from Clifton shows that Clara's shadow haunted her at times.
Still she was happy, and at peace. Her health, too, was better; and,
though always weighed down by Godwin's anxieties, she and Shelley were,
themselves, free for once from the pinch of actual penury and the
perpetual fear of arrest.

In June they made a tour in South Devon, and very probably paid Clara a
visit in her rural retirement; after which Mary stayed for some time at
Clifton, while Shelley travelled about looking for a country house to suit
them. It was during one of his absences that Mary wrote to him the letter
referred to above.

    MARY TO SHELLEY.

    CLIFTON, _27th July 1815_.

    MY BELOVED SHELLEY--What I am now going to say is not a freak from a
    fit of low spirits, but it is what I earnestly entreat you to attend
    to and comply with.

    We ought not to be absent any longer; indeed we ought not. I am not
    happy at it. When I retire to my room, no sweet love; after dinner, no
    Shelley; though I have heaps of things _very particular_ to say; in
    fine, either you must come back, or I must come to you directly. You
    will say, shall we neglect taking a house--a dear home? No, my love, I
    would not for worlds give up that; but I know what seeking for a house
    is, and, trust me, it is a very, _very_ long job, too long for one
    love to undertake in the absence of the other. Dearest, I know how it
    will be; we shall both of us be put off, day after day, with the hopes
    of the success of the next day's search, for I am frightened to think
    how long. Do you not see it in this light, my own love? We have been
    now a long time separated, and a house is not yet in sight; and even
    if you should fix on one, which I do not hope for in less than a
    week, then the settling, etc. Indeed, my love, I cannot bear to remain
    so long without you; so, if you will not give me leave, expect me
    without it some day; and, indeed, it is very likely that you may, for
    I am quite sick of passing day after day in this hopeless way.

    Pray, is Clara with you? for I have inquired several times and no
    letters; but, seriously, it would not in the least surprise me, if you
    have written to her from London, and let her know that you are without
    me, that she should have taken some such freak.

    The Dormouse has hid the brooch; and, pray, why am I for ever and ever
    to be denied the sight of my case? Have you got it in your own
    possession? or where is it? It would give me very great pleasure if
    you would send it me. I hope you have not already appropriated it, for
    if you have I shall think it un-Pecksie of you, as Maie was to give it
    you with her own hands on your birthday; but it is of little
    consequence, for I have no hope of seeing you on that day; but I am
    mistaken, for I have hope and certainty, for if you are not here on or
    before the 3d of August, I set off on the 4th, in early coach, so as
    to be with you in the evening of that dear day at least.

    To-morrow is the 28th of July. Dearest, ought we not to have been
    together on that day? Indeed we ought, my love, as I shall shed some
    tears to think we are not. Do not be angry, dear love; your Pecksie is
    a good girl, and is quite well now again, except a headache, when she
    waits so anxiously for her love's letters.

    Dearest, best Shelley, pray come to me; pray, pray do not stay away
    from me! This is delightful weather, and you better, we might have a
    delightful excursion to Tintern Abbey. My dear, dear love, I most
    earnestly, and with tearful eyes, beg that I may come to you if you do
    not like to leave the searches after a house.

    It is a long time to wait, even for an answer. To-morrow may bring you
    news, but I have no hope, for you only set off to look after one in
    the afternoon, and what can be done at that hour of the day? You
    cannot.

They finally settled on a house at Bishopsgate just outside Windsor Park,
where they passed several months of tranquillity and comparative health;
perhaps the most peacefully happy time that Shelley had ever known or was
ever to know. Shadows he, too, had to haunt him, but he was young, and the
reaction from the long-continued strain of anxiety, fear, discomfort, and
ill-health was so strong that it is no wonder if he yielded himself up to
its influence. The summer was warm and dry, and most of the time was
passed out of doors. They visited the source of the Thames, making the
voyage in a wherry from Windsor to Cricklade. Charles Clairmont was of the
party, and Peacock also, who gives a humorous account of the expedition,
and of the cure he effected of Shelley's ailments by his prescription of
"three mutton chops, well peppered." Shelley was at this time a strict
vegetarian. Mary, Peacock says, kept a diary of the excursion, which,
however, has been lost. Shelley's "Stanzas in the churchyard of Lechlade"
were an enduring memento of the occasion. At Bishopsgate, under the oak
shades of Windsor Great Park, he composed _Alastor_, the first mature
production of his genius, and at Bishopsgate Mary's son William was born,
on 24th January 1816.

The list of books read during 1815 by Shelley and Mary is worth
appending, as giving some idea of their wonderful mental activity and
insatiable thirst for knowledge, and the singular sympathy which existed
between them in these intellectual pursuits.

  LIST OF BOOKS READ IN 1815.

  MARY.

  _Those marked * Shelley read also._

    Posthumous Works. 3 vols.
    Sorrows of Werter.
    Don Roderick. By Southey.
    *Gibbon's Decline and Fall 12 vols.
    *Gibbon's Life and Letters. 1st Edition. 2 vols.
    *Lara.
    New Arabian Knights. 3 vols.
    Corinna.
    Fall of the Jesuits.
    Rinaldo Rinaldini.
    Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds.
    Hermsprong.
    Le Diable Boiteux.
    Man as he is.
    Rokeby.
    Ovid's Metamorphoses in Latin.
    *Wordsworth's Poems.
    *Spenser's Fairy Queen.
    *Life of the Phillips.
    *Fox's History of James II.
    The Reflector.
    Fleetwood.
    Wieland.
    Don Carlos.
    *Peter Wilkins.
    Rousseau's Confessions.
    Leonora: a Poem.
    Emile.
    *Milton's Paradise Lost.
    *Life of Lady Hamilton.
    De l'Allemagne. By Madame de Stael.
    Three vols, of Barruet.
    *Caliph Vathek.
    Nouvelle Heloise.
    *Kotzebue's Account of his Banishment to Siberia.
    Waverley.
    Clarissa Harlowe.
    Robertson's History of America.
    *Virgil.
    *Tale of a Tub.
    *Milton's Speech on Unlicensed Printing.
    *Curse of Kehama.
    *Madoc.
    La Bible Expliquee.
    Lives of Abelard and Heloise.
    *The New Testament.
    *Coleridge's Poems.
    First vol. of Systeme de la Nature.
    Castle of Indolence.
    Chatterton's Poems.
    *Paradise Regained.
    Don Carlos.
    *Lycidas.
    *St. Leon.
    Shakespeare's Plays (part of which Shelley read aloud).
    *Burke's Account of Civil Society.
    *Excursion.
    Pope's Homer's Illiad.
    *Sallust.
    Micromejas.
    *Life of Chaucer.
    Canterbury Tales.
    Peruvian Letters.
    Voyages round the World.
    Plutarch's Lives.
    *Two vols, of Gibbon.
    Ormond.
    Hugh Trevor.
    *Labaume's History of the Russian War.
    Lewis's Tales.
    Castle of Udolpho.
    Guy Mannering.
    *Charles XII by Voltaire.
    Tales of the East.


  SHELLEY.

    Pastor Fido.
    Orlando Furioso.
    Livy's History.
    Seneca's Works.
    Tasso's Gerusalemme Liberata.
    Tasso's Aminta.
    Two vols. of Plutarch in Italian.
    Some of the Plays of Euripides.
    Seneca's Tragedies.
    Reveries of Rousseau.
    Hesoid.
    Novum Organum.
    Alfieri's Tragedies.
    Theocritus.
    Ossian.
    Herodotus.
    Thucydides.
    Homer.
    Locke on the Human Understanding.
    Conspiration de Rienzi.
    History of Arianism.
    Ockley's History of the Saracens.
    Madame de Stael sur la Literature.

These months of rest were needed to fit them for the year of shocks, of
blows, of conflicting emotions which was to follow. As usual, the first
disturbing cause was Clara Clairmont. Early in 1816 she was in town,
possibly with her brother Charles, with whom she kept up correspondence,
and with whom (thanks to funds provided by Shelley) she had in the autumn
been travelling, or paying visits. She now started one of her "wild
projects in the Clairmont style," which brought as its consequence the
overshadowing of her whole life. She thought she would like to go on the
stage, and she applied to Lord Byron, then connected with the management
of Drury Lane Theatre, for some theatrical employment. The fascination of
Byron's poetry, joined to his very shady social reputation, surrounded him
with a kind of romantic mystery highly interesting to a wayward, audacious
young spirit, attracted by anything that excited its curiosity. Clara
never went on the stage. But she became Byron's mistress. Their connection
lasted but a short time. Byron quickly tired of her, and when importuned
with her or her affairs, soon came to look on her with positive antipathy.
Nothing in Clara's letters to him[17] goes to prove that she was very
deeply in love with him. The episode was an excitement and an adventure:
one, to him, of the most trivial nature, but fraught with tragic indirect
results to her, and, through her, to the Shelleys. They, although they
knew of her acquaintance with Byron, were in complete and unsuspecting
ignorance of its intimate nature. It might have been imagined that Clara
would confide in them, and would even rejoice in doing so. But she had, on
the contrary, a positive horror and dread of their finding out anything
about her secret. She told Byron who Mary was, one evening when she knew
they were to meet, but implored him beforehand to talk only on general
subjects, and, if possible, not even to mention her name.

This introduction probably took place in March, when Shelley and Mary
were, for a short time, staying up in town. Shelley was occupied in
transacting business, which had reference, as usual, to Godwin's affairs.
A suit in Chancery was proceeding, to enable him to sell, to his father,
the reversion of a portion of his estates. Short of obtaining this
permission, he could not assist Godwin to the full extent demanded and
expected by this latter, who chose to say, and was encouraged by his man
of business to think that, if Shelley did not get the money, it was owing
to slackness of effort or inclination on his part. The suit was, however,
finally decided against Shelley. The correspondence between him and Godwin
was painful in the highest degree, and must have embittered Mary's
existence.

Godwin, while leaving no stone unturned to get as much of Shelley's money
as possible, and while exerting himself with feverish activity to control
and direct to his own advantage the legal negotiations for disposal of
part of the Shelley estates, yet declined personal communication with
Shelley, and wrote to him in insulting terms, carrying sophistry so far as
to assert that his dignity (save the mark!) would be compromised, not by
taking Shelley's money, but by taking it in the form of a cheque made out
in his, Godwin's, own name. Small wonder if Shelley was wounded and
indignant. More than any one else, Godwin had taught and encouraged him to
despise what he would have called prejudice.

    "In my judgment," wrote Shelley, "neither I, nor your daughter, nor
    her offspring, ought to receive the treatment which we encounter on
    every side. It has perpetually appeared to me to have been your
    especial duty to see that, so far as mankind value your good opinion,
    we were dealt justly by, and that a young family, innocent, and
    benevolent, and united should not be confounded with prostitutes and
    seducers. My astonishment--and I will confess, when I have been
    treated with most harshness and cruelty by you, my indignation--has
    been extreme, that, knowing as you do my nature, any consideration
    should have prevailed on you to be thus harsh and cruel. I lamented
    also over my ruined hopes, of all that your genius once taught me to
    expect from your virtue, when I found that for yourself, your family,
    and your creditors, you would submit to that communication with me
    which you once rejected and abhorred, and which no pity for my poverty
    or sufferings, assumed willingly for you, could avail to extort. Do
    not talk of _forgiveness_ again to me, for my blood boils in my veins,
    and my gall rises against all that bears the human form, when I think
    of what I, their benefactor and ardent lover, have endured of enmity
    and contempt from you and from all mankind."

That other, ordinary, people should resent his avowed opposition to
conventional morality was, even to Shelley, less of an enigma than that
Godwin, from whom he expected support, should turn against him. Yet he
never could clearly realise the aspect which his relations with Mary bore
to the world, who merely saw in him a married man who had deserted his
wife and eloped with a girl of sixteen. He thought people should
understand all he knew, and credit him with all he did not tell them; that
they should sympathise and fraternise with him, and honour Mary the more,
not the less, for what she had done and dared. Instead of this, the world
accepted his family's estimate of its unfortunate eldest son, and cut him.
It is no wonder that, as Peacock puts it, "the spirit of restlessness came
over him again," and drove him abroad once more. His first intention was
to settle with Mary and their infant child in some remote region of
Scotland or Northern England. But he was at all times delicate, and he
longed for balmy air and sunny skies. To these motives were added Clara's
wishes, and, as she herself states, her pressing solicitations. Byron, she
knew, was going to Geneva, and she persuaded the Shelleys to go there
also, in the hope and intention of meeting him. Shelley had read and
admired several of Byron's poems, and the prospect of possible
companionship with a kindred mind was now and at all times supremely
attractive to him. He had made repeated, but fruitless efforts to get a
personal interview with Godwin, in the hope, probably, of coming to some
definite understanding as to his hopelessly involved and intricate
affairs. Godwin went off to Scotland on literary business and was absent
all April. Before he returned Shelley, Mary, and Clara had started for
Switzerland. The Shelleys were still ignorant and unsuspecting of the
intrigue between Byron and Clara. Byron, knowing of Clara's wish to follow
him to Geneva, enjoined her on no account to come alone or without
protection, as he knew she was capable of doing; hence her determinate
wish that the Shelleys should come. She wrote to Byron from Paris to tell
him that she was so far on her way, accompanied by "the whole tribe of
Otaheite philosophers," as she styles her friends and escort. Just before
sailing from Dover Shelley wrote to Godwin, who was still in Scotland,
telling him finally of the unsuccessful issue to his Chancery suit, of his
doubtful and limited prospects of income or of ability to pay more than
L300 for Godwin, and that only some months hence. He referred again to his
painful position in England, and his present determination to remain
abroad,--perhaps for ever,--with the exception of a possible, solitary,
visit to London, should business make this inevitable. He touched on his
old obligations to Godwin, assuring him of his continued respect and
admiration in spite of the painful past, and of his regret for any too
vehement words he might have used.

    It is unfortunate for me that the part of your character which is
    least excellent should have been met by my convictions of what was
    right to do. But I have been too indignant, I have been unjust to
    you--forgive me--burn those letters which contain the records of my
    violence, and believe that however what you erroneously call fame and
    honour separate us, I shall always feel towards you as the most
    affectionate of friends.

The travellers reached Geneva by the middle of May; their arrival
preceding that of Byron by several days. A letter written by Mary Shelley
from their first resting-place, the Hotel de Secheron, the descriptive
portions of which were afterwards published by her, with the _Journal of a
Six Weeks Tour_, gives a graphic account of their journey and their first
impressions of Geneva.

    HOTEL DE SECHERON, GENEVA,
    _17th May 1816_.

    We arrived at Paris on the 8th of this month, and were detained two
    days for the purpose of obtaining the various signatures necessary to
    our passports, the French Government having become much more
    circumspect since the escape of Lavalette. We had no letters of
    introduction, or any friend in that city, and were therefore confined
    to our hotel, where we were obliged to hire apartments for the week,
    although, when we first arrived, we expected to be detained one night
    only; for in Paris there are no houses where you can be accommodated
    with apartments by the day.

    The manners of the French are interesting, although less attractive,
    at least to Englishmen, than before the last invasion of the Allies;
    the discontent and sullenness of their minds perpetually betrays
    itself. Nor is it wonderful that they should regard the subjects of a
    Government which fills their country with hostile garrisons, and
    sustains a detested dynasty on the throne, with an acrimony and
    indignation of which that Government alone is the proper object. This
    feeling is honourable to the French, and encouraging to all those of
    every nation in Europe who have a fellow-feeling with the oppressed,
    and who cherish an unconquerable hope that the cause of liberty must
    at length prevail.

    Our route after Paris as far as Troyes lay through the same
    uninteresting tract of country which we had traversed on foot nearly
    two years before, but on quitting Troyes we left the road leading to
    Neufchatel, to follow that which was to conduct us to Geneva. We
    entered Dijon on the third evening after our departure from Paris, and
    passing through Dole, arrived at Poligny. This town is built at the
    foot of Jura, which rises abruptly from a plain of vast extent. The
    rocks of the mountain overhang the houses. Some difficulty in
    procuring horses detained us here until the evening closed in, when we
    proceeded by the light of a stormy moon to Champagnolles, a little
    village situated in the depth of the mountains. The road was
    serpentine and exceedingly steep, and was overhung on one side by
    half-distinguished precipices, whilst the other was a gulf, filled by
    the darkness of the driving clouds. The dashing of the invisible
    streams announced to us that we had quitted the plains of France, as
    we slowly ascended amidst a violent storm of wind and rain, to
    Champagnolles, where we arrived at twelve o'clock the fourth night
    after our departure from Paris. The next morning we proceeded, still
    ascending among the ravines and valleys of the mountain. The scenery
    perpetually grows more wonderful and sublime; pine forests of
    impenetrable thickness and untrodden, nay, inaccessible expanse spread
    on every side. Sometimes the dark woods descending follow the route
    into the valleys, the distorted trees struggling with knotted roots
    between the most barren clefts; sometimes the road winds high into the
    regions of frost, and then the forests become scattered, and the
    branches of the trees are loaded with snow, and half of the enormous
    pines themselves buried in the wavy drifts. The spring, as the
    inhabitants informed us, was unusually late, and indeed the cold was
    excessive; as we ascended the mountains the same clouds which rained
    on us in the valleys poured forth large flakes of snow thick and fast.
    The sun occasionally shone through these showers, and illuminated the
    magnificent ravines of the mountains, whose gigantic pines were, some
    laden with snow, some wreathed round by the lines of scattered and
    lingering vapour; others darting their spires into the sunny sky,
    brilliantly clear and azure.

    As the evening advanced, and we ascended higher, the snow, which we
    had beheld whitening the overhanging rocks, now encroached upon our
    road, and it snowed fast as we entered the village of Les Rousses,
    where we were threatened by the apparent necessity of passing the
    night in a bad inn and dirty beds. For, from that place there are two
    roads to Geneva; one by Nion, in the Swiss territory, where the
    mountain route is shorter and comparatively easy at that time of the
    year, when the road is for several leagues covered with snow of an
    enormous depth; the other road lay through Gex, and was too circuitous
    and dangerous to be attempted at so late an hour in the day. Our
    passport, however, was for Gex, and we were told that we could not
    change its destination; but all these police laws, so severe in
    themselves, are to be softened by bribery, and this difficulty was at
    length overcome. We hired four horses, and ten men to support the
    carriage, and departed from Les Rousses at six in the evening, when
    the sun had already far descended, and the snow pelting against the
    windows of our carriage assisted the coming darkness to deprive us of
    the view of the lake of Geneva and the far-distant Alps.

    The prospect around, however, was sufficiently sublime to command our
    attention--never was scene more awfully desolate. The trees in these
    regions are incredibly large, and stand in scattered clumps over the
    white wilderness; the vast expanse of snow was chequered only by these
    gigantic pines, and the poles that marked our road; no river nor
    rock-encircled lawn relieved the eye, by adding the picturesque to the
    sublime. The natural silence of that uninhabited desert contrasted
    strangely with the voices of the men who conducted us, who, with
    animated tones and gestures, called to one another in a _patois_
    composed of French and Italian, creating disturbance where, but for
    them, there was none. To what a different scene are we now arrived! To
    the warm sunshine, and to the humming of sun-loving insects. From the
    windows of our hotel we see the lovely lake, blue as the heavens which
    it reflects, and sparkling with golden beams. The opposite shore is
    sloping and covered with vines, which, however, do not so early in the
    season add to the beauty of the prospect. Gentlemen's seats are
    scattered over these banks, behind which rise the various ridges of
    black mountains, and towering far above, in the midst of its snowy
    Alps, the majestic Mont Blanc, highest and queen of all. Such is the
    view reflected by the lake; it is a bright summer scene without any of
    that sacred solitude and deep seclusion that delighted us at Lucerne.
    We have not yet found out any very agreeable walks, but you know our
    attachment to water excursions. We have hired a boat, and every
    evening, at about six o'clock, we sail on the lake, which is
    delightful, whether we glide over a glassy surface or are speeded
    along by a strong wind. The waves of this lake never afflict me with
    that sickness that deprives me of all enjoyment in a sea-voyage; on
    the contrary, the tossing of our boat raises my spirits and inspires
    me with unusual hilarity. Twilight here is of short duration, but we
    at present enjoy the benefit of an increasing moon, and seldom return
    until ten o'clock, when, as we approach the shore, we are saluted by
    the delightful scent of flowers and new-mown grass, and the chirp of
    the grasshoppers, and the song of the evening birds.

    We do not enter into society here, yet our time passes swiftly and
    delightfully.

    We read Latin and Italian during the heats of noon, and when the sun
    declines we walk in the garden of the hotel, looking at the rabbits,
    relieving fallen cockchafers, and watching the motions of a myriad of
    lizards, who inhabit a southern wall of the garden. You know that we
    have just escaped from the gloom of winter and of London; and coming
    to this delightful spot during this divine weather, I feel as happy as
    a new-fledged bird, and hardly care what twig I fly to, so that I may
    try my new-found wings. A more experienced bird may be more difficult
    in its choice of a bower; but, in my present temper of mind, the
    budding flowers, the fresh grass of spring, and the happy creatures
    about me that live and enjoy these pleasures, are quite enough to
    afford me exquisite delight, even though clouds should shut out Mont
    Blanc from my sight. Adieu!

      M. S.

On the 25th of May Byron, accompanied by his young Italian physician,
Polidori, and attended by three men-servants, arrived at the Hotel de
Secheron. It was now that he and Shelley became for the first time
personally acquainted; an acquaintance which, though it never did and
never could ripen quite into friendship, developed with time and
circumstances into an association more or less familiar which lasted all
Shelley's life. After the arrival of the English Milord and his retinue,
the hotel quarters probably became less quiet and comfortable, and before
June the Shelleys, with Clare[18] (who, while her secret remained a
secret, must have found it inexpedient to live under the same roof with
Byron) moved to a cottage on the other side of the lake, near Coligny;
known as Maison Chapuis, but sometimes called Campagne Mont Alegre.

    CAMPAGNE CHAPUIS, NEAR COLIGNY,
    _1st June_.

    You will perceive from my date that we have changed our residence
    since my last letter. We now inhabit a little cottage on the opposite
    shore of the lake, and have exchanged the view of Mont Blanc and her
    snowy _aiguilles_ for the dark frowning Jura, behind whose range we
    every evening see the sun sink, and darkness approaches our valley
    from behind the Alps, which are then tinged by that glowing rose-like
    hue which is observed in England to attend on the clouds of an
    autumnal sky when daylight is almost gone. The lake is at our feet,
    and a little harbour contains our boat, in which we still enjoy our
    evening excursions on the water. Unfortunately we do not now enjoy
    those brilliant skies that hailed us on our first arrival to this
    country. An almost perpetual rain confines us principally to the
    house; but when the sun bursts forth it is with a splendour and heat
    unknown in England. The thunderstorms that visit us are grander and
    more terrific than I have ever seen before. We watch them as they
    approach from the opposite side of the lake, observing the lightning
    play among the clouds in various parts of the heavens, and dart in
    jagged figures upon the piny heights of Jura, dark with the shadow of
    the overhanging clouds, while perhaps the sun is shining cheerily upon
    us. One night we _enjoyed_ a finer storm than I had ever before
    beheld. The lake was lit up, the pines on Jura made visible, and all
    the scene illuminated for an instant, when a pitchy blackness
    succeeded, and the thunder came in frightful bursts over our heads
    amid the darkness.

    But while I still dwell on the country around Geneva, you will expect
    me to say something of the town itself; there is nothing, however, in
    it that can repay you for the trouble of walking over its rough
    stones. The houses are high, the streets narrow, many of them on the
    ascent, and no public building of any beauty to attract your eye, or
    any architecture to gratify your taste. The town is surrounded by a
    wall, the three gates of which are shut exactly at ten o'clock, when
    no bribery (as in France) can open them. To the south of the town is
    the promenade of the Genevese, a grassy plain planted with a few
    trees, and called Plainpalais. Here a small obelisk is erected to the
    glory of Rousseau, and here (such is the mutability of human life) the
    magistrates, the successors of those who exiled him from his native
    country, were shot by the populace during that revolution which his
    writings mainly contributed to mature, and which, notwithstanding the
    temporary bloodshed and injustice with which it was polluted, has
    produced enduring benefits to mankind, which not all the chicanery of
    statesmen, nor even the great conspiracy of kings, can entirely render
    vain. From respect to the memory of their predecessors, none of the
    present magistrates ever walk in Plainpalais. Another Sunday
    recreation for the citizens is an excursion to the top of Mont Salere.
    This hill is within a league of the town, and rises perpendicularly
    from the cultivated plain. It is ascended on the other side, and I
    should judge from its situation that your toil is rewarded by a
    delightful view of the course of the Rhone and Arne, and of the shores
    of the lake. We have not yet visited it. There is more equality of
    classes here than in England. This occasions a greater freedom and
    refinement of manners among the lower orders than we meet with in our
    own country. I fancy the haughty English ladies are greatly disgusted
    with this consequence of republican institutions, for the Genevese
    servants complain very much of their _scolding_, an exercise of the
    tongue, I believe, perfectly unknown here. The peasants of Switzerland
    may not however emulate the vivacity and grace of the French. They are
    more cleanly, but they are slow and inapt. I know a girl of twenty
    who, although she had lived all her life among vineyards, could not
    inform me during what month the vintage took place, and I discovered
    she was utterly ignorant of the order in which the months succeed one
    another. She would not have been surprised if I had talked of the
    burning sun and delicious fruits of December, or of the frosts of
    July. Yet she is by no means deficient in understanding.

    The Genevese are also much inclined to puritanism. It is true that
    from habit they dance on a Sunday, but as soon as the French
    Government was abolished in the town, the magistrates ordered the
    theatre to be closed, and measures were taken to pull down the
    building.

    We have latterly enjoyed fine weather, and nothing is more pleasant
    than to listen to the evening song of the wine-dressers. They are all
    women, and most of them have harmonious although masculine voices. The
    theme of their ballads consists of shepherds, love, flocks, and the
    sons of kings who fall in love with beautiful shepherdesses. Their
    tunes are monotonous, but it is sweet to hear them in the stillness of
    evening, while we are enjoying the sight of the setting sun, either
    from the hill behind our house or from the lake.

    Such are our pleasures here, which would be greatly increased if the
    season had been more favourable, for they chiefly consist in such
    enjoyments as sunshine and gentle breezes bestow. We have not yet made
    any excursion in the environs of the town, but we have planned
    several, when you shall again hear of us; and we will endeavour, by
    the magic of words, to transport the ethereal part of you to the
    neighbourhood of the Alps, and mountain streams, and forests, which,
    while they clothe the former, darken the latter with their vast
    shadows.--Adieu!

      M.

Less than a fortnight after this Byron also left the hotel, annoyed beyond
endurance by the unbounded curiosity of which he was the object. He
established himself at the Villa Diodati, on the hill above the Shelleys'
cottage, from which it was separated by a vineyard. Both he and Shelley
were devoted to boating, and passed much time on the water, on one
occasion narrowly escaping being drowned. Visits from one house to the
other were of daily occurrence. The evenings were generally spent at
Diodati, when the whole party would sit up into the small hours of the
morning, discussing all possible and impossible things in earth and
heaven. In temperament Shelley and Byron were indeed radically opposed to
each other, but the intellectual intercourse of two men, alike condemned
to much isolation from their kind by their gifts, their dispositions, and
their misfortunes, could not but be a source of enjoyment to each. Despite
his deep grain of sarcastic egotism, Byron did justice to Shelley's
sincerity, simplicity, and purity of nature, and appreciated at their just
value his mental powers and literary accomplishments. On the other hand,
Shelley's admiration of Byron's genius was simply unbounded, while he
apprehended the mixture of gold and clay in Byron's disposition with
singular acuteness. His was the "pure mind that penetrateth heaven and
hell." But at Geneva the two men were only finding each other out, and, to
Shelley at least, any pain arising from difference of feeling or opinion
was outweighed by the intense pleasure and refreshment of intellectual
comradeship.

Naturally fond of society, and indeed requiring its stimulus to elicit her
best powers, Mary yet took a passive rather than an active share in these
_symposia_. Looking back on them many years afterwards she wrote: "Since
incapacity and timidity always prevented my mingling in the nightly
conversations of Diodati, they were, as it were, entirely _tete-a-tete_
between my Shelley and Albe."[19] But she was a keen, eager listener.
Nothing escaped her observation, and none of this time was ever
obliterated from her memory.

To the intellectual ferment, so to speak, of the Diodati evenings, working
with the new experiences and thoughts of the past two years, is due the
conception of the story by which, as a writer, she is best remembered, the
ghastly but powerful allegorical romance of _Frankenstein_. In her
introduction to a late edition of this work (part of which has already
been quoted here) Mary Shelley has herself told the history of its origin.

    In the summer of 1816 we visited Switzerland, and became the
    neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the
    lake, or wandering on its shores, and Lord Byron, who was writing the
    third canto of _Childe Harold_, was the only one among us who put his
    thoughts upon paper. These, as he brought them successively to us,
    clothed in all the light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as
    divine the glories of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook
    with him.

    But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often
    confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories,
    translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was
    the history of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the
    bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of
    the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the
    sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the
    kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when
    they reached the age of promise. His gigantic shadowy form, clothed,
    like the ghost in Hamlet, in complete armour, but with the beaver up,
    was seen at midnight, by the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly
    along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath the shadow of the
    castle walls; but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door
    of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming
    youths, cradled in healthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as
    he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour
    withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have not seen these
    stories since then, but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if
    I had read them yesterday. "We will each write a ghost story," said
    Byron; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. The
    noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end
    of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and
    sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of
    the most melodious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the
    machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his
    early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull-headed
    lady, who was so punished for peeping through a keyhole--what to see I
    forget--something very shocking and wrong of course; but when she was
    reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry he did
    not know what to do with her, and he was obliged to despatch her to
    the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she was fitted. The
    illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of prose, speedily
    relinquished their ungrateful task. I busied myself to _think of a
    story_,--a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One
    that would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken
    thrilling horror--one to make the reader dread to look round, to
    curdle the blood and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not
    accomplish these things my ghost story would be unworthy of its name.
    I thought and wondered--vainly. I felt that blank incapability of
    invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull
    Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. "_Have you thought of a
    story?_" I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to
    reply with a mortifying negative.

    Everything must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase: and
    that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The
    Hindoos give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the
    elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted,
    does not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the
    materials must, in the first place, be afforded: it can give form to
    dark shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance
    itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that
    appertain to the imagination, we are continually reminded of the story
    of Columbus and his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing
    on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and
    fashioning ideas suggested to it.

    Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley,
    to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of
    these various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and, among
    others, the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any
    probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked
    of the experiments of Dr. Darwin (I speak not of what the doctor
    really did, or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what
    was then spoken of as having been done by him), who preserved a piece
    of vermicelli in a glass case till by some extraordinary means it
    began to move with voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life
    be given. Perhaps a corpse would be reanimated; galvanism had given
    token of such things; perhaps the component parts of a creature might
    be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.

    Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by,
    before we retired to rest. When I placed my head upon my pillow I did
    not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden,
    possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in
    my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I
    saw--with shut eyes, but acute mental vision,--I saw the pale student
    of unhallowed arts kneeling beside 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,
    horrorstricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark
    which he had communicated would fade; that this thing, which had
    received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter; and
    he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would
    quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he
    had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened;
    he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside,
    opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but
    speculative eyes.

    I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind that a thrill
    of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of
    my fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room,
    the dark _parquet_, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling
    through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps
    were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom;
    still it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred
    to my ghost story--my tiresome unlucky ghost story. O! if I could only
    contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been
    frightened that night!

    Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. "I
    have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only
    describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the
    morrow I announced that I had _thought of a story_. I began that day
    with the words, _It was on a dreary night of November_, making only a
    transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream.

    At first I thought of but a few pages--of a short tale; but Shelley
    urged me to develop the idea at greater length. I certainly did not
    owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of
    feeling, to my husband, and yet, but for his incitement, it would
    never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world. From
    this declaration I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect,
    it was entirely written by him.

Every one now knows the story of the "Modern Prometheus,"--the student
who, having devoted himself to the search for the principle of life,
discovers it, manufactures an imitation of a human being, endows it with
vitality, and having thus encroached on divine prerogative, finds himself
the slave of his own creature, for he has set in motion a force beyond his
power to control or annihilate. Aghast at the actual and possible
consequences of his own achievement, he recoils from carrying it out to
its ultimate end, and stops short of doing what is necessary to render
this force independent. The being has, indeed, the perception and desire
of goodness; but is, by the circumstances of its abnormal existence,
delivered over to evil, and Frankenstein, and all whom he loves, fall
victims to its vindictive malice. Surely no girl, before or since, has
imagined, and carried out to its pitiless conclusion so grim an idea.

Mary began her rough sketch of this story during the absence of Shelley
and Byron on a voyage round the lake of Geneva; the memorable excursion
during which Byron wrote the _Prisoner of Chillon_ and great part of the
third canto of _Childe Harold_, and Shelley conceived the idea of that
"Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," which may be called his confession of
faith. When they returned they found Mary hard at work on the fantastic
speculation which possessed her mind and exerted over it a fascination and
a power of excitement beyond that of the sublime external nature which
inspired the two poets.

When, in July, she set off with Shelley and Clare on a short tour to the
Valley of Chamounix, she took her MS. with her. They visited the Mer de
Glace, and the source of the Arveiron. The magnificent scenery which
inspired Shelley with his poem on "Mont Blanc," and is described by Mary
in the extracts from her journal which follow, served her as a fitting
background for the most preternatural portions of her romance.

    _Tuesday, July 23_ (Chamounix).--In the morning, after breakfast, we
    mount our mules to see the source of the Arveiron. When we had gone
    about three parts of the way, we descended and continued our route on
    foot, over loose stones, many of which were an enormous size. We came
    to the source, which lies (like a stage) surrounded on the three sides
    by mountains and glaciers. We sat on a rock, which formed the fourth,
    gazing on the scene before us. An immense glacier was on our left,
    which continually rolled stones to its foot. It is very dangerous to
    be directly under this. Our guide told us a story of two Hollanders
    who went, without any guide, into a cavern of the glacier, and fired a
    pistol there, which drew down a large piece on them. We see several
    avalanches, some very small, others of great magnitude, which roared
    and smoked, overwhelming everything as it passed along, and
    precipitating great pieces of ice into the valley below. This glacier
    is increasing every day a foot, closing up the valley. We drink some
    water of the Arveiron and return. After dinner think it will rain, and
    Shelley goes alone to the glacier of Boison. I stay at home. Read
    several tales of Voltaire. In the evening I copy Shelley's letter to
    Peacock.

    _Wednesday, July 24._--To-day is rainy; therefore we cannot go to Col
    de Balme. About 10 the weather appears clearing up. Shelley and I
    begin our journey to Montanvert. Nothing can be more desolate than the
    ascent of this mountain; the trees in many places having been torn
    away by avalanches, and some half leaning over others, intermingled
    with stones, present the appearance of vast and dreadful desolation.
    It began to rain almost as soon as we left our inn. When we had
    mounted considerably we turned to look on the scene. A dense white
    mist covered the vale, and tops of scattered pines peeping above were
    the only objects that presented themselves. The rain continued in
    torrents. We were wetted to the skin; so that, when we had ascended
    halfway, we resolved to turn back. As we descended, Shelley went
    before, and, tripping up, fell upon his knee. This added to the
    weakness occasioned by a blow on his ascent; he fainted, and was for
    some minutes incapacitated from continuing his route.

    We arrived wet to the skin. I read _Nouvelles Nouvelles_, and write my
    story. Shelley writes part of letter.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Saturday, July 27._--It is a most beautiful day, without a cloud. We
    set off at 12. The day is hot, yet there is a fine breeze. We pass by
    the Great Waterfall, which presents an aspect of singular beauty. The
    wind carries it away from the rock, and on towards the north, and the
    fine spray into which it is entirely dissolved passes before the
    mountain like a mist.

    The other cascade has very little water, and is consequently not so
    beautiful as before. The evening of the day is calm and beautiful.
    Evening is the only time I enjoy travelling. The horses went fast, and
    the plain opened before us. We saw Jura and the Lake like old friends.
    I longed to see my pretty babe. At 9, after much inquiring and
    stupidity, we find the road, and alight at Diodati. We converse with
    Lord Byron till 12, and then go down to Chapuis, kiss our babe, and go
    to bed.

Circumstances had modified Shelley's previous intention of remaining
permanently abroad, and the end of August found him moving homeward.

The following extracts from Mary's diary give a sketch of their life
during the few weeks preceding their return to England.

    _Sunday, July 28_ (Montalegre).--I read Voltaire's _Romans_. Shelley
    reads Lucretius, and talks with Clare. After dinner he goes out in the
    boat with Lord Byron, and we all go up to Diodati in the evening. This
    is the second anniversary since Shelley's and my union.

    _Monday, July 29._--Write; read Voltaire and Quintus Curtius. A rainy
    day, with thunder and lightning. Shelley finishes Lucretius, and reads
    Pliny's _Letters_.

    _Tuesday, July 30._--Read Quintus Curtius. Shelley read Pliny's
    _Letters_. After dinner we go up to Diodati, and stay the evening.

    _Thursday, August 1._--Make a balloon for Shelley, after which he goes
    up to Diodati, to dine and spend the evening. Read twelve pages of
    Curtius. Write, and read the _Reveries of Rousseau_. Shelley reads
    Pliny's _Letters_.

    _Friday, August 2._--I go to the town with Shelley, to buy a telescope
    for his birthday present. In the evening Lord Byron and he go out in
    the boat, and, after their return, Shelley and Clare go up to
    Diodati; I do not, for Lord Byron did not seem to wish it. Shelley
    returns with a letter from Longdill, which requires his return to
    England. This puts us in bad spirits. I read _Reveries_ and _Adele et
    Theodore de Madame de Genlis_, and Shelley reads Pliny's _Letters_.

    _Saturday, August 3._--Finish the first volume of _Adele_, and write.
    After dinner write to Fanny, and go up to Diodati, where I read the
    _Life of Madame du Deffand_. We come down early and talk of our plans.
    Shelley reads Pliny's _Letters_, and writes letters.

    _Sunday, August 4._--Shelley's birthday. Write; read _Tableau de
    famille_. Go out with Shelley in the boat, and read to him the fourth
    book of Virgil. After dinner we go up to Diodati, but return soon. I
    read Curtius with Shelley, and finish the first volume, after which we
    go out in the boat to set up the balloon, but there is too much wind;
    we set it up from the land, but it takes fire as soon as it is up. I
    finish the _Reveries of Rousseau_. Shelley reads and finishes Pliny's
    _Letters_, and begins the _Panegyric of Trajan_.

    _Wednesday, August 7._--Write, and read ten pages of Curtius. Lord
    Byron and Shelley go out in the boat. I translate in the evening, and
    afterwards go up to Diodati. Shelley reads Tacitus.

    _Friday, August 9._--Write and translate; finish _Adele_, and read a
    little Curtius. Shelley goes out in the boat with Lord Byron in the
    morning and in the evening, and reads Tacitus. About 3 o'clock we go
    up to Diodati. We receive a long letter from Fanny.


    FANNY TO MARY.

    LONDON, _29th July 1816_.

    MY DEAR MARY--I have just received yours, which gave me great
    pleasure, though not quite so satisfactory a one as I could have
    wished. I plead guilty to the charge of having written in some degree
    in an ill humour; but if you knew how I am harassed by a variety of
    trying circumstances, I am sure you would feel for me. Besides other
    plagues, I was oppressed with the most violent cold in my head when I
    last wrote you that I ever had in my life. I will now, however,
    endeavour to give as much information from England as I am capable of
    giving, mixed up with as little spleen as possible. I have received
    Jane's letter, which was a very dear and a very sweet one, and I
    should have answered it but for the dreadful state of mind I generally
    labour under, and which I in vain endeavour to get rid of. From your
    and Jane's description of the weather in Switzerland, it has produced
    more mischief abroad than here. Our rain has been as constant as
    yours, for it rains every day, but it has not been accompanied by
    violent storms. All accounts from the country say that the corn has
    not yet suffered, but that it is yet perfectly green; but I fear that
    the sun will not come this year to ripen it. As yet we have had fires
    almost constantly, and have just got a few strawberries. You ask for
    particulars of the state of England. I do not understand the causes
    for the distress which I see, and hear dreadful accounts of, every
    day; but I know that they really exist. Papa, I believe, does not
    think much, or does not inquire, on these subjects, for I never can
    get him to give me any information. From Mr. Booth I got the clearest
    account, which has been confirmed by others since. He says that it is
    the "Peace" that has brought all this calamity upon us; that during
    the war the whole Continent were employed in fighting and defending
    their country from the incursions of foreign armies; that England
    alone was free to manufacture in peace; that our manufactories, in
    consequence, employed several millions, and at higher wages, than were
    wanted for our own consumption. Now peace is come, foreign ports are
    shut, and millions of our fellow-creatures left to starve. He also
    says that we have no need to manufacture for ourselves--that we have
    enough of the various articles of our manufacture to last for seven
    years--and that the going on is only increasing the evil. They say
    that in the counties of Staffordshire and Shropshire there are 26,000
    men out of employment, and without the means of getting any. A few
    weeks since there were several parties of colliers, who came as far as
    St. Albans and Oxford, dragging coals in immense waggons, without
    horses, to the Prince Regent at Carlton House; one of these waggons
    was said to be conducted by a hundred colliers. The Ministers,
    however, thought proper, when these men had got to the distance from
    London of St. Albans, to send Magistrates to them, who paid them
    handsomely for their coals, and gave them money besides, telling them
    that coming to London would only create disturbance and riot, without
    relieving their misery; they therefore turned back, and the coals were
    given away to the poor people of the neighbourhood where they were
    met. This may give you some idea of the misery suffered. At Glasgow,
    the state of wretchedness is worse than anywhere else. Houses that
    formerly employed two or three hundred men now only employ three or
    four individuals. There have been riots of a very serious nature in
    the inland counties, arising from the same causes. This, joined to
    this melancholy season, has given us all very serious alarm, and
    helped to make me write so dismally. They talk of a change of
    Ministers; but this can effect no good; it is a change of the whole
    system of things that is wanted. Mr. Owen, however, tells us to cheer
    up, for that in two years we shall feel the good effect of his plans;
    he is quite certain that they will succeed. I have no doubt that he
    will do a great deal of good; but how he can expect to make the rich
    give up their possessions, and live in a state of equality, is too
    romantic to be believed. I wish I could send you his Address to the
    People of New Lanark, on the 1st of January 1816, on the opening of
    the Institution for the Formation of Character. He dedicates it "To
    those who have no private ends to accomplish, who are honestly in
    search of truth for the purpose of ameliorating the condition of
    society, and who have the firmness to follow the truth, wherever it
    may lead, without being turned aside from the pursuit by the
    _prepossessions or prejudices of any part of mankind_."

    This dedication will give you some idea of what sort of an Address it
    is. This Address was delivered on a Sunday evening, in a place set
    apart for the purposes of religion, and brought hundreds of persons
    from the regular clergymen to hear his profane Address,--against all
    religions, governments, and all sorts of aristocracy,--which, he says,
    was received with the greatest attention and highly approved. The
    outline of his plan is this: "That no human being shall work more than
    two or three hours every day; that they shall be all equal; that no
    one shall dress but after the plainest and simplest manner; that they
    be allowed to follow any religion, as they please; and that their
    [studies] shall be Mechanics and Chemistry." I hate and am sick at
    heart at the misery I see my fellow-beings suffering, but I own I
    should not like to live to see the extinction of all genius, talent,
    and elevated generous feeling in Great Britain, which I conceive to be
    the natural consequence of Mr. Owen's plan. I am not either wise
    enough, philosophical enough, nor historian enough, to say what will
    make man plain and simple in manners and mode of life, and at the same
    time a poet, a painter, and a philosopher; but this I know, that I had
    rather live with the Genevese, as you and Jane describe, than live in
    London, with the most brilliant beings that exist, in its present
    state of vice and misery. So much for Mr. Owen, who is, indeed, a very
    great and good man. He told me the other day that he wished our Mother
    were living, as he had never before met with a person who thought so
    exactly as he did, or who would have so warmly and zealously entered
    into his plans. Indeed, there is nothing very promising in a return to
    England at least for some time to come, for it is better to witness
    misery in a foreign country than one's own, unless you have the means
    of relieving it. I wish I could send you the books you ask for. I
    should have sent them, if Longdill had not said he was not
    sending--that he expected Shelley in England. I shall send again
    immediately, and will then send you _Christabel_ and the "Poet's"
    _Poems_. Were I not a dependent being in every sense of the word, but
    most particularly in money, I would send you other things, which
    perhaps you would be glad of. I am much more interested in Lord Byron
    since I have read all his poems. When you left England I had only read
    _Childe Harold_ and his smaller poems. The pleasure he has excited in
    me, and gratitude I owe him for having cheered several gloomy hours,
    makes me wish for a more finished portrait, both of his _mind_ and
    _countenance_. From _Childe Harold_ I gained a very ill impression of
    him, because I conceived it was _himself_,--notwithstanding the pains
    he took to tell us it was an imaginary being. The _Giaour_, _Lara_,
    and the _Corsair_ make me justly style him a poet. Do in your next
    oblige me by telling me the minutest particulars of him, for it is
    from the _small things_ that you learn most of character. Is his face
    as fine as in your portrait of him, or is it more like the other
    portrait of him? Tell me also if he has a pleasing voice, for that has
    a great charm with me. Does he come into your house in a careless,
    friendly, dropping-in manner? I wish to know, though not from idle
    curiosity, whether he was capable of acting in the manner that the
    London scandal-mongers say he did? You must by this time know if he is
    a profligate in principle--a man who, like Curran, gives himself
    unbounded liberty in all sorts of profligacy. I cannot think, from his
    writings, that he can be such a _detestable being_. Do answer me these
    questions, for where I love the poet I should like to respect the man.
    Shelley's boat excursion with him must have been very delightful. I
    think Lord Byron never writes so well as when he writes descriptions
    of water scenes; for instance, the beginning of the _Giaour_. There is
    a fine expressive line in _Childe Harold_: "Blow, swiftly blow, thou
    keen compelling gale," etc. There could have been no difference of
    sentiment in this divine excursion; they were both poets, equally
    alive to the charms of nature and the eloquent writing of Rousseau. I
    long very much to read the poem the "Poet" has written on the spot
    where Julie was drowned. When will they come to England? Say that you
    have a friend who has few pleasures, and is very impatient to read the
    poems written at Geneva. If they are not to be published, may I see
    them in manuscript? I am angry with Shelley for not writing himself.
    It is impossible to tell the good that POETS do their
    fellow-creatures, at least those that can feel. Whilst I read I am a
    poet. I am inspired with good feelings--feelings that create perhaps
    a more permanent good in me than all the everyday preachments in the
    world; it counteracts the dross which one gives on the everyday
    concerns of life, and tells us there is something yet in the world to
    aspire to--something by which succeeding ages may be made happy and
    perhaps better. If Shelley cannot accomplish any other good, he can
    this divine one. Laugh at me, but do not be angry with me, for taking
    up your time with my nonsense. I have sent again to Longdill, and he
    has returned the same answer as before. I can [not], therefore, send
    you _Christabel_. Lamb says it ought never to have been published;
    that no one understands it; and _Kubla Khan_ (which is the poem he
    made in his sleep) is nonsense. Coleridge is living at Highgate; he is
    living with an apothecary, to whom he pays L5 a week for board,
    lodging, and medical advice. The apothecary is to take care that he
    does not take either opium or spirituous liquors. Coleridge, however,
    was tempted, and wrote to a chemist he knew in London to send a bottle
    of laudanum to Mr. Murray's in Albemarle Street, to be enclosed in a
    parcel of books to him; his landlord, however, felt the parcel
    outside, and discovered the fatal bottle. Mr. Morgan told me the other
    day that Coleridge improved in health under the care of the
    apothecary, and was writing fast a continuation of _Christabel_.

    You ask me if Mr. Booth mentioned Isabel's having received a letter
    from you. He never mentioned your name to me, nor I to him; but he
    told Mamma that you had written a letter to her from Calais. He is
    gone back, and promises to bring Isabel next year. He has given us a
    volume of his _poetry_--_true, genuine poetry_--not such as
    Coleridge's or Wordsworth's, but Miss Seward's and Dr. Darwin's--

      Dying swains to sighing Delias.

    You ask about old friends; we have none, and see none. Poor Marshal is
    in a bad way; we see very little of him. Mrs. Kenny is going
    immediately to live near Orleans, which is better for her than living
    in London, afraid of her creditors. The Lambs have been spending a
    month in the neighbourhood of Clifton and Bristol; they were highly
    delighted with Clifton. Sheridan is dead. Papa was very much grieved
    at his death. William and he went to his funeral. He was buried in the
    Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, attended by all the high people.
    Papa has visited his grave many times since. I am too young to
    remember his speeches in Parliament. I never admired his style of
    play-writing. I cannot, therefore, sympathise in the elegant tributes
    to his memory which have been paid by all parties. Those things which
    I have heard from all parties of his drunkenness I cannot admire. We
    have had one great pleasure since your departure, in viewing a fine
    collection of the Italian masters at the British Institution. Two of
    the Cartoons are there. Paul preaching at Athens is the finest picture
    I ever beheld.... I am going again to see this Exhibition next week,
    before it closes, when I shall be better able to tell you which I most
    admire of Raphael, Titian, Leonardo da Vinci, Domenichino, Claude, S.
    Rosa, Poussin, Murillo, etc., and all of which cannot be too much
    examined. I only wish I could have gone many times. Charles's letter
    has not yet arrived. Do give me every account of him when you next
    hear from him. I think it is of great consequence the mode of life he
    now pursues, as it will most likely decide his future good or ill
    doing. You ask what I mean by "plans with Mr. Blood?" I meant a
    residence in Ireland. However, I will not plague you with them till I
    understand them myself. My Aunt Everina will be in London next week,
    when my future fate will be decided. I shall then give you a full and
    clear account of what my unhappy life is to be spent in, etc. I left
    it to the end of my letter to call your attention most seriously to
    what I said in my last letter respecting Papa's affairs. They have now
    a much more serious and threatening aspect than when I last wrote to
    you. You perhaps think that Papa has gained a large sum by his novel
    engagement, which is not the case. He could make no other engagement
    with Constable than that they should share the profits equally between
    them, which, if the novel is successful, is an advantageous bargain.
    Papa, however, prevailed upon him to advance L200, to be deducted
    hereafter out of the part he is to receive; and if two volumes of the
    novel are not forthcoming on the 1st of January 1817, Constable has a
    promissory note to come upon papa for the L200. This L200 I told you
    was appropriated to Davidson and Hamilton, who had lent him L200 on
    his _Caleb Williams_ last year; so that you perceive he has as yet
    gained nothing on his novel, and all depends upon his future
    exertions. He has been very unwell and very uneasy in his mind for the
    last week, unable to write; and it was not till this day I discovered
    the cause, which has given me great uneasiness. You seem to have
    forgotten Kingdon's L300 to be paid at the end of June. He has had a
    great deal of plague and uneasiness about it, and has at last been
    obliged to give Kingdon his promissory note for L300, payable on
    demand, so that every hour is not safe. Kingdon is no friend, and the
    money Government money, and it cannot be expected he will show Papa
    any mercy. I dread the effect on his health. He cannot sleep at night,
    and is indeed very unwell. This he concealed from Mamma and myself
    until this day. Taylor of Norwich has also come upon him again; he
    says, owing to the distress of the country, he must have the money for
    his children; but I do not fear him like Kingdon. Shelley said in his
    letter, some weeks ago, that the L300 should come the end of June.
    Papa, therefore, acted upon that promise. From your last letter I
    perceive you think I colour my statements. I assure you I am most
    anxious, when I mention these unfortunate affairs, to speak the truth,
    and nothing but the truth, as it is. I think it my duty to tell you
    the real state of the case, for I know you deceive yourself about
    things. If Papa could go on with his novel in good spirits, I think it
    would perhaps be his very best. He said the other day that he was
    writing upon a subject no one had ever written upon before, and that
    it would require great exertion to make it what he wished. Give my
    love to Jane; thank her for her letter. I will write to her next week,
    though I consider this long tiresome one as addressed to you all.
    Give my love also to Shelley; tell him, if he goes any more
    excursions, nothing will give me more pleasure than a description of
    them. Tell him I like your [____][20] tour best, though I should like
    to visit _Venice_ and _Naples_. Kiss dear William for me; I sometimes
    consider him as my child, and look forward to the time of my old age
    and his manhood. Do you dip him in the lake? I am much afraid you will
    find this letter much too long; if it affords you any pleasure, oblige
    me by a long one in return, but write small, for Mamma complains of
    the postage of a double letter. I pay the full postage of all the
    letters I send, and you know I have not a _sous_ of my own. Mamma is
    much better, though not without rheumatism. William is better than he
    ever was in his life. I am not well; my mind always keeps my body in a
    fever; but never mind me. Do entreat J. to attend to her eyes. Adieu,
    my dear Sister. Let me entreat you to consider seriously all that I
    have said concerning your Father.--Yours, very affectionately,

      FANNY.


    _Journal, Saturday, August 10._--Write to Fanny. Shelley writes to
    Charles. We then go to town to buy books and a watch for Fanny. Read
    Curtius after my return; translate. In the evening Shelley and Lord
    Byron go out in the boat. Translate, and when they return go up to
    Diodati. Shelley reads Tacitus. A writ of arrest comes from Polidori,
    for having "casse ses lunettes et fait tomber son chapeau" of the
    apothecary who sells bad magnesia.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Monday, August 12._--Write my story and translate. Shelley goes to
    the town, and afterwards goes out in the boat with Lord Byron. After
    dinner I go out a little in the boat, and then Shelley goes up to
    Diodati. I translate in the evening, and read _Le Vieux de la
    Montagne_, and write. Shelley, in coming down, is attacked by a dog,
    which delays him; we send up for him, and Lord Byron comes down; in
    the meantime Shelley returns.

    _Wednesday, August 14._--Read _Le Vieux de la Montagne_; translate.
    Shelley reads Tacitus, and goes out with Lord Byron before and after
    dinner. Lewis[21] comes to Diodati. Shelley goes up there, and Clare
    goes up to copy. Remain at home, and read _Le Vieux de la Montagne_.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Friday, August 16._--Write, and read a little of Curtius; translate;
    read _Walther_ and some of _Rienzi_. Lord Byron goes with Lewis to
    Ferney. Shelley writes, and reads Tacitus.

    _Saturday, August 17._--Write, and finish _Walther_. In the evening I
    go out in the boat with Shelley, and he afterwards goes up to Diodati.
    Began one of Madame de Genlis's novels. Shelley finishes Tacitus.
    Polidori comes down. Little babe is not well.

    _Sunday, August 18._--Talk with Shelley, and write; read Curtius.
    Shelley reads Plutarch in Greek. Lord Byron comes down, and stays here
    an hour. I read a novel in the evening. Shelley goes up to Diodati,
    and Monk Lewis.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Tuesday, August 20._--Read Curtius; write; read _Herman d'Unna_. Lord
    Byron comes down after dinner, and remains with us until dark. Shelley
    spends the rest of the evening at Diodati. He reads Plutarch.

    _Wednesday, August 21._--Shelley and I talk about my story. Finish
    _Herman d'Unna_ and write. Shelley reads Milton. After dinner Lord
    Byron comes down, and Clare and Shelley go up to Diodati. Read
    _Rienzi_.

    _Friday, August 23._--Shelley goes up to Diodati, and then in the boat
    with Lord Byron, who has heard bad news of Lady Byron, and is in bad
    spirits concerning it.... Letters arrive from Peacock and Charles.
    Shelley reads Milton.

    _Saturday, August 24._--Write. Shelley goes to Geneva. Read. Lord
    Byron and Shelley sit on the wall before dinner. After I talk with
    Shelley, and then Lord Byron comes down and spends an hour here.
    Shelley and he go up together.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Monday, August 26._--Hobhouse and Scroop Davis come to Diodati.
    Shelley spends the evening there, and reads _Germania_. Several books
    arrive, among others Coleridge's _Christabel_, which Shelley reads
    aloud to me before going to bed.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Wednesday, August 28._--Packing. Shelley goes to town. Work. Polidori
    comes down, and afterwards Lord Byron. After dinner we go upon the
    water; pack; and Shelley goes up to Diodati. Shelley reads _Histoire
    de la Revolution par Rabault_.

    _Thursday, August 29._--We depart from Geneva at 9 in the morning.

They travelled to Havre _via_ Dijon, Auxerre, and Villeneuve; allowing
only a few hours for visiting the palaces of Fontainebleau and Versailles,
and the Cathedral of Rouen. From Havre they sailed to Portsmouth, where,
for a short time, they separated. Shelley went to stay with Peacock, who
was living at Great Marlow, and had been looking about there for a house
to suit his friends. Mary and Clare proceeded to Bath, where they were to
spend the next few months.

    _Journal, Tuesday, September 10._--Arrive at Bath about 2. Dine, and
    spend the evening in looking for lodgings. Read Mrs. Robinson's
    _Valcenga_.

    _Wednesday, September 11._--Look for lodgings; take some, and settle
    ourselves. Read the first volume of _The Antiquary_, and work.




CHAPTER IX

SEPTEMBER 1816-FEBRUARY 1817


Trouble had, for some time past, been gathering in heavy clouds. Godwin's
affairs were in worse plight than ever, and the Shelleys, go where they
might, were never suffered to forget them. Fanny constituted herself his
special pleader, and made it evident that she found it hard to believe
Shelley could not, if he chose, get more money than he did for Mary's
father. Her long letters, bearing witness in every line to her great
natural intelligence and sensibility, excite the deepest pity for her, and
not a little, it must be added, for those to whom they were addressed. The
poor girl's life was, indeed, a hard one, and of all her trials perhaps
the most insurmountable was that inherited melancholy of the
Wollstonecraft temperament which permitted her no illusions, no moments,
even, of respite from care in unreasoning gaiety such as are incidental to
most young and healthy natures. Nor, although she won every one's respect
and most people's liking, had she the inborn gift of inspiring devotion or
arousing enthusiasm. She was one of those who give all and take nothing.
The people she loved all cared for others more than they did for her, or
cared only for themselves. Full of warmth and affection and ideal
aspirations; sympathetically responsive to every poem, every work of art
appealing to imagination, she was condemned by her temperament and the
surroundings of her life to idealise nothing, and to look at all objects
as they presented themselves to her, in the light of the very commonest
day.

Less pressing than Godwin, but still another disturbing cause, was Charles
Clairmont, who was travelling abroad in search, partly of health, partly
of occupation; had found the former, but not the latter, and, of course,
looked to Shelley as the magician who was to realise all his plans for
him. Of his discursive letters, which are immensely long, in a style of
florid eloquence, only a few specimen extracts can find room here. One,
received by Shelley and Mary at Geneva, openly confesses that, though it
was a year since he had left England, he had abstained, as yet, from
writing to Skinner Street, being as unsettled as ever, and having had
nothing to speak of but his pleasures;--having in short been going on
"just like a butterfly,--though still as a butterfly of the best
intentions." He proceeds to describe the country, his manner of living
there, his health,--he details his symptoms, and sets forth at length the
various projects he might entertain, and the marvellous cheapness of one
and all of them, if only he could afford to have any projects at all. He
enumerates items of expenditure connected with one of his schemes, and
concludes thus--

    I lay this proposal before you, without knowing anything of your
    finances, which, I fear, cannot be in too flourishing a situation. You
    will, I trust, consider of the thing, and treat it as frankly as it
    has been offered. I know you too well not to know you would do for me
    all in your power. Have the goodness to write to me as instantly as
    possible.

And Shelley did write,--so says the journal.

Last not least, there was Clare. At what point of all this time did her
secret become known to Shelley and Mary? No document as yet has seen the
light which informs us of this. Perhaps some day it may. Unfortunately for
biographers and for readers of biography, Mary's journal is almost devoid
of personal gossip, or indeed of personalities of any kind. Her diary is a
record of outward facts, and, occasionally, of intellectual impressions;
no intimate history and no one else's affairs are confided to it. No
change of tone is perceptible anywhere. All that can be asserted is that
they knew nothing of it when they went to Geneva. In the absence of
absolute proof to the contrary it is impossible to believe that they were
not aware of it when they came back. Clare was an expecting mother. For
four months they had all been in daily intercourse with Byron, who never
was or could be reticent, and who was not restrained either by delicacy or
consideration for others from saying what he chose. But when and how the
whole affair was divulged and what its effect was on Shelley and Mary
remains a mystery. From this time, however, Clare resumed her place as a
member of their household. It cannot have been a matter of satisfaction to
Mary: domestic life was more congenial without Clare's presence than with
it, but now that there was a true reason for her taking shelter with them,
Mary's native nobility of heart was equal to the occasion, and she gave
help, support, and confidence, ungrudgingly and without stint. Never in
her journal, and only once in her letters does any expression of
discontent appear. They settled down together in their lodgings at Bath,
but on the 19th of September Mary set out to join Shelley at Marlow for a
few days, leaving Clara in charge of little Willy and the Swiss nurse
Elise. On the 25th both were back at Bath, where they resumed their quiet,
regular way of life, resting and reading. But this apparent peace was not
to be long unbroken. Letters from Fanny followed each other in quick
succession, breathing nothing but painful, perpetual anxiety.

    FANNY TO MARY.

    _26th September 1816._

    MY DEAR MARY--I received your letter last Saturday, which rejoiced my
    heart. I cannot help envying your calm, contented disposition, and
    the calm philosophical habits of life which pursue you, or rather
    which you pursue everywhere. I allude to your description of the
    manner in which you pass your days at Bath, when most women would
    hardly have recovered from the fatigues of such a journey as you had
    been taking. I am delighted to hear such pleasing accounts of your
    William; I should like to see him, dear fellow; the change of air does
    him infinite good, no doubt. I am very glad you have got Jane a
    pianoforte; if anything can do her good and restore her to industry,
    it is music. I think I gave her all the music here; however, I will
    look again for what I can find. I am angry with Shelley for not giving
    me an account of his health. All that I saw of him gave me great
    uneasiness about him, and as I see him but seldom, I am much more
    alarmed perhaps than you, who are constantly with him. I hope that it
    is only the London air which does not agree with him, and that he is
    now much better; however, it would have been kind to have said so.

    Aunt Everina and Mrs. Bishop left London two days ago. It pained me
    very much to find that they have entirely lost their little income
    from Primrose Street, which is very hard upon them at their age. Did
    Shelley tell you a singular story about Mrs. B. having received an
    annuity which will make up in part for her loss?

    Poor Papa is going on with his novel, though I am sure it is very
    fatiguing to him, though he will not allow it; he is not able to study
    as much as formerly without injuring himself; this, joined to the
    plagues of his affairs, which he fears will never be closed, make me
    very anxious for him. The name of his novel is _Mandeville, or a Tale
    of the Seventeenth Century_. I think, however, you had better not
    mention the name to any one, as he wishes it not to be announced at
    present. Tell Shelley, as soon as he knows certainly about Longdill,
    to write, that he may be eased on that score, for it is a great weight
    on his spirits at present. Mr. Owen is come to town to prepare for the
    meeting of Parliament. There never was so devoted a being as he is;
    and it certainly must end in his doing a great deal of good, though
    not the good he talks of.

    Have you heard from Charles? He has never given us a single line. I am
    afraid he is doing very ill, and has the conscience not to write a
    parcel of lies. Beg the favour of Shelley, to copy for me his poem on
    the scenes at the foot of Mont Blanc, and tell him or remind him of a
    letter which you said he had written on these scenes; you cannot think
    what a treasure they would be to me; remember you promised them to me
    when you returned to England. Have you heard from Lord Byron since he
    visited those sublime scenes? I have had great pleasure since I saw
    Shelley in going over a fine gallery of pictures of the Old Masters at
    Dulwich. There was a St. Sebastian by Guido, the finest picture I ever
    saw; there were also the finest specimens of Murillo, the great
    Spanish painter, to be found in England, and two very fine Titians.
    But the works of art are not to be compared to the works of nature,
    and I am never satisfied. It is only poets that are eternal
    benefactors of their fellow-creatures, and the real ones never fail of
    giving us the highest degree of pleasure we are capable of; they are,
    in my opinion, nature and art united, and as such never fading.

    Do write to me immediately, and tell me you have got a house, and
    answer those questions I asked you at the beginning of this letter.

    Give my love to Shelley, and kiss William for me. Your affectionate
    Sister,

      FANNY.

When Shelley sold to his father the reversion of a part of his
inheritance, he had promised to Godwin a sum of L300, which he had hoped
to save from the money thus obtained. Owing to certain conditions attached
to the transaction by Sir Timothy Shelley, this proved to be impossible.
The utmost Shelley could do, and that only by leaving himself almost
without resources, was to send something over L200; a bitter
disappointment to Godwin, who had given a bill for the full amount.
Shelley had perhaps been led by his hopes, and his desire to serve Godwin,
to speak in too sanguine a tone as to his prospect of obtaining the money,
and the letter announcing his failure came, Fanny wrote, "like a
thunderclap." In her disappointment she taxed Shelley with want of
frankness, and Shelley and Mary both with an apparent wish to avoid the
subject of Godwin's affairs.

    "You know," she writes, "the peculiar temperature of Papa's mind (if I
    may so express myself); you know he cannot write when pecuniary
    circumstances overwhelm him; you know that it is of the utmost
    consequence, for _his own_ and the _world's sake_ that he should
    finish his novel; and is it not your and Shelley's duty to consider
    these things, and to endeavour to prevent, as far as lies in your
    power, giving him unnecessary pain and anxiety?"

To the Shelleys, who had strained every nerve to obtain this money,
unmindful of the insulting manner in which such assistance was demanded
and received by Godwin, these appeals to their sense of duty must have
been exasperating. Nor were matters mended by hearing of sundry scandalous
reports abroad concerning themselves--reports sedulously gathered by Mrs.
Godwin, and of which Fanny thought it her duty to inform them, so as to
put them on their guard. They, on their part, were indignant, especially
with Mrs. Godwin, who had evidently, they surmised, gone out of her way
to collect this false information, and had helped rather than hindered its
circulation; and they expressed themselves to this effect. Fanny stoutly
defended her stepmother against these attacks.

    Mamma and I are not great friends, but, always alive to her virtues, I
    am anxious to defend her from a charge so foreign to her character....
    I told Shelley these (scandalous reports), and I still think they
    originated with your servants and Harriet, whom I know has been very
    industrious in spreading false reports about you. I at the same time
    advised Shelley always to keep French servants, and he then seemed to
    think it a good plan. You are very careless, and are for ever leaving
    your letters about. English servants like nothing so much as scandal
    and gossip; but this you know as well as I, and this is the origin of
    the stories that are told. And this you choose to father on Mamma, who
    (whatever she chooses to say in a passion to me alone) is the woman
    the most incapable of such low conduct. I do not say that her
    inferences are always the most just or the most amiable, but they are
    always confined to myself and Papa. Depend upon it you are perfectly
    safe as long as you keep your French servant with you.... I have now
    to entreat you, Shelley, to tell Papa exactly what you can and what
    you cannot do, for he does not seem to know what you mean in your
    letter. I know that you are most anxious to do everything in your
    power to complete your engagement to him, and to do anything that will
    not ruin yourself to save him; but he is not convinced of this, and I
    think it essential to his peace that he should be convinced of this. I
    do not on any account wish you to give him false hopes. Forgive me if
    I have expressed myself unkindly. My heart is warm in your cause, and
    I am _anxious, most anxious_, that Papa should feel for you as I do,
    both for your own and his sake.... All that I have said about Mamma
    proceeds from the hatred I have of talking and petty scandal, which,
    though trifling in itself, often does superior persons much injury,
    though it cannot proceed from any but vulgar souls in the first
    instance.

This letter was crossed by Shelley's, enclosing more than
L200--insufficient, however, to meet the situation or to raise the heavy
veil of gloom which had settled on Skinner Street. Fanny could bear it no
longer. Despairing gloom from Godwin, whom she loved, and who in his gloom
was no philosopher; sordid, nagging, angry gloom from "Mamma," who,
clearly enough, did not scruple to remind the poor girl that she had been
a charge and a burden to the household (this may have been one of the
things she only "chose to say in a passion, to Fanny alone"); her sisters
gone, and neither of them in complete sympathy with her; no friends to
cheer or divert her thoughts! A plan had been under consideration for her
residing with her relatives in Ireland, and the last drop of bitterness
was the refusal of her aunt, Everina Wollstonecraft, to have her. What was
left for her? Much, if she could have believed it, and have nerved herself
to patience. But she was broken down and blinded by the strain of over
endurance. On the 9th of October she disappeared from home. Shelley and
Mary in Bath suspected nothing of the impending crisis. The journal for
that week is as follows--

    _Saturday, October 5_ (Mary).--Read Clarendon and Curtius; walk with
    Shelley. Shelley reads Tasso.

    _Sunday, October 6_ (Shelley).--On this day Mary put her head through
    the door and said, "Come and look; here's a cat eating roses; she'll
    turn into a woman; when beasts eat these roses they turn into men and
    women."

    (Mary).--Read Clarendon all day; finish the eleventh book. Shelley
    reads Tasso.

    _Monday, October 7._--Read Curtius and Clarendon; write. Shelley reads
    _Don Quixote_ aloud in the evening.

    _Tuesday, October 8._--Letter from Fanny (this letter has not been
    preserved). Drawing lesson. Walk out with Shelley to the South Parade;
    read Clarendon, and draw. In the evening work, and Shelley reads _Don
    Quixote_; afterwards read _Memoirs of the Princess of Bareith_ aloud.

    _Wednesday, October 9._--Read Curtius; finish the _Memoirs_; draw. In
    the evening a very alarming letter comes from Fanny. Shelley goes
    immediately to Bristol; we sit up for him till 2 in the morning, when
    he returns, but brings no particular news.

    _Thursday, October 10._--Shelley goes again to Bristol, and obtains
    more certain trace. Work and read. He returns at 11 o'clock.

    _Friday, October 11._--He sets off to Swansea. Work and read.

    _Saturday, October 12._--He returns with the worst account. A
    miserable day. Two letters from Papa. Buy mourning, and work in the
    evening.

From Bristol Fanny had written not only to the Shelleys, but to the
Godwins, accounting for her disappearance, and adding, "I depart
immediately to the spot from which I hope never to remove."

During the ensuing night, at the Mackworth Arms Inn, Swansea, she traced
the following words--

    I have long determined that the best thing I could do was to put an
    end to the existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose
    life has only been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt
    their health in endeavouring to promote her welfare. Perhaps to hear
    of my death may give you pain, but you will soon have the blessing of
    forgetting that such a creature ever existed as....

This note and a laudanum bottle were beside her when, next morning, she
was found lying dead.

The persons for whose sake it was--so she had persuaded herself--that she
committed this act were reduced to a wretched condition by the blow.
Shelley's health was shattered; Mary profoundly miserable; Clare, although
by her own avowal feeling less affection for Fanny than might have been
expected, was shocked by the dreadful manner of her death, and infected by
the contagion of the general gloom. She was not far from her confinement,
and had reasons enough of her own for any amount of depression.

Godwin was deeply afflicted; to him Fanny was a great and material loss,
and the last remaining link with a happy past. As usual, public comment
was the thing of all others from which he shrank most, and in the midst of
his first sorrow his chief anxiety was to hide or disguise the painful
story from the world. In writing (for the first time) to Mary he says--

    Do not expose us to those idle questions which, to a mind in anguish,
    is one of the severest of all trials. We are at this moment in doubt
    whether, during the first shock, we shall not say that she is gone to
    Ireland to her aunt, a thing that had been in contemplation. Do not
    take from us the power to exercise our own discretion. You shall hear
    again to-morrow.

    What I have most of all in horror is the public papers, and I thank
    you for your caution, as it may act on this.

    We have so conducted ourselves that not one person in our home has the
    smallest apprehension of the truth. Our feelings are less tumultuous
    than deep. God only knows what they may become.

Charles Clairmont was not informed at all of Fanny's death; a letter from
him a year later contains a message to her. Mrs. Godwin busied herself
with putting the blame on Shelley. Four years later she informed Mrs.
Gisborne that the three girls had been simultaneously in love with
Shelley, and that Fanny's death was due to jealousy of Mary! This shows
that the Shelleys' instinct did not much mislead them when they held
Mary's stepmother responsible for the authorship and diffusion of many of
those slanders which for years were to affect their happiness and peace.
Any reader of Fanny's letters can judge how far Mrs. Godwin's allegation
is borne out by actual facts; and to any one knowing aught of women and
women's lives these letters afford clue enough to the situation and the
story, and further explanation is superfluous. Fanny was fond of Shelley,
fond enough even to forgive him for the trouble he had brought on their
home, but her part was throughout that of a long-suffering sister, one,
too, to whose lot it always fell to say all the disagreeable things that
had to be said--a truly ungrateful task. Her loyalty to the Godwins,
though it could not entirely divide her from the Shelleys, could and did
prevent any intimacy of friendship with them. Her enlightened, liberal
mind, and her generous, loving heart had won Shelley's recognition and his
affection, and in a moment a veil was torn from his eyes, revealing to him
unsuspected depths of suffering, sacrifice, and heroism--now it was too
late. How much more they might have done for Fanny had they understood
what she endured! There was he, Shelley, offering sympathy and help to the
oppressed and the miserable all the world over, and here,--here under his
very eyes, this tragic romance was acted out to the death.

  Her voice did quiver as we parted,
  Yet knew I not that heart was broken
  From which it came,--and I departed,
  Heeding not the words then spoken--
      Misery, ah! misery!
  This world is all too wide for thee.

If the echo of those lines reached Fanny in the world of shadows, it may
have calmed the restless spirit with the knowledge that she had not lived
for nothing after all.

During the next two months another tragedy was silently advancing towards
its final catastrophe. Shelley was anxious for intelligence of Harriet and
her children; she had, however, disappeared, and he could discover no
clue to her whereabouts. Mr. Peacock, who, during June, had been in
communication with her on money matters, had now, apparently, lost sight
of her. The worry of Godwin's money-matters and the fearful shock of
Fanny's self-sought death, followed as it was by collapse of his own
health and nerves, probably withdrew Shelley's thoughts from the subject
for a time. In November, however, he wrote to Hookham, thinking that he,
to whom Harriet had once written to discover Shelley's whereabouts, might
now know or have the means of finding out where she was living. No answer
came, however, to these inquiries for some weeks, during which Shelley,
Mary, and Clare lived in their seclusion, reading Lucian and Horace,
Shakespeare, Gibbon, and Locke; in occasional correspondence with Skinner
Street, through Mrs. Godwin, who was now trying what she could do to
obtain money loans (probably raised on Shelley's prospects), requisite,
not only to save Godwin from bankruptcy, but to repay Shelley a small
fraction of what he had given and lent, and without which he was unable to
pay his own way.

The plan for settling at Marlow was still pending, and on the 5th of
December Shelley went there again to stay with Mr. Peacock and his mother,
and to look about for a residence to suit him. Mary during his absence was
somewhat tormented by anxiety for his fragile health; fearful, too, lest
in his impulsive way he should fall in love with the first pretty place he
saw, and burden himself with some unsuitable house, in the idea of
settling there "for ever," Clare and all. To that last plan she probably
foresaw the objections more clearly than Shelley did. But her cheery
letters are girlish and playful.

    _5th December 1816._

    SWEET ELF--I got up very late this morning, so that I could not attend
    Mr. West. I don't know any more. Good-night.


    NEW BOND STREET, BATH,
    _6th December 1816_.

    SWEET ELF--I was awakened this morning by my pretty babe, and was
    dressed time enough to take my lesson from Mr. West, and (thank God)
    finished that tedious ugly picture I have been so long about. I have
    also finished the fourth chapter of _Frankenstein_, which is a very
    long one, and I think you would like it. And where are you? and what
    are you doing? my blessed love. I hope and trust that, for my sake,
    you did not go outside this wretched day, while the wind howls and the
    clouds seem to threaten rain. And what did my love think of as he rode
    along--did he think about our home, our babe, and his poor Pecksie?
    But I am sure you did, and thought of them all with joy and hope. But
    in the choice of a residence, dear Shelley, pray be not too quick or
    attach yourself too much to one spot. Ah! were you indeed a winged
    Elf, and could soar over mountains and seas, and could pounce on the
    little spot. A house with a lawn, a river or lake, noble trees, and
    divine mountains, that should be our little mouse-hole to retire to.
    But never mind this; give me a garden, and _absentia_ Claire, and I
    will thank my love for many favours. If you, my love, go to London,
    you will perhaps try to procure a good Livy, for I wish very much to
    read it. I must be more industrious, especially in learning Latin,
    which I neglected shamefully last summer at intervals, and those
    periods of not reading at all put me back very far.

    The _Morning Chronicle_, as you will see, does not make much of the
    riots, which they say are entirely quelled, and you would be almost
    inclined to say, "Out of the mountain comes forth a mouse," although,
    I daresay, poor Mrs. Platt does not think so.

    The blue eyes of your sweet Boy are staring at me while I write this;
    he is a dear child, and you love him tenderly, although I fancy that
    your affection will increase when he has a nursery to himself, and
    only comes to you just dressed and in good humour; besides when that
    comes to pass he will be a wise little man, for he improves in mind
    rapidly. Tell me, shall you be happy to have another little squaller?
    You will look grave on this, but I do not mean anything.

    Leigh Hunt has not written. I would advise a letter addressed to him
    at the _Examiner_ Office, if there is no answer to-morrow. He may not
    be at the Vale of Health, for it is odd that he does not acknowledge
    the receipt of so large a sum. There have been no letters of any kind
    to-day.

    Now, my dear, when shall I see you? Do not be very long away; take
    care of yourself and take a house. I have a great fear that bad
    weather will set in. My airy Elf, how unlucky you are! I shall write
    to Mrs. Godwin to-morrow; but let me know what you hear from Hayward
    and papa, as I am greatly interested in those affairs. Adieu,
    sweetest; love me tenderly, and think of me with affection when
    anything pleases you greatly.--Your affectionate girl

      MARY.

    I have not asked Clare, but I dare say she would send her love,
    although I dare say she would scold you well if you were here.
    Compliments and remembrances to Dame Peacock and Son, but do not let
    them see this.

    Sweet, adieu!

    Percy B. Shelley, Esq.,
    Great Marlow, Bucks.

On 6th December the journal records--

    Letter from Shelley; he has gone to visit Leigh Hunt.

This was the beginning of a lifelong intimacy.

On the 14th Shelley returned to Bath, and on the very next day a letter
from Hookham informed him that on the 9th Harriet's body had been taken
out of the Serpentine. She had disappeared three weeks before that time
from the house where she was living. An inquest had been held at which her
name was given as Harriet Smith; little or no information about her was
given to the jury, who returned a verdict of "Found drowned."

Life and its complications had proved too much for the poor silly woman,
and she took the only means of escape she saw open to her. Her piteous
story was sufficiently told by the fact that when she drowned herself she
was not far from her confinement. But it would seem from subsequent
evidence that harsh treatment on the part of her relatives was what
finally drove her to despair. She had lived a fast life, but had been,
nominally at any rate, under her father's protection until a comparatively
short time before her disappearance, when some act or occurrence caused
her to be driven from his house. From that moment she sank lower and
lower, until at last, deserted by one--said to be a groom--to whom she had
looked for protection, she killed herself.

It is asserted that she had had, all her life, an avowed proclivity to
suicide. She had been fond, in young and happy days, of talking jocosely
about it, as silly girls often do; discoursing of "some scheme of
self-destruction as coolly as another lady would arrange a visit to an
exhibition or a theatre."[22] But it is a wide dreary waste that lies
between such an idea and the grim reality,--and poor Harriet had traversed
it.

Shelley's first thought on receiving the fatal news was of his children.
His sensations were those of horror, not of remorse. He never spoke or
thought of Harriet with harshness, rather with infinite pity, but he never
regarded her save in the light of one who had wronged him and failed
him,--whom he had left, indeed, but had forgiven, and had tried to save
from the worst consequences of her own acts. Her dreadful death was a
shock to him of which he said (to Byron) that he knew not how he had
survived it; and he regarded her father and sister as guilty of her blood.
But Fanny's death caused him acuter anguish than Harriet's did.

As for Mary, she regarded the whole Westbrook family as the source of
grief and shame to Shelley. Harriet she only knew for a frivolous,
heartless, faithless girl, whom she had never had the faintest cause to
respect, hardly even to pity. Poor Harriet was indeed deserving of
profound commiseration, and no one could have known and felt this more
than Mary would have done, in later years. But she heard one side of the
case only, and that one the side on which her own strongest feelings were
engaged. She was only nineteen, with an exalted ideal of womanly devotion;
and at nineteen we may sternly judge what later on we may condemn indeed,
but with a depth of pity quite beyond the power of its object to fathom or
comprehend.

No comment whatever on the occurrence appears in her journal. She threw
herself ardently into Shelley's eagerness to get possession of his elder
children; ready, for his sake, to love them as her own.

It could not but occur to her that her own position was altered by this
event, and that nothing now stood between her and her legal marriage to
Shelley and acknowledgment as his wife. So completely, however, did they
regard themselves as united for all time by indissoluble ties that she
thought of the change chiefly as it affected other people.

    MARY TO SHELLEY.

    BATH, _17th December 1816_.

    MY BELOVED FRIEND--I waited with the greatest anxiety for your letter.
    You are well, and that assurance has restored some peace to me.

    How very happy shall I be to possess those darling treasures that are
    yours. I do not exactly understand what Chancery has to do in this,
    and wait with impatience for to-morrow, when I shall hear whether they
    are with you; and then what will you do with them? My heart says,
    bring them instantly here; but I submit to your prudence. You do not
    mention Godwin. When I receive your letter to-morrow I shall write to
    Mrs. Godwin. I hope, yet I fear, that he will show on this occasion
    some disinterestedness. Poor, dear Fanny, if she had lived until this
    moment she would have been saved, for my house would then have been a
    proper asylum for her. Ah! my best love, to you do I owe every joy,
    every perfection that I may enjoy or boast of. Love me, sweet, for
    ever. I hardly know what I mean, I am so much agitated. Clare has a
    very bad cough, but I think she is better to-day. Mr. Carn talks of
    bleeding if she does not recover quickly, but she is positively
    resolved not to submit to that. She sends her love. My sweet love,
    deliver some message from me to your kind friends at Hampstead; tell
    Mrs. Hunt that I am extremely obliged to her for the little profile
    she was so kind as to send me, and thank Mr. Hunt for his friendly
    message which I did not hear.

    These Westbrooks! But they have nothing to do with your sweet babes;
    they are yours, and I do not see the pretence for a suit; but
    to-morrow I shall know all.

    Your box arrived to-day. I shall send soon to the upholsterer, for now
    I long more than ever that our house should be quickly ready for the
    reception of those dear children whom I love so tenderly. Then there
    will be a sweet brother and sister for my William, who will lose his
    pre-eminence as eldest, and be helped third at table, as Clare is
    continually reminding him.

    Come down to me, sweetest, as soon as you can, for I long to see you
    and embrace.

    As to the event you allude to, be governed by your friends and
    prudence as to when it ought to take place, but it must be in London.

    Clare has just looked in; she begs you not to stay away long, to be
    more explicit in your letters, and sends her love.

    You tell me to write a long letter, and I would, but that my ideas
    wander and my hand trembles. Come back to reassure me, my Shelley, and
    bring with you your darling Ianthe and Charles. Thank your kind
    friends. I long to hear about Godwin.--Your affectionate

      MARY.

    Have you called on Hogg? I would hardly advise you. Remember me,
    sweet, in your sorrows as well as your pleasures; they will, I trust,
    soften the one and heighten the other feeling. Adieu.

    To Percy Bysshe Shelley,
    5 Gray's Inn Square, London.

No time was lost in putting things on their legal footing. Shelley took
Mary up to town, where the marriage ceremony took place at St. Mildred's
Church, Broad Street, in presence of Godwin and Mrs. Godwin. On the
previous day he had seen his daughter for the first time since her flight
from his house two and a half years before.

Both must have felt a strange emotion which, probably, neither of them
allowed to appear.

Mary for a fortnight left a blank in her journal. On her return to Clifton
she thus shortly chronicled her days--

    I have omitted writing my journal for some time. Shelley goes to
    London and returns; I go with him; spend the time between Leigh Hunt's
    and Godwin's. A marriage takes place on the 29th of December 1816.
    Draw; read Lord Chesterfield and Locke.

Godwin's relief and satisfaction were great indeed. His letter to his
brother in the country, announcing his daughter's recent marriage with a
baronet's eldest son, can only be compared for adroit manipulation of
facts with a later letter to Mr. Baxter of Dundee, in which he tells of
poor Fanny's having been attacked in Wales by an inflammatory fever "which
carried her off."

He now surpassed himself "in polished and cautious attentions" both to
Shelley and Mary, and appeared to wish to compensate in every way for the
red-hot, righteous indignation which, owing to wounded pride rather than
to offended moral sense, he had thought it his duty to exhibit in the
past.

Shelley's heart yearned towards his two poor little children by Harriet,
and to get possession of them was now his feverish anxiety. On this
business he was obliged, within a week of his return to Bath, to go up
again to London. During his absence, on the 13th of January, Clare's
little girl, Byron's daughter, was born. "Four days of idleness," are
Mary's only allusion to this event. It was communicated to the absent
father by Shelley, in a long letter from London. He quite simply assumes
the event to be an occasion of great rejoicing to all concerned, and
expects Byron to feel the same. The infant, who afterwards developed into
a singularly fascinating and lovely child, was described in enthusiastic
terms by Mary as unusually beautiful and intelligent, even at this early
stage. Their first name for her was Alba, or "the Dawn"; a reminiscence of
Byron's nickname, "Albe."

Most of this month of January, while Mary had Clare and the infant to look
after, was of necessity spent by Shelley in London. Harriet's father, Mr.
Westbrook, and his daughter Eliza had filed an appeal to the Court of
Chancery, praying that her children might be placed in the custody of
guardians to be appointed by the Court, and not in that of their father.
On 24th January, poor little William's first birthday, the case was heard
before Lord Chancellor Eldon. Mary, expecting that the decision would be
known at once, waited in painful suspense to hear the result.

    _Journal, Friday, January 24._--My little William's birthday. How many
    changes have occurred during this little year; may the ensuing one be
    more peaceful, and my William's star be a fortunate one to rule the
    decision of this day. Alas! I fear it will be put off, and the
    influence of the star pass away. Read the _Arcadia_ and _Amadis_; walk
    with my sweet babe.

Her fears were realised, for two months were to elapse ere judgment was
pronounced.

    _Saturday, January 25._--An unhappy day. I receive bad news and
    determine to go up to London. Read the _Arcadia_ and _Amadis_. Letter
    from Mrs. Godwin and William.

Accordingly, next day, Mary went up to join her husband in town, and notes
in her diary that she was met at the inn by Mrs. Godwin and William. Well
might Shelley say of the ceremony that it was "magical in its effects."

As it turned out, this was her final departure from Bath: she never
returned there. On her arrival in London she was warmly welcomed by
Shelley's new friends, the Leigh Hunts, at whose house most of her time
was spent, and whose genial, social circle was most refreshing to her. The
house at Marlow had been taken, and was now being prepared for her
reception. Little William and his nurse, escorted by Clare, joined her at
the Hunts on the 18th of February, but Clare herself stayed elsewhere. At
the end of the month they all departed for their new home, and were
established there early in March.




CHAPTER X

MARCH 1817-MARCH 1818


The Shelleys' new abode, although situated in a lovely part of the
country, was cold and cheerless, and, at that bleak time of year, must
have appeared at its worst. Albion House stood (and, though subdivided and
much altered in appearance, still stands) in what is now the main street
of Great Marlow, and at a considerable distance from the river. At the
back the garden-plot rises gradually from the level of the house,
terminating in a kind of artificial mound, overshadowed by a spreading
cedar; a delightfully shady lounge in summer, but shutting off sky and
sunshine from the house. There are two large, low, old-fashioned rooms;
one on the ground floor, somewhat like a farmhouse kitchen; the other
above it; both facing towards the garden. In one of these Shelley fitted
up a library, little thinking that the dwelling, which he had rashly taken
on a more than twenty years' lease, would be his home for only a year. The
rest of the house accommodated Mary, Clare, the children and servants,
and left plenty of room for visitors. Shelley was hospitality itself, and
though he never was in greater trouble for money than during this year, he
entertained a constant succession of guests. First among these was Godwin;
next, and most frequent, the genial but needy Leigh Hunt, with all his
family. With Mary, as with Shelley, he had quickly established himself on
a footing of easy, affectionate friendliness, as may be inferred from
Mary's letter, written to him during her first days at Marlow.

    MARLOW, _1 o'clock, 5th March 1817_.

    MY DEAR HUNT--Although you mistook me in thinking I wished you to
    write about politics in your letters to me--as such a thought was very
    far from me,--yet I cannot help mentioning your last week's
    _Examiner_, as its boldness gave me extreme pleasure. I am very glad
    to find that you wrote the leading article, which I had doubted, as
    there was no significant hand. But though I speak of this, do not fear
    that you will be teased by _me_ on these subjects when we enjoy your
    company at Marlow. When there, you shall never be serious when you
    wish to be merry, and have as many nuts to crack as there are words in
    the Petitions to Parliament for Reform--a tremendous promise.

    Have you never felt in your succession of nervous feelings one single
    disagreeable truism gain a painful possession of your mind and keep it
    for some months? A year ago, I remember, my private hours were all
    made bitter by reflections on the certainty of death, and now the
    flight of time has the same power over me. Everything passes, and one
    is hardly conscious of enjoying the present until it becomes the past.
    I was reading the other day the letters of Gibbon. He entreats Lord
    Sheffield to come with all his family to visit him at Lausanne, and
    dwells on the pleasure such a visit will occasion. There is a little
    gap in the date of his letters, and then he complains that this
    solitude is made more irksome by their having been there and departed.
    So will it be with us in a few months when you will all have left
    Marlow. But I will not indulge this gloomy feeling. The sun shines
    brightly, and we shall be very happy in our garden this
    summer.--Affectionately yours,

      MARINA.

Not only did Shelley keep open house for his friends; his kindliness and
benevolence to the distressed poor in Marlow and the surrounding country
was unbounded. Nor was he content to give money relief; he visited the
cottagers; and made himself personally acquainted with them, their needs,
and their sufferings.

In all these labours of love and charity he was heartily and constantly
seconded by Mary.

  No more alone through the world's wilderness,
  Although (he) trod the paths of high intent,
  (He) journeyed now.[23]

From the time of her union with him Mary had been his consoler, his
cherished love, all the dearer to him for the thought that she was
dependent on him and only on him for comfort and support, and
enlightenment of mind; but yet she was a child,--a clever child,--sedate
and thoughtful beyond her years, and full of true womanly devotion,--but
still one whose first and only acquaintance with the world had been made
by coming violently into collision with it, a dangerous experience, and
hardening, especially if prolonged. From the time of her marriage a
maturer, mellower tone is perceptible throughout her letters and writings,
as though, the unnatural strain removed, and, above all, intercourse with
her father restored, she glided naturally and imperceptibly into the place
Nature intended her to fill, as responsible woman and wife, with social as
well as domestic duties to fulfil.

The suffering of the past two or three years had left her wiser if also
sadder than before; already she was beginning to look on life with a calm
liberal judgment of one who knew both sides of many questions, yet still
her mind retained the simplicity and her spirit much of the buoyancy of
youth. The unquenchable spring of love and enthusiasm in Shelley's breast,
though it led him into errors and brought him grief and disillusionment,
was a talisman that saved him from Byronic sarcasm, from the bitterness of
recoil and the death of stagnation. He suffered from reaction, as all such
natures must suffer, but Mary was by his side to steady and balance and
support him, and to bring to him for his consolation the balm she had
herself received from him. Well might he write--

  Now has descended a serener hour,
  And, with inconstant fortune, friends return;
  Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power
  Which says: Let scorn be not repaid with scorn.[24]

And consolation and support were sorely needed. In March Lord Chancellor
Eldon pronounced the judgment by which he was deprived, on moral and
religious grounds, of the custody of his two elder children. How bitterly
he felt, how keenly he resented, this decree all the world knows. The
paper which he drew up during this celebrated case, in which he declared,
as far as he chose to declare them, his sentiments with regard to his
separation from Harriet and his union with Mary, is the nearest approach
to self-vindication Shelley ever made. But the decision of the Court cast
a slur on his name, and on that of his second wife. The final arrangements
about the children dragged on for many months. They were eventually given
over to the guardianship of a clergyman, a stranger to their father, who
had to set aside L200 a year of his income for their maintenance in exile.

Meanwhile Godwin's exactions were incessant, and his demands, sometimes
impossible to grant, were harder than ever to deal with now that they were
couched in terms of friendship, almost of affection. On 9th March we find
Shelley writing to him--

    It gives me pain that I cannot send you the whole of what you want. I
    enclose a cheque to within a few pounds of my possessions.

On 22d March (Godwin has been begging again, but this time in behalf of
his old assistant and amanuensis, Marshall)--

    Marshall's proposal is one in which, however reluctantly, I must
    refuse to engage. It is that I should grant bills to the amount of his
    debts, which are to expire in thirty months.

On 15th April Godwin writes on his own behalf--

    The fact is I owe L400 on a similar score, beyond the L100 that I owed
    in the middle of 1815; and without clearing this, my mind will never
    be perfectly free for intellectual occupations. If this were done, I
    am in hopes that the produce of _Mandeville_, and the sensible
    improvement in the commercial transactions of Skinner Street would
    make me a free man, perhaps, for the rest of my life....

    My life wears away in lingering sorrow at the endless delays that
    attend on this affair.... Once every two or three months I throw
    myself prostrate beneath the feet of Taylor of Norwich, and my other
    discounting friends, protesting that this is absolutely for the last
    time. Shall this ever have an end? Shall I ever be my own man again?

One can imagine how such a letter would work on his daughter's feelings.

Nor was Charles Clairmont backward about putting in his claims, although
his modest little requests require, like gems, to be extracted carefully
from the discursive raptures, the eloquent flights of fancy and poetic
description in which they are embedded. In January he had written from
Bagneres de Bigorre, where he was "acquiring the language"--

    Sometimes I hardly dare believe, situated as I am, that I ought for a
    moment to nourish the feelings of which I am now going to talk to
    you; at other times I am so thoroughly convinced of their infinite
    utility with regard to the moral existence of a being with strong
    sensations, or at all events with regard to mine, that I fly to this
    subject as to a tranquillising medicine, which has the power of so
    arranging and calming every violent and illicit sensation of the soul
    as to spread over the frame a deep and delightful contentment, for
    such is the effect produced upon me by a contemplation of the perfect
    state of existence, the perfect state of social domestic happiness
    which I propose to myself. My life has hitherto been a tissue of
    irregularity, which I assure you I am little content to reflect
    upon.... I have been always neglectful of one of the most precious
    possessions which a young man can hold--of my character.... You will
    now see the object of this letter.... I desire strongly to marry, and
    to devote myself to the temperate, rational duties of human life.... I
    see, I confess, some objections to this step.... I am not forgetful of
    what I owe to Godwin and my Mother, but we are in a manner entirely
    separated.... It is true my feelings towards my Mother are cold and
    inactive, but my attachment and respect for Godwin are unalterable,
    and will remain so to the last moment of my existence.... The news of
    his death would be to me a stroke of the severest affliction; that of
    my own Mother would be no more than the sorrow occasioned by the loss
    of a common acquaintance.

    ... Unless every obstacle on the part of the object of my affection
    were laid aside, you may suppose I should not speak so decisively. She
    is perfectly acquainted with every circumstance respecting me, and we
    feel that we love and are suited to each other; we feel that we should
    be exquisitely happy in being devoted to each other.

    ... I feel that I could not offer myself to the family without
    assuring them of my capability of commanding an annual sufficiency to
    support a little _menage_--that is to say, as near as I can obtain
    information, 2000 francs, or about L80.... Do I dream, my dear
    Shelley, when a gleam of gay hope gives me reason to doubt of the
    possibility of my scheme?... Pray lose no time in writing to me, and
    be as explicit as possible.

The following extract is from a letter to Mary, written in August (the
matrimonial scheme is now quite forgotten)--

    I will begin by telling you that I received L10 some days ago, minus
    the expenses.... I also received your letter, but not till after the
    money.... I am most extremely vexed that Shelley will not oblige me
    with a single word. It is now nearly six months that I have expected
    from him a letter about my future plans.

    Do, my dear Mary, persuade him to talk with you about them; and if he
    always persists in remaining silent, I beg you will write for him, and
    ask him what he would be inclined to approve.... Had I a little
    fortune of L200 or L300 a year, nothing should ever tempt me to make
    an effort to increase this golden sufficiency....

    Respecting money matters.... I still owe (on the score of my
    _pension_) nearly L15, this is all my debt here. Another month will
    accumulate before I can receive your answer, and you will judge of
    what will be necessary to me on the road, to whatever place I may be
    destined. I cannot spend less than 3s. 6d. per day.

    If Papa's novel is finished before you write, I wish to God you would
    send it. I am now absolutely without money, but I have no occasion for
    any, except for washing and postage, and for such little necessaries I
    find no difficulty in borrowing a small sum.

    If I knew Mamma's address, I should certainly write to her in France.
    I have no heart to write to Skinner Street, for they will not answer
    my letters. Perhaps, now that this haughty woman is absent, I should
    obtain a letter. I think I shall make an effort with Fanny. As for
    Clare, she has entirely forgotten that she has a brother in the
    world.... Tell me if Godwin has been to visit you at Marlow; if you
    see Fanny often; and all about the two Williams. What is Shelley
    writing?

Shelley, when this letter arrived, was writing _The Revolt of Islam_. To
this poem, in spite of duns, sponges, and law's delays, his thoughts and
time were consecrated during his first six months at Marlow; in spite,
too, of his constant succession of guests; but society with him was not
always a hindrance to poetic creation or intellectual work. Indeed, a
congenial presence afforded him a kind of relief, a half-unconscious
stimulus which yet was no serious interruption to thought, for it was
powerless to recall him from his abstraction.

Mary's life at Marlow was very different from what it had been at
Bishopsgate and Bath. Her duties as house-mistress and hostess as well as
Shelley's companion and helpmeet left her not much time for reverie. But
her regular habits of study and writing stood her in good stead.
_Frankenstein_ was completed and corrected before the end of May. It was
offered to Murray, who, however, declined it, and was eventually published
by Lackington.

The negotiations with publishers calling her up to town, she paid a visit
to Skinner Street. Shelley accompanied her, but was obliged to return to
Marlow almost immediately, and as Mrs. Godwin also appears to have been
absent, Mary stayed alone with her father in her old home. To him this
was a pleasure.

"Such a visit," he had written to Shelley, "will tend to bring back years
that are passed, and make me young again. It will also operate to render
us more familiar and intimate, meeting in this snug and quiet house, for
such it appears to me, though I daresay you will lift up your hands, and
wonder I can give it that appellation."

To Mary every room in the house must have been fraught with unspeakable
associations. Alone with the memories of those who were gone, of others
who were alienated; conscious of the complete change in herself and
transference of her sphere of sympathy, she must have felt, when Shelley
left her, like a solitary wanderer in a land of shadows.

    "I am very well here," she wrote, "but so intolerably restless that it
    is painful to sit still for five minutes. Pray write. I hear so little
    from Marlow that I can hardly believe that you and Willman live
    there."

Another train of mingled recollections was awakened by the fact of her
chancing, one evening, to read through that third canto of _Childe Harold_
which Byron had written during their summer in Switzerland together.

    Do you remember, Shelley, when you first read it to me one evening
    after returning from Diodati. The lake was before us, and the mighty
    Jura. That time is past, and this will also pass, when I may weep to
    read these words.... Death will at length come, and in the last
    moment all will be a dream.

What Mary felt was crystallised into expression by Shelley, not many
months later--

  The stream we gazed on then, rolled by,
  Its waves are unreturning;
        But we yet stand
        In a lone land,
  Like tombs to mark the memory
  Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
  In the light of life's dim morning.

On the last day of May, Mary returned to Marlow, where the Hunts were
making a long stay. Externally life went quietly on. The summer was hot
and beautiful, and they passed whole days in their boat or their garden,
or in the woods. Their studies, as usual, were unremitting. Mary applied
herself to the works of Tacitus, Buffon, Rousseau, and Gibbon. Shelley's
reading at this time was principally Greek: Homer, Aeschylus, and Plato.
His poem was approaching completion. Mary, now that _Frankenstein_ was off
her hands, busied herself in writing out the journal of their first
travels. It was published, in December, as _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour_,
together with the descriptive letters from Geneva of 1816.

But her peace and Shelley's was threatened by an undercurrent of ominous
disturbance which gained force every day.

Byron remained abroad. But Clare and Clare's baby remained with the
Shelleys. At Bath she had passed as "Mrs." Clairmont, but now resumed her
former style, while Alba was said to be the daughter of a friend in
London, sent for her health into the country. As time, however, went by,
and the infant still formed one of the Marlow household, curiosity, never
long dormant, became aroused. Whose was this child? And if, as officious
gossip was not slow to suggest, it was Clare's, then who was its father?
As month after month passed without bringing any solution of this problem,
the vilest reports arose concerning the supposed relations of the
inhabitants of Albion House--false rumours that embittered the lives of
Alba's generous protectors, but to which Shelley's unconventionality and
unorthodox opinions, and the stigma attached to his name by the Chancery
decree, gave a certain colour of probability, and which in part, though
indirectly, conduced to his leaving England again,--as it proved, for
ever.

Again and again did he write to Byron, pointing out with great gentleness
and delicacy, but still in the plainest terms, the false situation in
which they were placed with regard to friends and even to servants by
their effort to keep Clare's secret; suggesting, almost entreating, that,
if no permanent decision could be arrived at, some temporary arrangement
should at least be made for Alba's boarding elsewhere. Byron, at this
time plunged in dissipation at Venice, shelved or avoided the subject as
long as he could. Clare was friendless and penniless, and her chances of
ever earning an honest living depended on her power of keeping up
appearances and preserving her character before the world. But the child
was a remarkably beautiful, intelligent, and engaging creature, and its
mother, impulsive, uncontrolled, and reckless, was at no trouble to
conceal her devotion to it, regardless of consequences, and of the fact
that these consequences had to be endured by others.

Those who had forfeited the world's kindness seemed, as such, to be the
natural _proteges_ of Shelley; and even Mary, who, not long before, had
summed up all her earthly wishes in two items,--"a garden, _et absentia
Claire_,"--stood by her now in spite of all. But their letters make it
perfectly evident that they were fully alive to the danger that threatened
them, and that, though they willingly harboured the child until some safe
and fitting asylum should be found for it, they had never contemplated its
residing permanently with them.

To Mary Shelley this state of things brought one bitter personal grief and
disappointment in the loss of her earliest friend, Isabel or Isobel
Baxter, now married to Mr. David Booth, late brewer and subsequently
schoolmaster at Newburgh-on-Tay, a man of shrewd and keen intellect, an
immense local reputation for learning, and an estimation of his own gifts
second to that of none of his admirers.

The Baxters, as has already been said, were people of independent mind, of
broad and liberal views; full of reverence and admiration for the
philosophical writings of Godwin. Mary, in her extreme youth and
inexperience, had quite expected that Isabel would have upheld her action
when she first left her father's house with Shelley. In that she was
disappointed, as was, after all, not surprising.

Now, however, her friend, whose heart must have been with her all along,
would surely feel justified in following that heart's dictates, and would
return to the familiar, affectionate friendship which survives so many
differences of opinion. And her hope received an encouragement when, in
August, Mr. Baxter, Isabel's father, accepted an invitation to stay at
Marlow. He arrived on the 1st of September, full of doubts as to what sort
of place he was coming to,--apprehensions which, after a very short
intercourse with Shelley, were changed into surprise and delight.

But his visit was cut short by the birth, on the very next day, of Mary's
little girl, Clara. He found it expedient to depart for a time, but
returned later in the month for a longer stay.

This second visit more than confirmed his first impression, and he wrote
to his daughter in warm, nay, enthusiastic praise of Shelley, against whom
Isabel was, not unnaturally, much prejudiced, so much so, it seems, as to
blind her even to the merits of his writings.

After a warm panegyric of Shelley as

    A being of rare genius and talent, of truly republican frugality and
    plainness of manners, and of a soundness of principle and delicacy of
    moral tact that might put to shame (if shame they had) many of his
    detractors,--and withal so amiable that you have only to be half an
    hour in his company to convince you that there is not an atom of
    malevolence in his whole composition.

Mr. Baxter proceeds--

    Is there any wonder that I should become attached to such a man,
    holding out the hand of kindness and friendship towards me? Certainly
    not. Your praise of his book[25] put me in mind of what Pope says of
    Addison--

      Damn with faint praise; assent with civil leer,
      And, without sneering, others teach to sneer.

    [You say] "some parts appear to be well written, but the arguments
    appear to me to be neither new nor very well managed." After Hume such
    a publication is quite puerile! As to the arguments not being new, it
    would be a wonder indeed if any new arguments could be adduced in a
    controversy which has been carried on almost since ever letters were
    known. As to their not being well managed, I should be happy if you
    would condescend on the particular instances of their being ill
    managed; it was the first of Shelley's works I had read. I read it
    with the notion that it _could_ only contain silly, crude, undigested
    and puerile remarks on a worn-out subject; and yet I was unable to
    discover any of that want of management which you complain of; but,
    God help me, I thought I saw in it everything that was opposite. As
    to its being puerile to write on such a subject after David Hume, I by
    no means think that he has exhausted the subject. I think rather that
    he has only proposed it--thrown it out, as it were, for a matter of
    discussion to others who might come after him, and write in a less
    bigoted, more liberal, and more enlightened age than the one he lived
    in. Think only how many great men's labours we should decree to be
    puerile if we were to hold everything puerile that has been written on
    this subject since the days of Hume! Indeed, my dear, the remark
    altogether savours more of the envy and illiberality of one jealous of
    his talents than the frankness and candour characteristic of my
    Isobel. Think, my dear, think for a moment what you would have said of
    this work had it come from Robert,[26] who is as old as Shelley was
    when he wrote it, or had it come from me, or even from----O! I must
    not say David:[27] he, to be sure, is far above any such puerility.

Her father's letter made Isabel waver, but in vain. It had no effect on
Mr. Booth, who had been at the trouble of collecting and believing all the
scandals about Alba, or "Miss Auburn," as she seems to have been called.
He was not one to be biassed by personal feelings or beguiled by fair
appearances, in the face of stubborn, unaccountable facts. He preferred to
take the facts and draw his own inference--an inference which apparently
seemed to him no improbable one.

For a long time nothing decisive was said or done, but while the fate of
her early friendship hung in the balances, Mary's anxiety for some
settlement about Alba became almost intolerable to her, weighing on her
spirits, and helping, with other depressing causes, to <DW44> her
restoration to health.

On the 19th of September she summed up in her journal the heads of the
seventeen days after Clara's birth during which she had written nothing.

    I am confined Tuesday, 2d. Read _Rhoda_, Pastor's _Fireside_,
    _Missionary_, _Wild Irish Girl_, _The Anaconda_, _Glenarvon_, first
    volume of Percy's _Northern Antiquities_. Bargain with Lackington
    concerning _Frankenstein_.

    Letter from Albe (Byron). An unamiable letter from Godwin about Mrs.
    Godwin's visits. Mr. Baxter returns to town. Thursday, 4th, Shelley
    writes his poem; his health declines. Friday, 19th, Hunts arrive.

As the autumn advanced it became evident that the sunless house at Marlow
was exceedingly cold, and far too dreary a winter residence to be
desirable for one of Shelley's feeble constitution, or even for Mary and
her infant children. Shelley's health grew worse and worse. His poem was
finished and dedicated to Mary in the beautiful lines beginning--

  So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,
  And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
  As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery,
  Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
  Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
  A star among the stars of mortal night,
  If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
  Its doubtful promise thus I would unite
  With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

But the reaction from the "agony and bloody sweat of intellectual
travail," the troubles and griefs of the past year, and the ceaseless
worry about money, all told injuriously on his physical state. He had to
be constantly away from his home, up in town, on business; and his
thoughts turned longingly again towards Italy. Byron had signified his
consent to receive and provide for his daughter, subject to certain
stringent conditions, chief among which was the child's complete
separation from its mother, from the time it passed into his keeping. In
writing to him on 24th September, Shelley adverts to his own wish to
winter at Pisa, and the possibility in this case of his being himself
Alba's escort to Italy.

    "Now, dearest, let me talk to you," he writes to Mary. "I think we
    ought to go to Italy. I think my health might receive a renovation
    there, for want of which perhaps I should never entirely overcome that
    state of diseased action which is so painful to my beloved. I think
    Alba ought to be with her father. This is a thing of incredible
    importance to the happiness, perhaps, of many human beings. It might
    be managed without our going there. Yes; but not without an expense
    which would, in fact, suffice to settle us comfortably in a spot where
    I might be regaining that health which you consider so valuable. It is
    valuable to you, my own dearest. I see too plainly that you will never
    be quite happy till I am well. Of myself I do not speak, for I feel
    only for you."

He goes on to discuss the practicability of the plan from the financial
point of view, calculating what sum they may hope to get by the sale of
their lease and furniture, and how much he may be able to borrow, either
from his kind friend Horace Smith, or from money-lenders on _post obits_,
a ruinous process to which he was, all his life, forced to resort.

Poor Mary in the chilly house at Marlow, with her three-weeks-old baby,
her strength far from re-established, and her house full of guests, who
made themselves quite at home, was not likely to take the most sanguine
view of affairs.

    _25th September 1817._

    You tell me, dearest, to write you long letters, but I do not know
    whether I can to-day, as I am rather tired. My spirits, however, are
    much better than they were, and perhaps your absence is the cause. Ah!
    my love! you cannot guess how wretched it was to see your languor and
    increasing illness. I now say to myself, perhaps he is better; but
    then I watched you every moment, and every moment was full of pain
    both to you and to me. Write, my love, a long account of what Lawrence
    says; I shall be very anxious until I hear.

    I do not see a great deal of our guests; they rise late, and walk all
    the morning. This is something like a contrary fit of Hunt's, for I
    meant to walk to-day, and said so; but they left me, and I hardly wish
    to take my first walk by myself; however, I must to-morrow, if he
    still shows the same want of _tact_. Peacock dines here every day,
    _uninvited_, to drink his bottle. I have not seen him; he morally
    disgusts me; and Marianne says that he is very ill-tempered.

    I was much pained last night to hear from Mr. Baxter that Mr. Booth is
    ill-tempered and jealous towards Isabel; and Mr. Baxter thinks she
    half regrets her marriage; so she is to be another victim of that
    ceremony. Mr. Baxter is not at all pleased with his son-in-law; but
    we can talk of that when we meet.

    ... A letter came from Godwin to-day, very short. You will see him;
    tell me how he is. You are loaded with business, the event of most of
    which I am anxious to learn, and none so much as whether you can do
    anything for my Father.


    MARLOW, _26th September 1817_.

    You tell me to decide between Italy and the sea. I think, dearest,
    if--what you do not seem to doubt, but which I do, a little--our
    finances are in sufficiently good a state to bear the expense of the
    journey, our inclination ought to decide. I feel some reluctance at
    quitting our present settled state, but as we _must_ leave Marlow, I
    do not know that stopping short on this side the Channel would be
    pleasanter to me than crossing it. At any rate, my love, do not let us
    encumber ourselves with a lease again.... By the bye, talking of
    authorship, do get a sketch of Godwin's plan from him. I do not think
    that I ought to get out of the habit of writing, and I think that the
    thing he talked of would just suit me. I am glad to hear that Godwin
    is well.... As to Mrs. Godwin, something very analogous to disgust
    arises whenever I mention her. That last accusation of Godwin's[28]
    adds bitterness to every feeling I ever felt against her.... Mr.
    Baxter thinks that Mr. Booth keeps Isabel from writing to me. He has
    written to her to-day warmly in praise of us both, and telling her by
    all means not to let the acquaintance cool, and that in such a case
    her loss would be much greater than mine. He has taken a prodigious
    fancy to us, and is continually talking of and praising "Queen Mab,"
    which he vows is the best poem of modern days.


    MARLOW, _28th September 1817_.

    DEAREST LOVE--Clare arrived yesterday night, and whether it might be
    that she was in a croaking humour (in ill spirits she certainly was),
    or whether she represented things as they really were, I know not,
    but certainly affairs did not seem to wear a very good face. She talks
    of Harriet's debts to a large amount, and something about Longdill's
    having undertaken for them, so that they must be paid. She mentioned
    also that you were entering into a _post obit_ transaction. Now this
    requires our serious consideration on one account. These things (_post
    obits_), as you well know, are affairs of wonderful length; and if you
    must complete one before you settle on going to Italy, Alba's
    departure ought certainly not to be delayed.... You have not mentioned
    yet to Godwin your thoughts of Italy; but if you determine soon, I
    would have you do it, as these things are always better to be talked
    of some days before they take place. I took my first walk to-day. What
    a dreadfully cold place this house is! I was shivering over a fire,
    and the garden looked cold and dismal; but as soon as I got into the
    road, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the sun was shining, and
    the air warm and delightful.... I will now tell you something that
    will make you laugh, if you are not too teased and ill to laugh at
    anything. Ah! dearest, is it so? You know now how melancholy it makes
    me sometimes to think how ill and comfortless you may be, and I so far
    away from you. But to my story. In Elise's last letter to her _chere
    amie_, Clare put in that Madame Clairmont was very ill, so that her
    life was in danger, and added, in Elise's person, that she (Elise) was
    somewhat shocked to perceive that Mademoiselle Clairmont's gaiety was
    not abated by the _douloureuse_ situation of her amiable sister. Jenny
    replies--

    "Mon amie, avec quel chagrin j'apprends la maladie de cette jolie et
    aimable Madame Clairmont; pauvre chere dame, comme je la plains. Sans
    doute elle aime tendrement son mari, et en etre separee pour
    toujours--en avoir la certitude elle sentir--quelle cruelle chose;
    qu'il doit etre un mechant homme pour quitter sa femme. Je ne sais ce
    qu'il y a, mais cette jeune et jolie femme me tient singulierement au
    coeur; je l'avoue que je n'aime point mademoiselle sa soeur.
    Comment! avoir a craindre pour les jours d'une si charmante soeur,
    et n'en pas perdre un grain de gaite; elle me met en colere."

    Here is a noble resentment thrown away! Really I think this
    _mystification_ of Clare's a little wicked, although laughable. I am
    just now surrounded by babes. Alba is scratching and crowing, William
    is amusing himself with wrapping a shawl round him, and Miss Clara
    staring at the fire.... Adieu, dearest love. I want to say again, that
    you may fully answer me, how very, _very_ anxious I am to know the
    whole extent of your present difficulties and pursuits; and remember
    also that if this _post obit_ is to be a long business, Alba must go
    before it is finished. Willy is just going to bed. When I ask him
    where you are, he makes me a long speech that I do not understand. But
    I know my own one, that you are away, and I wish that you were with
    me. Come soon, my own only love.--Your affectionate girl,

      M. W. S.

    _P.S._--What of _Frankenstein_? and your own poem--have you fixed on a
    name? Give my love to Godwin when Mrs. Godwin is not by, or you must
    give it her, and I do not love her.


    _5th October 1817._

    ... How happy I shall be, my own dear love, to see you again. Your
    last was so very, very short a visit; and after you were gone I
    thought of so many things I had to say to you, and had no time to say.
    Come Tuesday, dearest, and let us enjoy some of each other's company;
    come and see your sweet babes and the little Commodore;[29] she is
    lively and an uncommonly interesting child. I never see her without
    thinking of the expressions in my mother's letters concerning Fanny.
    If a mother's eyes were not partial, she seemed like this Alba. She
    mentions her intelligent eyes and great vivacity; but this is a
    melancholy subject.

But Shelley's enforced absences became more and more frequent; brief
visits to his home were all that he could snatch. As the desire to escape
grew stronger, the fair prospect only seemed to recede. New complications
appeared in the shape of Harriet's creditors, who pressed hard on Shelley
for a settlement of their hitherto unknown and unsuspected claims. So
perilous with regard to them was his position that Mary herself was fain
to caution him to stay away and out of sight for fear of arrest. It was
almost more than she could do to keep up the mask of cheerfulness, yet her
letters of counsel and encouragement were her husband's mainstay.

    "Dearest and best of living beings," he wrote in October, "how much do
    your letters console me when I am away from you. Your letter to-day
    gave me the greatest delight; so soothing, so powerful and quiet are
    your expressions, that it is almost like folding you to my heart....
    My own Mary, would it not be better for you to come to London at once?
    I think we could quite as easily do something with the house if you
    were in London--that is to say, all of you--as in the country."

The next two letters were written in much depression. She could not get up
her strength; she dared not indulge in the hope of going abroad, for she
realised, as Shelley could not do, how little money they would have and
how much they already owed. Their income, and more, went in supporting and
paying for other people, and left them nothing to live on! Clare was
unsettled, unhappy, and petulant. Godwin, ignorant like the rest of the
world of her story and her present situation, unaware of Shelley's
proposed move, and certain to oppose it with the energy of despair when he
heard of it, was an impending visitor.

    _16th October 1817._

    So you do not come to-night love, nor any night; you are always away,
    and this absence is long and becomes each day more dreary. Poor
    Curran! so he is dead, and a sod on his breast, as four years ago I
    heard him prophesy would be the case within that year.

    Nothing is done, you say in your letter, and indeed I do not expect
    anything will be done these many months. This, if you continued well,
    would not give me so much pain, except on Alba's account. If she were
    with her father, I could wait patiently, but the thought of what may
    come "between the cup and the lip"--between now and her arrival at
    Venice--is a heavy burthen on my soul. He may change his mind, or go
    to Greece, or to the devil; and then what happens?

    My dearest Shelley, be not, I entreat you, too self-negligent; yet
    what can you do? If you were here, you might retort that question upon
    me; but when I write to you I indulge false hopes of some miraculous
    answer springing up in the interval. Does not Longdill[30] treat you
    ill? he makes out long bills and does nothing. You say nothing of the
    late arrest, and what may be the consequences, and may they not detain
    you? and may you not be detained many months? for Godwin must not be
    left unprovided. All these things make me run over the months, and
    know not where to put my finger and say--during this year your Italian
    journey shall commence. Yet when I say that it is on Alba's account
    that I am anxious, this is only when you are away, and with too much
    faith I believe you to be well. When I see you, drooping and languid,
    in pain, and unable to enjoy life, then on your account I ardently
    wish for bright skies and Italian sun.

    You will have received, I hope, the manuscript that I sent yesterday
    in a parcel to Hookham. I am glad to hear that the printing goes on
    well; bring down all that you can with you.

    If we were free and had no anxiety, what delight would Godwin's visit
    give me; as it is, I fear that it will make me dreadfully miserable.
    Cannot you come with him? By the way you write I hardly expect you
    this week, but is it really so?

    I think Alba's remaining here exceedingly dangerous, yet I do not see
    what is to be done. Your babes are well. Clara already replies to her
    nurse's caresses by smiles, and Willy kisses her with great
    tenderness.--Your affectionate

      MARY.

    _P.S._--I wish you would purchase a gown for Milly,[31] with a little
    note with it from Marianne,[32] that it may appear to come from her.
    You can get one, I should think, for 12s. or 14s.; but it must be
    _stout_; such a kind of one as we gave to the servant at Bath.

    Willy has just said good-night to me; he kisses the paper and says
    good-night to you. Clara is asleep.


    MARLOW, _Saturday, 18th October 1817_.

    Mr. Wright has called here to-day, my dearest Shelley, and wished to
    see you. I can hardly have any doubt that his business is of the same
    nature as that which made him call last week. You will judge, but it
    appears to me that an arrest on Monday will follow your arrival on
    Sunday.

    My love, you ought not to come down. A long, long week has passed, and
    when at length I am allowed to expect you, I am obliged to tell you
    not to come. This is very cruel. You may easily judge that I am not
    happy; my spirits sink during this continued absence. Godwin, too,
    will come down; he will talk as if we meant to stay here; and I
    must--must I?--tell fifty prevarications or direct _lies_. When I
    thought that you would be here also, I knew that your presence would
    lead to general conversation; but Clare will absent herself. We shall
    be alone, and he will talk of your private affairs. I am sure that I
    shall never be able to support it.

    And when is this to end? Italy appears to me farther off than ever,
    and the idea of it never enters my mind but Godwin enters also, and
    makes it lie heavy at my heart. Had you not better speak? you might
    relieve me from a heavy burden. Surely he cannot be blind to the many
    heavy reasons that urge us. Your health, the indispensable one, if
    every other were away. I assure you that if my Father said, "Yes, you
    must go; do what you can for me; I know that you will do all you can;"
    I should, far from writing so melancholy a letter, prepare everything
    with a light heart; arrange our affairs here; and come up to town, to
    await patiently the effect of your efforts. I know not whether it is
    early habit or affection, but the idea of his silent quiet
    disapprobation makes me weep as it did in the days of my childhood.

    I shall not see you to-morrow. God knows when I shall see you! Clare
    is for ever wearying with her idle and childish complaints. Can you
    not send me some consolation?--Ever your affectionate

      MARY.

The fears of an arrest were not realised. Early in November Shelley came
for three days to Marlow, after which Mary went up to stay with him in
London.

During this fortnight's visit the question of renewed intercourse with
Isabel Booth was practically decided, and decided against Mary. She had
written on the 4th of November to Mr. Baxter inviting Christy to come on a
visit. Subsequently a plan was started for Isabel Booth's accompanying
the Shelleys in their Italian trip,--they little dreaming that when they
left England it would be for the last time.

Apparently Mr. Baxter made some effort to bring Mr. Booth round to his way
of thinking. The two passed an evening with the Shelleys at their
lodgings. But it availed nothing, and in the end poor Mr. Baxter was
driven himself to write to Shelley, breaking off the acquaintance. The
letter was written much against the grain, and contrary to the convictions
of the writer, who seems to have been much put to it to account for his
action, the true grounds for which he could not bring himself to give.
Shelley, however, was not slow to divine the real instigator in the
affair, and wrote back a letter which, by its temperance, simplicity, and
dignity, must have pricked Baxter to the heart. Mary added a playful
postscript, showing that she still clung to hope--

    MY DEAR SIR--You see I prophesied well three months ago, when you were
    here. I then said that I was sure Mr. Booth was averse to our
    intercourse, and would find some means to break it off. I wish I had
    you by the fire here in my little study, and it might be "double,
    double, toil and trouble," but I could quickly convince you that your
    girls are not below me in station, and that, in fact, I am the fittest
    companion for them in the world, but I postpone the argument until I
    see you, for I know (pardon me) that _viva voce_ is all in all with
    you.

Two or three times more Mary wrote to Isabel, but the correspondence
dropped and the friends met no more for many years.

The preparations for their migration extended over two or three months
more. During January Shelley suffered much from the renewal of an attack
of ophthalmia, originally caught while visiting the poor people at Marlow.
The house there was finally sold, and on the 10th of February they quitted
it and went up to London. Their final departure from England did not take
place until March. They made the most of their time of waiting, seeing as
much of their friends and of objects of interest as circumstances allowed.

    _Journal, Thursday, February 12_ (Mary).--Go to the Indian Library and
    the Panorama of Rome. On Friday, 13th, spend the morning at the
    British Museum looking at the Elgin marbles. On Saturday, 14th, go to
    Hunt's. Clare and Shelley go to the opera. On Sunday, 15th, Mr.
    Bransen, Peacock, and Hogg dine with us.

    _Wednesday, February 18._--Spend the day at Hunt's. On Thursday, 19th,
    dine at Horace Smith's, and copy Shelley's Eclogue. On Friday, 20th,
    copy Shelley's critique on _Rhododaphne_. Go to the Apollonicon with
    Shelley. On Saturday, 21st, copy Shelley's critique, and go to the
    opera in the evening. Spend Sunday at Hunt's. On Monday, 23d February,
    finish copying Shelley's critique, and go to the play in the
    evening--_The Bride of Abydos_. On Tuesday go to the opera--_Figaro_.
    On Wednesday Hunt dines with us. Shelley is not well.

    _Sunday, March 1._--Read Montaigne. Spend the evening at Hunt's. On
    Monday, 2d, Shelley calls on Mr. Baxter. Isabel Booth is arrived, but
    neither comes nor sends. Go to the play in the evening with Hunt and
    Marianne, and see a new comedy damned. On Thursday, 5th, Papa calls,
    and Clare visits Mrs. Godwin. On Sunday, 8th, we dine at Hunt's, and
    meet Mr. Novello. Music.

    _Monday, March 9._--Christening the children.

This was doubtless a measure of precaution, lest the omission of any such
ceremony might in some future time operate as a civil disadvantage towards
the children. They received the names of William, Clara Everina, and Clara
Allegra.

    _Tuesday, March 10._--Packing. Hunt and Marianne spend the day with
    us. Mary Lamb calls. Papa in the evening. Our adieus.

    _Wednesday, March 11._--Travel to Dover.

    _Thursday, March 12._--France. Discussion of whether we should cross.
    Our passage is rough; a sick lady is frightened and says the Lord's
    Prayer. We arrive at Calais for the third time.

Mary little thought how long it would be before she saw the English shores
again, nor that, when she returned, it would be alone.




CHAPTER XI

MARCH 1818-JUNE 1819


The external events of the four Italian years have been repeatedly told
and profusely commented on by Shelley's various biographers. Summed up,
they are the history of a long strife between the intellectual and
creative stimulus of lovely scenes and immortal works of art on the one
hand, and the wearing friction of vexatious outward events and crushing
afflictions on the other. For Shelley they were a period of rapid, of
exotic, mental growth and development, interspersed with intervals of
exhaustion and depression, of restlessness, or unnatural calm. For Mary
they were years of courageous effort, of heroic resistance to overpowering
odds. She endured, and she overcame; but some victories are obtained at
such cost as to be at the time scarcely distinguishable from defeats, and
the story of hers survives in no one act or work of her own, but in the
_Cenci_, _Prometheus Unbound_, _Epipsychidion_, and _Adonais_.

The travellers proceeded, _via_ Lyons and Chambery, to Milan, whence
Shelley and Mary made an expedition to Como in search of a house. After
looking at several,--one "beautifully situated, but too small," another
"out of repair, with an excellent garden, but full of serpents," a third
which seemed promising, but which they failed to get,--they appear to have
given up the scheme altogether, and to have returned to Milan. For the
next week they were in frequent correspondence with Byron on the subject
of Allegra. This had to be carried on entirely by Shelley, as Byron
refused all communication with Clare, and undertook to provide for his
child on the sole condition that, from the day it left her, its mother
entirely relinquished it, and never saw it again.

This appeared to Shelley cruelly and needlessly harsh. His own paternal
heart was still bleeding from fresh wounds, and although, as he again
pointed out, his interest in the matter was entirely on the opposite side
to Clare's, he pleaded her cause with earnestness. He did not touch on the
question of Byron's attitude towards Clare herself, he contended only for
the mother and child, in letters as remarkable for their simple good sense
as for their perfect delicacy and courtesy of expression, and every line
of which is inspired with the unselfish ardour of a heart full of love.

Poor Clare herself was dreadfully unhappy. Any illusion she may ever have
had about Byron had long been over, but she had possibly not realised
before coming to Italy the perfect horror he had of seeing her; an event,
as he told his friends the Hoppners, which would make it necessary for him
instantly to quit Venice. The reports about his present mode of life,
which, even at Milan did not fail to reach them, were, to say the least,
not encouraging; and from a later letter of Shelley's it would seem that
he warned Clare now, at the last minute, to pause and reflect before she
sent Allegra away to such a father. She, however, was determined that till
seven years old, at least, the child should be with one or other of its
parents, and Byron would only consent to be that one on condition that it
grew up in ignorance of its mother. It appears to have been assumed by all
parties that, in refusing to hand Allegra altogether over to her father,
they would be sacrificing for her the prospect of a brilliant position and
fortune. Even supposing that this had been so, it is impossible to think
that such a consideration would have weighed, at any rate with the
Shelleys, but for the impossibility of keeping Clare's secret if Allegra
remained with them, and the constant danger of worse scandal to which her
unexplained presence must expose them. Clare, distracted with grief as she
was, yet dreaded discovery acutely, and firmly believed she was acting for
Allegra's best interests in parting from her.

It ended in the little girl's being sent to Venice on the 28th of April in
the care of Elise, the Swiss nurse, with whom Mary Shelley, for Allegra's
sake, consented to part, though she valued her very much, but who, not
long afterwards, returned to her.

As soon as they had gone, the Shelleys and Clare left Milan; and
travelling leisurely through Parma, Modena, Bologna, and Pisa (where a
letter from Elise reached them), they arrived on the 9th of May at
Leghorn. Here they made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne. The
lady, formerly Mrs. Reveley, had been an intimate friend of Mary
Wollstonecraft's (when Mary Godwin), and had been so warmly admired by
Godwin before his first marriage as to arouse some jealousy in Mr.
Reveley. Indeed, his admiration had been returned by so warm a feeling of
friendship on her part that Godwin was frankly surprised when on his
pressing her, shortly after her widowhood, to become his second wife, she
refused him point blank, nor, by all his eloquence, was to be persuaded to
change her mind. A beautiful girl, and highly accomplished, she had
married very young, and had one son of her first marriage, Henry Reveley,
a young civil engineer, who was now living in Italy with her and her
second husband.

This Mr. Gisborne struck Mary as being the reverse of intelligent, and is
described in Shelley's letters in most uncomplimentary terms. His
appearance cannot certainly have been in his favour, but that there must
have been more in him than met the eye seems also beyond a doubt, as, at a
later time, Shelley addressed to him some of his most interesting and most
intimate letters.

To Mrs. Gisborne they bore a letter of introduction from Godwin, and it
was not long before her acquaintance with Mrs. Shelley ripened into
friendship. "Reserved, yet with easy manners;" so Mary described her at
their first meeting. On the next day the two had a long conversation about
Mary's father and mother. Of her mother, indeed, Mary learned more from
Mrs. Gisborne than from any one else. She wrote her father an immediate
account of these first interviews, and his answer is unusually
demonstrative in expression.

    I received last Friday a delightful letter from you. I was extremely
    gratified by your account of Mrs. Gisborne. I have not seen her, I
    believe, these twenty years; I think not since she was Mrs. Gisborne;
    and yet by your description she is still a delightful woman. How
    inexpressibly pleasing it is to call back the recollection of years
    long past, and especially when the recollection belongs to a person in
    whom one deeply interested oneself, as I did in Mrs. Reveley. I can
    hardly hope for so great a pleasure as it would be to me to see her
    again.

At the Bagni di Lucca, where they settled themselves for a time, Mary
heard from her father of the review of _Frankenstein_ in the _Quarterly_.
Peacock had reported it to be unfavourable, so it was probably a relief
to find that the reviewers "did not pretend to find anything blasphemous
in the story."

    They say that the _gentleman_ who has written the book is a _man of
    talents_, but that he employs his powers in a way disagreeable to
    them.

All this, however, tended to keep Mary's old ardour alive. She never was
more strongly impelled to write than at this time; she felt her powers
fresh and strong within her; all she wanted was some motive, some
suggestion to guide her in the choice of a subject. While at Leghorn
Shelley had come upon a manuscript account, which Mary transcribed, of
that terrible story of the _Cenci_ afterwards dramatised by himself. His
first idea was that Mary should take it for the subject of a play. He was
convinced that she had dramatic talent as a writer, and that he had none;
two erroneous conclusions, as the sequel showed. But such an assurance
from such a source could not but be flattering to Mary's ambition, and
stimulating to her innate love of literary work. During all the early part
of their time in Italy their thoughts were busy with some subject for
Mary's tragedy. One proposed and strongly urged by Shelley was _Charles
the First_. It was partially carried out by himself before his death, and
perhaps occurred to him now in connection with a suggestion of Godwin's
for a book very different in scope and character, and far better suited to
Mary's genius than the drama. It would have been a series of _Lives of the
Commonwealth's Men_; "our calumniated Republicans," as Shelley calls them.

She was immensely attracted by the idea, but was forced to abandon it at
the time, for lack of the necessary books of reference. But Shelley, who
believed her powers to be of the highest order, was as eager as she
herself could be for her to undertake original work of some kind, and was
constantly inciting her to effort in this direction.

More than two months were spent at the Bagni di Lucca--reading, writing,
riding, and enjoying to the full the balmy Italian skies. Shelley, in whom
the creative mood was more or less dormant, and who "despaired of
providing anything original," translated the _Symposium_ of Plato, partly
as an exercise, partly to "give Mary some idea of the manners and feelings
of the Athenians, so different on many subjects from that of any other
community that ever existed." Together they studied Italian, and Shelley
reported Mary's progress to her father.

    Mary has just finished Ariosto with me, and indeed has attained a very
    competent knowledge of Italian. She is now reading Livy.

She also transcribed his translation of the _Symposium_, and his Eclogue
_Rosalind and Helen_, which, begun at Marlow, had been thrown aside till
she found it and persuaded him to complete it.

Meanwhile Clare hungered and thirsted for a sight of Allegra, of whom she
heard occasionally from Elise, and who was not now under Byron's roof, but
living, by his permission, with Mrs. Hoppner, wife of the British Consul
at Venice, who had volunteered to take temporary charge of her. Her
distress moved Shelley to so much commiseration that he resolved or
consented to do what must have been supremely disagreeable to him. He went
himself to Venice, hoping by a personal interview to modify in some degree
Byron's inexorable resolution. Clare accompanied him, unknown, of course,
to Byron. They started on the 17th of August. On that day Mary wrote the
following letter to Miss Gisborne--

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    BAGNI DI LUCCA, _17th August 1818_.

    MY DEAR MADAM--It gave me great pleasure to receive your letter after
    so long a silence, when I had begun to conjecture a thousand reasons
    for it, and among others illness, in which I was half right. Indeed, I
    am much concerned to hear of Mr. R.'s attacks, and sincerely hope that
    nothing will <DW44> his speedy recovery. His illness gives me a slight
    hope that you might now be induced to come to the baths, if it were
    even to try the effect of the hot baths. You would find the weather
    cool; for we already feel in this part of the world that the year is
    declining, by the cold mornings and evenings. I have another selfish
    reason to wish that you would come, which I have a great mind not to
    mention, yet I will not omit it, as it might induce you. Shelley and
    Clare are gone; they went to-day to Venice on important business; and
    I am left to take care of the house. Now, if all of you, or any of
    you, would come and cheer my solitude, it would be exceedingly kind. I
    daresay you would find many of your friends here; among the rest there
    is the Signora Felichi, whom I believe you knew at Pisa. Shelley and I
    have ridden almost every evening. Clare did the same at first, but she
    has been unlucky, and once fell from her horse, and hurt her knee so
    as to knock her up for some time. It is the fashion here for all the
    English to ride, and it is very pleasant on these fine evenings, when
    we set out at sunset and are lighted home by Venus, Jupiter, and
    Diana, who kindly lend us their light after the sleepy Apollo is gone
    to bed. The road which we frequent is raised somewhat above, and
    overlooks the river, affording some very fine points of view amongst
    these woody mountains.

    Still, we know no one; we speak to one or two people at the Casino,
    and that is all; we live in our studious way, going on with Tasso,
    whom I like, but who, now I have read more than half his poem, I do
    not know that I like half so well as Ariosto. Shelley translated the
    _Symposium_ in ten days. It is a most beautiful piece of writing. I
    think you will be delighted with it. It is true that in many
    particulars it shocks our present manners; but no one can be a reader
    of the works of antiquity unless they can transport themselves from
    these to other times, and judge, not by our, but their morality.

    Shelley is tolerably well in health; the hot weather has done him
    good. We have been in high debate--nor have we come to any
    conclusion--concerning the land or sea journey to Naples. We have been
    thinking that when we want to go, although the equinox will be past,
    yet the equinoctial winds will hardly have spent themselves; and I
    cannot express to you how I fear a storm at sea with two such young
    children as William and Clara. Do you know the periods when the
    Mediterranean is troubled, and when the wintry halcyon days come?
    However, it may be we shall see you before we proceed southward.

    We have been reading Eustace's _Tour through Italy_; I do not wonder
    the Italians reprinted it. Among other select specimens of his way of
    thinking, he says that the Romans did not derive their arts and
    learning from the Greeks; that Italian ladies are chaste, and the
    lazzaroni honest and industrious; and that, as to assassination and
    highway robbery in Italy, it is all a calumny--no such things were
    ever heard of. Italy was the garden of Eden, and all the Italians
    Adams and Eves, until the blasts of hell (_i.e._ the French--for by
    that polite name he designates them) came. By the bye, an Italian
    servant stabbed an English one here--it was thought dangerously at
    first, but the man is doing better.

    I have scribbled a long letter, and I daresay you have long wished to
    be at the end of it. Well, now you are; so my dear Mrs. Gisborne, with
    best remembrances, yours, obliged and affectionately,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

From Florence, where he arrived on the 20th, Shelley wrote to Mary,
telling her that Clare had changed her intention of going in person to
Venice, and had decided on the more politic course of remaining herself at
Fusina or Padua, while Shelley went on to see Byron.

    "Well, my dearest Mary," he went on, "are you very lonely? Tell me
    truth, my sweetest, do you ever cry? I shall hear from you once at
    Venice and once on my return here. If you love me, you will keep up
    your spirits; and at all events tell me truth about it, for I assure
    you I am not of a disposition to be flattered by your sorrow, though I
    should be by your cheerfulness, and above all by seeing such fruits of
    my absence as was produced when I was at Geneva."

It was during Shelley's absence with Byron on their voyage round the lake
of Geneva that Mary had begun to write _Frankenstein_. But on the day when
she received this letter she was very uneasy about her little girl, who
was seriously unwell from the heat. On writing to Shelley she told him of
this; and, from his answer, one may infer that she had suggested the
advisability of taking the child to Venice for medical advice.

    PADUA, MEZZOGIORNO.

    MY BEST MARY--I found at Mount Selica a favourable opportunity for
    going to Venice, when I shall try to make some arrangement for you and
    little Ca to come for some days, and shall meet you, if I do not write
    anything in the meantime, at Padua on Thursday morning. Clare says she
    is obliged to come to see the Medico, whom we missed this morning, and
    who has appointed as the only hour at which he can be at leisure, 8
    o'clock in the morning. You must, therefore, arrange matters so that
    you should come to the Stella d'Oro a little before that hour, a thing
    only to be accomplished by setting out at half-past 3 in the morning.
    You will by this means arrive at Venice very early in the day, and
    avoid the heat, which might be bad for the babe, and take the time
    when she would at least sleep great part of the time. Clare will
    return with the return carriage, and I shall meet you, or send to you,
    at Padua. Meanwhile, remember _Charles the First_, and do you be
    prepared to bring at least some of _Mirra_ translated; bring the book
    also with you, and the sheets of _Prometheus Unbound_, which you will
    find numbered from 1 to 26 on the table of the Pavilion. My poor
    little Clara; how is she to-day? Indeed, I am somewhat uneasy about
    her; and though I feel secure there is no danger, it would be very
    comfortable to have some reasonable person's opinion about her. The
    Medico at Padua is certainly a man in great practice; but I confess he
    does not satisfy me. Am I not like a wild swan, to be gone so
    suddenly? But, in fact, to set off alone to Venice required an
    exertion. I felt myself capable of making it, and I knew that you
    desired it.... Adieu, my dearest love. Remember, remember _Charles the
    First_ and _Mirra_. I have been already imagining how you will conduct
    some scenes. The second volume of _St. Leon_ begins with this proud
    and true sentiment--

    "There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not
    execute." Shakespeare was only a human being. Adieu till
    Thursday.--Your ever affectionate,

      P. B. S.

His next letter, however, announced yet another revolution in Clare's
plans. Her heart failed her at the idea of remaining to endure her
suspense all alone in a strange place; and so, braving the possible
consequences of Byron's discovering her move before he was informed of it,
she went on with Shelley to Venice, and, the morning after their arrival,
proceeded to Mr. Hoppner's house. Here she was kindly welcomed by him and
his wife, a pretty Swiss woman, with a sympathetic motherly heart, who
knew all about her and Allegra. They insisted, too, on Shelley's staying
with them, and he was nothing loth to accept the offer, for Byron's circle
would not have suited him at all.

He was pleased with his hostess, something in whose appearance reminded
him of Mary. "She has hazel eyes and sweet looks, rather Maryish," he
wrote. And in another letter he described her as

    So good, so beautiful, so angelically mild that, were she wise too,
    she would be quite a Mary. But she is not very accomplished. Her eyes
    are like a reflection of yours; her manners are like yours when you
    know and like a person.

He could enjoy no pleasure without longing for Mary to share it, and from
the moment he reached Venice he was planning impatiently for her to follow
him, to experience with him the strange emotions aroused by the first
sight of the wonderful city, and to make acquaintance with his new
friends.

He lost no time in calling on Byron, who gave him a very friendly
reception. Shelley's intention on leaving Lucca was to go with his family
to Florence, and the plan he urged on Byron was that Allegra should come
to spend some time there with her mother. To this Byron objected, as
likely to raise comment, and as a reopening of the whole question. He was,
however, in an affable mood, and not indisposed to meet Shelley halfway.
He had heard of Clare's being at Padua, but nothing of her subsequent
change of plan; and, assuming that the whole party were staying there, he
offered to send Allegra as far as that, on a week's visit. Finding that
things were not as he supposed, and that Mrs. Shelley was likely to come
presently to Venice, he proposed to lend them for some time a villa which
he rented at Este, and to let Allegra stay with them. The offer was
promptly and gratefully accepted by Shelley. The fact of Clare's presence
in Venice had, perforce, to be kept dark; for that there was no help; the
great thing was to get her and Allegra away as soon as possible. He sent
directions to Mary to pack up at once and travel with the least possible
delay to Este. There he would meet her with Clare, Allegra, and Elise, who
were to be established, with Mary's little ones, at Byron's villa, Casa
Cappucini, while she and he proceeded to Venice.

When the letter came, Mary had the Gisbornes staying with her on a visit.
For that reason, and on account of little Clara's indisposition, the
summons to depart so suddenly can hardly have been welcome; she obeyed it,
however, and left the Bagni di Lucca on the 31st of August. Owing to
delays about the passport, her journey took rather longer than they had
expected. The intense heat of the weather, added to the fatigue of
travelling and probably change of diet, seriously affected the poor baby,
who, by the time they got to Este on 5th September, was dangerously ill.
Shelley, who had been waiting for them impatiently, was also far from
well, and their visit to Venice had to be deferred for more than a
fortnight, during which Mary had time to hear enough of Venetian society
to horrify and disgust her.

    _Journal, Saturday, September 5._--Arrive at Este. Poor Clara is
    dangerously ill. Shelley is very unwell, from taking poison in Italian
    cakes. He writes his drama of _Prometheus_. Read seven cantos of
    Dante. Begin to translate _A Cajo Graccho_ of Monti, and _Measure for
    Measure_.

    _Wednesday, September 16._--Read the _Filippo_ of Alfieri. Shelley and
    Clare go to Padua. He is very ill from the effects of his poison.

To Mrs. Gisborne she wrote as follows--

    _September 1818._

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--I hasten to write to you to say that we have
    arrived safe, and yet I can hardly call it safe, since the fatigue has
    given my poor _Ca_ an attack of dysentery; and although she is now
    somewhat recovered from that disorder, she is still in a frightful
    state of weakness and fever, and is reduced to be so thin in this
    short time that you would hardly know her again.

    The physician of Este is a stupid fellow; but there is one come from
    Padua, and who appears clever; so I hope under his care she will soon
    get well, although we are still in great anxiety concerning her. I
    found Mr. Shelley very anxious for our non-arrival, for, besides other
    delays, we were detained a whole day at Florence for a signature to
    our passport. The house at Este is exceedingly pleasant, with a large
    garden and quantities of excellent fruit. I have not yet been to
    Venice, and know not when I shall, since it depends upon the state of
    Clara's health. I hope Mr. Reveley is quite recovered from his
    illness, and I am sure the baths did him a great deal of good. So now
    I suppose all your talk is how you will get to England. Shelley agrees
    with me that you could live very well for your L200 per annum in
    Marlow or some such town; and I am sure you would be much happier than
    in Italy. How all the English dislike it! The Hoppners speak with the
    greatest acrimony of the Italians, and Mr. Hoppner says that he was
    actually driven from Italian society by the young men continually
    asking him for money. Everything is saleable in Venice, even the wives
    of the gentry, if you pay well. It appears indeed a most frightful
    system of society. Well! when shall we see you again? Soon, I daresay.
    I am so much hurried that you will be kind enough to excuse the
    abruptness of this letter. I will write soon again, and in the
    meantime write to me. Shelley and Clare desire the kindest
    remembrances.--My dear Mrs. Gisborne, affectionately yours,

      MARY W. S.

    Casa Capuccini, Este.
    Send our letters to this direction.

No more of the journal was written till the 24th, and in the meantime
great trouble had fallen on the writers. Shelley was impatient for Clara
to be within reach of better medical advice, and anxious to get Mary to
Venice. He went forward himself on the 22d, returning next day as far as
Padua to meet Mary and Clara, with Clare, who, however, only came over to
Padua to see the Medico. The baby was very ill, and was getting worse
every hour, but they judged it best to press on. In their hurry they had
forgotten their passport, and had some difficulty in getting past the
_dogana_ in consequence. Shelley's impetuosity carried all obstacles
before it, and the soldiers on duty had to give way. On reaching Venice
Mary went straight with her sick child to the inn, while Shelley hurried
for the doctor. It was too late. When he got back (without the medical
man) he found Mary well-nigh beside herself with distress. Another doctor
had already been summoned, but little Clara was dying, and in an hour all
was over.

This blow reduced Mary to "a kind of despair";--the expression is
Shelley's. Mr. Hoppner, on hearing what had happened, insisted on taking
them away at once from the inn to his house. Four days she spent in Venice
after that, the first of which was a blank; of the second she merely
records--

    An idle day. Go to the Lido and see Albe there.

After that she roused herself. There was Shelley to be comforted and
supported, there was Byron to be interviewed. One of her objects in coming
had been to try and persuade him after all to let Allegra stay. So she
nerved herself to pay this visit, and to go about and see something of
Venice with Shelley.

    _Sunday, September 27._--Read fourth canto of _Childe Harold_. It
    rains. Go to the Doge's Palace, Ponte dei Sospiri, etc. Go to the
    Academy with Mr. and Mrs. Hoppner, and see some fine pictures. Call at
    Lord Byron's and see the _Farmaretta_.

    _Monday, September 28._--Go with Mrs. Hoppner and Cavaliere Mengaldo
    to the Library. Shopping. In the evening Lord Byron calls.

    _Tuesday, September 29._--Leave Venice, and arrive at Este at night.
    Clare is gone with the children to Padua.

    _Wednesday, September 30._--The chicks return. Transcribe _Mazeppa_.
    Go to the opera in the evening.

A quiet, sad fortnight at Este followed. An idle one it was not, for
Shelley not only wrote _Julian and Maddalo_, but worked on portions of
his drama of _Prometheus Unbound_, the idea of which had haunted him ever
since he came to Italy. Clare, for the time, was happy with her child.
Mary read several plays of Shakespeare and the lives of Alfieri and Tasso
in Italian.

On the 12th of October she arrived once more at Venice with Shelley. She
passed the greater part of her time there with the Hoppners, who were
exceedingly friendly. Shelley visited Byron several times, probably trying
to get an extension of leave for Allegra. In this, however, he must have
failed, as on the 24th he went to Este to fetch her, returning with her on
the 29th. Having restored the poor little girl to the Hoppners' care, he
and Mary went once more to Este, but this time only to prepare for
departure. On the 5th of November the whole party, including Elise (who
was not retained for Allegra's service), left the Villa Capuccini and
travelled by slow stages to Rome.

No further allusion to her recent bereavement is to be found in Mary's
journal. She attempted to behave like the Stoic her father had wished her
to be.[33] She had written to him of her affliction, and received the
following answer from the philosopher--

    SKINNER STREET, _27th October 1818_.

    MY DEAR MARY--I sincerely sympathise with you in the affliction which
    forms the subject of your letter, and which I may consider as the
    first severe trial of your constancy and the firmness of your temper
    that has occurred to you in the course of your life; you should,
    however, recollect that it is only persons of a very ordinary sort,
    and of a pusillanimous disposition, that sink long under a calamity of
    this nature. I assure you such a recollection will be of great use to
    you. We seldom indulge long in depression and mourning except when we
    think secretly that there is something very refined in it, and that it
    does us honour.

Such a homily, at such a time, must have made Mary feel like a person of a
very ordinary sort indeed. But she strove, only too hard, to carry out her
father's principles; for, by doing violence to her sensitive nature, she
might crush but could not kill it. The passionate impulses of her mother
were curiously mated in her with her father's reflective temperament; and
the noble courage which she inherited from Mary Wollstonecraft went hand
in hand with somewhat of Godwin's constitutional shrinking from any
manifestation of emotion. And the effect of determinate, excessive
self-restraint on a heart like hers was to render the crushed feelings
morbid in their acuteness, and to throw on her spirits a load of endurance
which was borne, indeed, but at ruinous cost, and operated largely, among
other causes, to make her seem cold when she was really suffering.

At such times it was not altogether well for her that she was Shelley's
companion. For, when his health and spirits were good, he craved and
demanded companionship,--personal, intellectual, playful,--companionship
of all sorts; but when they ebbed, when his vitality was low, when the
simultaneous exaltation of conception and labour of realisation--a
tremendous expenditure of force--was over, and left him shattered, shaken,
surprised at himself like one who in a dream falls from a height and
awakens with the shock,--tired, and yet dull,--then the one panacea for
him was animal spirits in some congenial acquaintance; whether a friend or
a previous stranger mattered little, provided the personality was
congenial and the spirits buoyant. Mary did her best, bravely and nobly.
But the loss of a child was one thing to Shelley, another thing to her.
She strove to overcome the low spirits from which she suffered. But
endurance, though more heroic than spontaneous cheerfulness, is not to be
compared with it in its benign effect on other people; nay, it may even
have a depressing effect when a yielding to emotion "of the ordinary sort"
may not. All these truths, however, do not become evident at once; like
other life-experience they have to be spelled out by slow and painful
degrees.

To seek for respite from grief or care in intellectual culture and the
acquisition of knowledge was instinctive and habitual both in Shelley and
in Mary. They visited Ferrara and Bologna, then travelled by a winding
road among the Apennines to Terni, where they saw the celebrated
waterfall--

    It put me in mind of Sappho leaping from a rock, and her form
    vanishing as in the shape of a swan in the distance.

    _Friday, November 20._--We travel all day the Campagna di Roma--a
    perfect solitude, yet picturesque, and relieved by shady dells. We see
    an immense hawk sailing in the air for prey. Enter Rome. A rainy
    evening. Doganas and cheating innkeepers. We at length get settled in
    a comfortable hotel.

After one week in Rome, during which they visited as many of the wonders
of the Eternal City as the time allowed, they journeyed on to Naples,
reading Montaigne by the way.

At Naples they remained for three months. Of their life there Mary's
journal gives no account; she confines herself almost entirely to noting
down the books they read, and one or two excursions. They lived in very
great seclusion, greater than was good for them, but Shelley suffered much
from ill-health, and not a little from its treatment by an unskilful
physician. They read incessantly,--Livy, Dante, Sismondi, Winkelmann, the
Georgics and Plutarch's _Lives_, _Gil Blas_, and _Corinne_. They left no
beautiful or interesting scene unvisited; they ascended Vesuvius, and
made excursions to Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Paestum.

On the 8th of December Mary records--

    Go on the sea with Shelley. Visit Capo Miseno, the Elysian Fields,
    Avernus, Solfatara. The Bay of Baiae is beautiful, but we are
    disappointed by the various places we visit.

The impression of the scene, however, remained after the temporary
disappointment had been forgotten, and she sketched it from memory many
years later in the fanciful introduction to her romance of _The Last Man_,
the story of which purports to be a tale deciphered from sibylline leaves,
picked up in the caverns.

Shelley, however, suffered from extreme depression, which, out of
solicitous consideration for Mary, he disguised as much as possible under
a mask of cheerfulness, insomuch that she never fully realised what he
endured at this time until she read the mournful poems written at Naples,
after he who wrote them had passed for ever out of sight.

She blamed herself then for what seemed to her her blindness,--for having
perhaps let slip opportunities of cheering him which she would have sold
her soul to recall when it was too late. That _he_, at the time, felt in
her no such want of sympathy or help is shown by his concluding words in
the advertisement of _Rosalind and Helen_, and _Lines written among the
Euganean Hills_, dated Naples, 20th December, where he says of certain
lines "which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency
by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise
in autumn on the highest peak of those delightful mountains," that, if
they were not erased, it was "at the request of a dear friend, with whom
added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and
who would have had more right than any one to complain that she has not
been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness."

Much of this sadness was due to physical suffering, but external causes of
anxiety and vexation were not wanting. One was the discovery of grave
misconduct on the part of their Italian servant, Paolo. An engagement had
been talked of between him and the Swiss nurse Elise, but the Shelleys,
who thought highly of Elise and by no means highly of Paolo, tried to
dissuade her from the idea. An illness of Elise's revealed the fact that
an illicit connection had been formed. The Shelleys, greatly distressed,
took the view that it would not do to throw Elise on the world without in
some degree binding Paolo to do his duty towards her, and they had them
married. How far this step was well-judged may be a matter of opinion.
Elise was already a mother when she entered the Shelleys service. Whether
a woman already a mother was likely to do better for being bound for life
to a man whom they "knew to be a rascal" may reasonably be doubted even by
those who hold the marriage-tie, as such, in higher honour than the
Shelleys did. But whether the action was mistaken or not, it was prompted
by the sincerest solicitude for Elise's welfare, a solicitude to be
repaid, at no distant date, by the basest ingratitude. Meanwhile Mary lost
her nurse, and, it may be assumed, a valuable one; for any one who studies
the history of this and the preceding years must see all three of the poor
doomed children throve as long as Elise was in charge of them.

Clare was ailing, and anxious too; how could it be otherwise? Just before
Allegra's third birthday, Mary received a letter from Mrs. Hoppner which
was anything but reassuring. It gave an unsatisfactory account of the
child, who did not thrive in the climate of Venice, and a still more
unsatisfactory account of Byron.

    Il faut esperer qu'elle se changera pour son mieux quand il ne sera
    plus si froid; mais je crois toujours que c'est tres malheureux que
    Miss Clairmont oblige cette enfant de vivre a Venise, dont le climat
    est nuisible en tout au physique de la petite, et vraiment, pour ce
    que fera son pere, je le trouve un peu triste d'y sacrifier l'enfant.
    My Lord continue de vivre dans une debauche affreuse qui tot ou tard
    le menera a sa ruine....

    Quant a moi, je voudrois faire tout ce qui est en mon pouvoir pour
    cette enfant, que je voudrois bien volontiers rendre aussi heureuse
    que possible le temps qu'elle restera avec nous; car je crains
    qu'apres elle devra toujours vivre avec des etrangers, indifferents a
    son sort. My Lord bien certainement ne la rendra jamais plus a sa
    mere; ainsi il n'y a rien de bon a esperer pour cette chere petite.

This letter, if she saw it, may well have made Clare curse the day when
she let Allegra go.

Still, after they returned to Rome at the beginning of March, a brighter
time set in.

    _Journal, Friday, March 5._--After passing over the beautiful hills of
    Albano, and traversing the Campagna, we arrive at the Holy City again,
    and see the Coliseum again.

      All that Athens ever brought forth wise,
      All that Afric ever brought forth strange,
      All that which Asia ever had of prize,
      Was here to see. Oh, marvellous great change!
      Rome living was the world's sole ornament;
      And dead, is now the world's sole monument.

    _Sunday, March 7._--Move to our lodgings. A rainy day. Visit the
    Coliseum. Read the Bible.

    _Monday, March 8._--Visit the Museum of the Vatican. Read the Bible.

    _Tuesday, March 9._--Shelley and I go to the Villa Borghese. Drive
    about Rome. Visit the Pantheon. Visit it again by moonlight, and see
    the yellow rays fall through the roof upon the floor of the temple.
    Visit the Coliseum.

    _Wednesday, March 10._--Visit the Capitol, and see the most divine
    statues.

Not one of the party but was revived and invigorated by the beauty and
overpowering interest of the surrounding scenes, and the delight of a
lovely Italian spring. To Shelley it was life itself.

    "The charm of the Roman climate," says Mrs. Shelley, "helped to clothe
    his thoughts in greater beauty than they had ever worn before. And as
    he wandered among the ruins, made one with nature in their decay, or
    gazed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol,
    and the palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of loveliness which
    became a portion of itself."

The visionary drama of _Prometheus Unbound_, which had haunted, yet eluded
him so long, suddenly took life and shape, and stood before him, a vivid
reality. During his first month at Rome he completed it in its original
three-act form. The fourth act was an afterthought, and was added at a
later date.

For a short, enchanted time--his health renewed, the deadening years
forgotten, his susceptibilities sharpened, not paralysed, by recent
grief--he gave himself up to the vision of the realisation of his
life-dream; the disappearance of evil from the earth.

    "He believed," wrote Mary Shelley, "that mankind had only to will that
    there should be no evil, and there would be none.... That man should
    be so perfectionised as to be able to expel evil from his own nature,
    and from the greater part of the creation was the cardinal point of
    his system. And the subject he loved best to dwell on, was the image
    of one warring with the Evil Principle, oppressed not only by it, but
    by all, even the good, who were deluded into considering evil a
    necessary portion of humanity. A victim full of fortitude and hope,
    and the spirit of triumph emanating from a reliance in the ultimate
    omnipotence of good."

    "This poem," he himself says, "was chiefly written upon the
    mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowers,
    glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees, which are
    extended in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense platforms and
    dizzy arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and
    the effect of the vigorous awakening of spring in that divinest
    climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirits even to
    intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama."[34]

And while he wrought and wove the radiant web of his poem, Mary, excited
to greatest enthusiasm by the treasures of sculpture at Rome, and infected
by the atmosphere of art around her, took up again her favourite pursuit
of drawing, which she had discontinued since going to Marlow, and worked
at it many hours a day, sometimes all day. She was writing, too; a
thoroughly congenial occupation, at once soothing and stimulating to her.
She studied the Bible, with the keen fresh interest of one who comes new
to it, and she read Livy and Montaigne.

Little William was thriving, and growing more interesting every day. His
beauty and promise and angelic sweetness made him the pet and darling of
all who knew him, while to his parents he was a perpetual source of ever
fresh and increasing delight. And his mother looked forward to the birth
in autumn of another little one who might, in some measure, fill the place
of her lost Clara.

Clare, who, also, was in better health, was not behindhand in energy or
industry. Music was her favourite pursuit; she took singing-lessons from a
good master and worked hard.

They led a somewhat less secluded life than at Naples, and at the house of
Signora Dionizi, a Roman painter and authoress (described by Mary Shelley
as "very old, very miserly, and very mean"), Mary and Clare, at any rate,
saw a little of Italian society. For this, however, Shelley did not care,
nor was he attracted by any of the few English with whom he came in
contact. Yet he felt his solitude. In April, when the strain of his work
was over, his spirits drooped, as usual; and he longed then for some
_congenial distraction_, some human help to bear the burden of life till
the moment of weakness should have passed. But the fount of inspiration,
the source of temporary elation and strength, had not been exhausted by
_Prometheus_.

On the 22d of April Mary notes--

    Visit the Palazzo Corunna, and see the picture of Beatrice Cenci.

The interest in the old idea was revived in him; he became engrossed in
the subject, and soon after his "lyrical drama" was done, he transferred
himself to this other, completely different work. There was no talk, now,
of passing it on to Mary, and indeed she may well have recoiled from the
unmitigated horrors of the tale. But, though he dealt with it himself,
Shelley still felt on unfamiliar ground, and, as he proceeded, he
submitted what he wrote to Mary for her judgment and criticism; the only
occasion on which he consulted her about any work of his during its
progress towards completion.

Late in April they made the acquaintance of one English (or rather, Irish)
lady, who will always be gratefully remembered in connection with the
Shelleys.

This was Miss Curran, a daughter of the late Irish orator, who had been a
friend of Godwin's, and to whose death Mary refers in one of her letters
from Marlow.[35]

Mary may, perhaps, have met her in Skinner Street; in any case, the old
association was one link between them, and another was afforded by
similarity in their present interests and occupations. Mary was very keen
about her drawing and painting. Miss Curran had taste, and some skill,
and was vigorously prosecuting her art-studies in Rome. Portrait painting
was her especial line, and each of the Shelley party, at different times,
sat to her; so that during the month of May they met almost daily, and
became well acquainted.

This new interest, together with the unwillingness to bring to an end a
time at once so peaceful and so fruitful, caused them once and again to
postpone their departure, originally fixed for the beginning of May. They
stayed on longer than it is safe for English people to remain in Rome. Ah!
why could no presentiment warn them of impending calamity? Could they,
like the Scottish witch in the ballad, have seen the fatal winding-sheet
creeping and clinging ever higher and higher round the wraith of their
doomed child, they would have fled from the face of Death. But they had no
such foreboding.

Not a fortnight after his portrait had been taken by Miss Curran, William
showed signs of illness. How it was that, knowing him to be so
delicate,--having learned by bitterest experience the danger of southern
heat to an English-born infant,--having, as early as April, suspected the
Roman air of causing "weakness and depression, and even fever" to Shelley
himself, how, after all this, they risked staying in Rome through May is
hard to imagine.

They were to pay for their delay with the best part of their lives.
William sickened on the 25th, but had so far recovered by the 30th that
his parents, though they saw they ought to leave Rome as soon as he was
fit to travel, were in no immediate anxiety about him, and were making
their summer plans quite in a leisurely way; Mary writing to ask Mrs.
Gisborne to help them with some domestic arrangements, begging her to
inquire about houses at Lucca or the Baths of Pisa, and to engage a
servant for her.

The journal for this and the following days runs--

    _Sunday, May 30._--Read Livy, and _Persiles and Sigismunda_. Draw.
    Spend the evening at Miss Curran's.

    _Monday, May 31._--Read Livy, and _Persiles and Sigismunda_. Draw.
    Walk in the evening.

    _Tuesday, June 1._--Drawing lesson. Read Livy. Walk by the Tiber.
    Spend the evening with Miss Curran.

    _Wednesday, June 2._--See Mr. Vogel's pictures. William becomes very
    ill in the evening.

    _Thursday, June 3._--William is very ill, but gets better towards the
    evening. Miss Curran calls.

Mary took this opportunity of begging her friend to write for her to Mrs.
Gisborne, telling her of the inevitable delay in their journey.

    ROME, _Thursday, 3d June 1819_.

    DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Mary tells me to write for her, for she is very
    unwell, and also afflicted. Our poor little William is at present
    very ill, and it will be impossible to quit Rome so soon as we
    intended. She begs you, therefore, to forward the letters here, and
    still to look for a servant for her, as she certainly intends coming
    to Pisa. She will write to you a day or two before we set out.

    William has a complaint of the stomach; but fortunately he is attended
    by Mr. Bell, who is reckoned even in London one of the first English
    surgeons.

    I know you will be glad to hear that both Mary and Mr. Shelley would
    be well in health were it not for the dreadful anxiety they now
    suffer.

      EMELIA CURRAN.

Two days after, Mary herself wrote a few lines to Mrs. Gisborne.

    _5th June 1819._

    William is in the greatest danger. We do not quite despair, yet we
    have the least possible reason to hope.

    I will write as soon as any change takes place. The misery of these
    hours is beyond calculation. The hopes of my life are bound up in
    him.--Ever yours affectionately,

      M. W. S.

    I am well, and so is Shelley, although he is more exhausted by
    watching than I am. William is in a high fever.

Sixty death-like hours did Shelley watch, without closing his eyes. Clare,
her own troubles forgotten in this moment of mortal suspense, was a
devoted nurse.

As for Mary, her very life ebbed with William's, but as yet she bore up.
There was no real hope from the first moment of the attack, but the poor
child made a hard struggle for life. Two more days and nights of anguish
and terror and deadly sinking of heart,--and then, in the blank page
following _June 4_, the last date entered in the diary, are the words--

    The journal ends here.--P. B. S.

On Monday, the 7th of June, at noonday, William died.




CHAPTER XII

JUNE 1819-SEPTEMBER 1820


It was not fifteen months since they had all left England; Shelley and
Mary with the sweet, blue-eyed "Willmouse," and the pretty baby, Clara, so
like her father; Clare and the "bluff, bright-eyed little Commodore,"
Allegra; the Swiss nurse and English nursemaid; a large and lively party,
in spite of cares and anxieties and sorrows to come. In one short,
spiritless paragraph Mary, on the 4th of August, summed up such history as
there was of the sad two months following on the blow which had left her
childless.

    _Journal, Wednesday, August 4, 1819, Leghorn_ (Mary).--I begin my
    journal on Shelley's birthday. We have now lived five years together;
    and if all the events of the five years were blotted out, I might be
    happy; but to have won and then cruelly to have lost, the associations
    of four years, is not an accident to which the human mind can bend
    without much suffering.

    Since I left home I have read several books of Livy, _Clarissa
    Harlowe_, the _Spectator_, a few novels, and am now reading the Bible,
    and Lucan's _Pharsalia_, and Dante. Shelley is to-day twenty-seven
    years of age. Write; read Lucan and the Bible. Shelley writes the
    _Cenci_, and reads Plutarch's _Lives_. The Gisbornes call in the
    evening. Shelley reads _Paradise Lost_ to me. Read two cantos of the
    _Purgatorio_.

Three days after William's death, Shelley, Mary, and Clare had left Rome
for Leghorn. Once more they were alone together--how different now from
the three heedless young things who, just five years before, had set out
to walk through France with a donkey!

Shelley, then, a creature of feelings and theories, full of unbalanced
impulses, vague aspirations and undeveloped powers; inexperienced in
everything but uncomprehended pain and the dim consciousness of
half-realised mistakes. Mary, the fair, quiet, thoughtful girl, earnest
and impassioned, calm and resolute, as ignorant of practical life as
precocious in intellect; with all her mind worshipping the same high
ideals as Shelley's, and with all her heart worshipping him as the
incarnation of them. Clare her very opposite; excitable and enthusiastic,
demonstrative and capricious, clever, but silly; with a mind in which a
smattering of speculative philosophy, picked up in Godwin's house,
contended for the mastery with such social wisdom as she had picked up in
a boarding school. Both of them mere children in years. Now poor Clare was
older without being much wiser, saddened yet not sobered; suffering
bitterly from her ambiguous position, yet unable or unwilling to put an
end to it; the worse by her one great error, which had brought her to dire
grief; the better by one great affection--for her child,--the source of
much sorrow, it is true, but also of truest joy of self-devotion, and the
only instrument of such discipline that ever she had.

Shelley had found what he wanted, the faithful heart which to his own
afforded peace and stability and the balance which, then, he so much
needed; a kindred mind, worthy of the best his had to give; knowing and
expecting that best, too, and satisfied with nothing short of it. And his
best had responded. In these few years he had realised powers the extent
of which could not have been foretold, and which might, without that
steady sympathy and support, have remained unfulfilled possibilities for
ever. In spite of the far-reaching consequences of his errors, in spite of
torturing memories, in spite of ill-health, anxiety, poverty, vexation,
and strife, the Shelley of _Queen Mab_ had become the Shelley of
_Prometheus Unbound_ and the _Cenci_.

Of this development he himself was conscious enough. In so far as he was
known to his contemporaries, it was only by his so-called atheistic
opinions, and his departures theoretical and actual, from conventional
social morality; and even these owed their notoriety, not to his genius,
but to the fact that they were such strange vagaries in the heir to a
baronetcy. In his new life he had, indeed, known the deepest grief as well
as the purest love, but those griefs which are memorial shrines of love
did not paralyse him. They were rather among the influences which elicited
the utmost possibilities of his nature; his lost children, as lovely
ideals, were only half lost to him.

But with Mary it was otherwise. Her occupation was gone. When after the
death of her first poor little baby, she wrote: "Whenever I am left alone
to my own thoughts, and do not read to divert them, they always come back
to the same point--that I was a mother, and am so no longer;" a new sense
was dawning in her which never had waned, and which, since William's
birth, had asserted itself as the key to her nature.

She had known very little of the realities of life when she left her
father's house with Shelley, and he, her first reality, belonged in many
ways more to the ideal than to the real world. But for her children, her
association with him, while immeasurably expanding her mental powers,
might have tended to develop these at the expense of her emotional nature,
and to starve or to stifle her human sympathies. In her children she found
the link which united her ideal love with the universal heart of mankind,
and it was as a mother that she learned the sweet charities of human
nature. This maternal love deepened her feelings towards her own father,
it gave her sympathy with Clare and helped towards patience with her, it
saved her from overmuch literary abstraction, and prevented her from
pining when Shelley was buried in dreams or engrossed in work, and she
loved these children with the unconscious passionate gratitude of a
reserved nature towards anything that constrains from it the natural
expression of that fund of tenderness and devotion so often hidden away
under a perversely undemonstrative manner. Now, in one short year, all
this was gone, and she sank under the blow of William's loss. She could
not even find comfort in the thought of the baby to be born in autumn,
for, after the repeated rending asunder of beloved ties, she looked
forward to new ones with fear and trembling, rather than with hope. The
physical reaction after the strain of long suspense and watching had told
seriously on her health, never strong at these times; the efforts she had
made at Naples were no longer possible to her. Even Clare with all her
misery was, in one sense, better off than she, for Allegra _lived_. She
tried to rise above her affliction, but her care for everything was gone;
the whole world seemed dull and indifferent. Poor Shelley, only too liable
to depression at all times, and suffering bitterly himself from the loss
of his beloved child, tried to keep up his spirits for Mary's sake.

  Thou sittest on the hearth of pale Despair,
      Where,
  For thine own sake, I cannot follow thee.

Perhaps the effort he thus made for her sake had a bracing effect on
himself, but the old Mary seemed gone,--lost,--and even he was powerless
to bring her back; she could not follow him; any approach of seeming
forgetfulness in others increased her depression and gloom.

The letter to Miss Curran, which follows, was written within three weeks
of William's death.

    LEGHORN, _27th June 1819_.

    MY DEAR MISS CURRAN--I wrote to you twice on our journey, and again
    from this place, but I found the other day that Shelley had forgotten
    to send the letter; and I have been so unwell with a cold these last
    two or three days that I have not been able to write. We have taken an
    airy house here, in the vicinity of Leghorn, for three months, and we
    have not found it yet too hot. The country around us is pretty, so
    that I daresay we shall do very well. I am going to write another
    stupid letter to you, yet what can I do? I no sooner take up my pen
    than my thoughts run away with me, and I cannot guide it except about
    _one_ subject, and that I must avoid. So I entreat you to join this to
    your many other kindnesses, and to excuse me. I have received the two
    letters forwarded from Rome. My father's lawsuit is put off until
    July. It will never be terminated. I hear that you have quitted the
    pestilential air of Rome, and have gained a little health in the
    country. Pray let us hear from you, for both Shelley and I are very
    anxious--more than I can express--to know how you are. Let us hear
    also, if you please, anything you may have done about the tomb, near
    which I shall lie one day, and care not, for my own sake, how soon. I
    never shall recover that blow; I feel it more than at Rome; the
    thought never leaves me for a single moment; everything on earth has
    lost its interest to me. You see I told you that I could only write to
    you on one subject; how can I, since, do all I can (and I endeavour
    very sincerely) I can think of no other, so I will leave off. Shelley
    is tolerably well, and desires his kindest remembrances.--Most
    affectionately yours,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

Their sympathetic friend, Leigh Hunt, grieved at the tone of her letters
and at Shelley's account of her, tried to convey to her a little kindly
advice and encouragement.

    8 YORK BUILDINGS, NEW ROAD.
    _July 1819._

    MY DEAR MARY--I was just about to write to you, as you will see by my
    letter to Shelley, when I received yours. I need not say how it
    grieves me to see you so dispirited. Not that I wonder at it under
    such sufferings; but I know, at least I have often suspected, that you
    have a tendency, partly constitutional perhaps, and partly owing to
    the turn of your philosophy, to look over-intensely at the dark side
    of human things; and they must present double dreariness through such
    tears as you are now shedding. Pray consent to take care of your
    health, as the ground of comfort; and cultivate your laurels on the
    strength of it. I wish you would strike your pen into some more genial
    subject (more obviously so than your last), and bring up a fountain of
    gentle tears for us. That exquisite passage about the cottagers shows
    what you could do.[36]

Mary received his counsels submissively, and would have carried them out
if she could. But her nervous prostration was beyond her own power to cure
or remove, and it was hard for others and impossible for herself to know
how far her dejected state was due to mental and how far to physical
causes.

Shelley was not, and dared not be, idle. He worked at his Tragedy and
finished it; many of the Fragments, too, belong to this time. They are the
speech of pain, but those who can teach in song what they learn in
suffering have much, very much to be thankful for. Mary persisted in
study; she even tried to write. But the spring of invention was low.

She exerted herself to send to Mrs. Hunt an account of their present life
and surroundings.

    LEGHORN, _28th August 1819_.

    MY DEAR MARIANNE--We are very dull at Leghorn, and I can therefore
    write nothing to amuse you. We live in a little country house at the
    end of a green lane, surrounded by a _podere_. These _poderi_ are just
    the things Hunt would like. They are like our kitchen-gardens, with
    the difference only that the beautiful fertility of the country gives
    them. A large bed of cabbages is very unpicturesque in England, but
    here the furrows are alternated with rows of grapes festooned on their
    supporters, and the hedges are of myrtle, which have just ceased to
    flower; their flower has the sweetest faint smell in the world, like
    some delicious spice. Green grassy walks lead you through the vines.
    The people are always busy, and it is pleasant to see three or four of
    them transform in one day a bed of Indian corn to one of celery. They
    work this hot weather in their shirts, or smock-frocks (but their
    breasts are bare), their brown legs nearly the colour, only with a
    rich tinge of red in it, of the earth they turn up. They sing, not
    very melodiously, but very loud, Rossini's music, "Mi rivedrai, ti
    rivedro," and they are accompanied by the _cicala_, a kind of little
    beetle, that makes a noise with its tail as loud as Johnny can sing;
    they live on trees; and three or four together are enough to deafen
    you. It is to the _cicala_ that Anacreon has addressed an ode which
    they call "To a Grasshopper" in the English translations.

    Well, here we live. I never am in good spirits--often in very bad; and
    Hunt's portrait has already seen me shed so many tears that, if it had
    his heart as well as his eyes, he would weep too in pity. But no more
    of this, or a tear will come now, and there is no use for that.

    By the bye, a hint Hunt gave about portraits. The Italian painters are
    very bad; they might make a nose like Shelley's, and perhaps a mouth,
    but I doubt it; but there would be no expression about it. They have
    no notion of anything except copying again and again their Old
    Masters; and somehow mere copying, however divine the original, does a
    great deal more harm than good.

    Shelley has written a good deal, and I have done very little since I
    have been in Italy. I have had so much to see, and so many vexations,
    independently of those which God has kindly sent to wean me from the
    world if I were too fond of it. Shelley has not had good health by any
    means, and, when getting better, fate has ever contrived something to
    pull him back. He never was better than the last month of his stay in
    Rome, except the last week--then he watched sixty miserable death-like
    hours without closing his eyes; and you may think what good that did
    him.

    We see the _Examiners_ regularly now, four together, just two months
    after the publication of the last. These are very delightful to us. I
    have a word to say to Hunt of what he says concerning Italian dancing.
    The Italians dance very badly. They dress for their dances in the
    ugliest manner; the men in little doublets, with a hat and feather;
    they are very stiff; nothing but their legs move; and they twirl and
    jump with as little grace as may be. It is not for their dancing, but
    their pantomime, that the Italians are famous. You remember what we
    told you of the ballet of _Othello_. They tell a story by action, so
    that words appear perfectly superfluous things for them. In that they
    are graceful, agile, impressive, and very affecting; so that I delight
    in nothing so much as a deep tragic ballet. But the dancing, unless,
    as they sometimes do, they dance as common people (for instance, the
    dance of joy of the Venetian citizens on the return of Othello), is
    very bad indeed.

    I am very much obliged to you for all your kind offers and wishes.
    Hunt would do Shelley a great deal of good, but that we may not think
    of; his spirits are tolerably good. But you do not tell me how you get
    on; how Bessy is, and where she is. Remember me to her. Clare is
    learning thorough bass and singing. We pay four crowns a month for her
    master, lessons three times a week; cheap work this, is it not? At
    Rome we paid three shillings a lesson and the master stayed two hours.
    The one we have now is the best in Leghorn.

    I write in the morning, read Latin till 2, when we dine; then I read
    some English book, and two cantos of Dante with Shelley. In the
    evening our friends the Gisbornes come, so we are not perfectly alone.
    I like Mrs. Gisborne very much indeed, but her husband is most
    dreadfully dull; and as he is always with her, we have not so much
    pleasure in her company as we otherwise should....

The neighbourhood of Mrs. Gisborne, "charming from her frank and
affectionate nature," and full of intellectual sympathy with the Shelleys,
was a boon indeed at this melancholy time. Through her Shelley was led to
the study of Spanish, and the appearance on the scene of Charles
Clairmont, who had just passed a year in Spain, was an additional stimulus
in this direction. Together they read several of Calderon's plays, from
which Shelley derived the greatest delight, and which enabled him for a
time to forget everyday life and its troubles. Another diversion to his
thoughts was the scheme of a steamboat which should ply between Leghorn
and Marseilles, to be constructed by Henry Reveley, mainly at Shelley's
expense. He was elated at promoting a project which he conceived to be of
great public usefulness and importance, and happy at being able to do a
friend a good turn. He followed every stage of the steamer's construction
with keen interest, and was much disappointed when the idea was given up,
as, after some months, it was; not, however, until much time, labour, and
money had been expended on it.

Mary, though she endeavoured to fill the blanks in her existence by
assiduous reading, could not escape care. Clare was in perpetual thirst
for news of her Allegra, and Godwin spared them none of his usual
complaints. He, too, was much concerned at the depressed tone of Mary's
letters, which seemed to him quite disproportionate to the occasion, and
thought it his duty to convince her, by reasoning, that she was not so
unhappy as she thought herself to be.

    SKINNER STREET, _9th September 1819_.

    MY DEAR MARY--Your letter of 19th August is very grievous to me,
    inasmuch as you represent me as increasing the degree of your
    uneasiness and depression.

    You must, however, allow me the privilege of a father and a
    philosopher in expostulating with you on this depression. I cannot
    but consider it as lowering your character in a memorable degree, and
    putting you quite among the commonalty and mob of your sex, when I had
    thought I saw in you symptoms entitling you to be ranked among those
    noble spirits that do honour to our nature. What a falling off is
    here! How bitterly is so inglorious a change to be deplored!

    What is it you want that you have not? You have the husband of your
    choice, to whom you seem to be unalterably attached, a man of high
    intellectual attainments, whatever I and some other persons may think
    of his morality, and the defects under this last head, if they be not
    (as you seem to think) imaginary, at least do not operate as towards
    you. You have all the goods of fortune, all the means of being useful
    to others, and shining in your proper sphere. But you have lost a
    child: and all the rest of the world, all that is beautiful, and all
    that has a claim upon your kindness, is nothing, because a child of
    two years old is dead.

    The human species may be divided into two great classes: those who
    lean on others for support, and those who are qualified to support. Of
    these last, some have one, some five, and some ten talents. Some can
    support a husband, a child, a small but respectable circle of friends
    and dependents, and some can support a world, contributing by their
    energies to advance their whole species one or more degrees in the
    scale of perfectibility. The former class sit with their arms crossed,
    a prey to apathy and languor, of no use to any earthly creature, and
    ready to fall from their stools if some kind soul, who might
    compassionate, but who cannot respect them, did not come from moment
    to moment and endeavour to set them up again. You were formed by
    nature to belong to the best of these classes, but you seem to be
    shrinking away, and voluntarily enrolling yourself among the worst.

    Above all things, I entreat you, do not put the miserable delusion on
    yourself, to think there is something fine, and beautiful, and
    delicate, in giving yourself up, and agreeing to be nothing. Remember
    too, though at first your nearest connections may pity you in this
    state, yet that when they see you fixed in selfishness and ill
    humour, and regardless of the happiness of every one else, they will
    finally cease to love you, and scarcely learn to endure you.

    The other parts of your letter afford me much satisfaction. Depend
    upon it, there is no maxim more true or more important than this;
    Frankness of communication takes off bitterness. True philosophy
    invites all communication, and withholds none.

Such a letter tended rather to check frankness of communication than to
bind up a broken heart. Poor Mary's feelings appear in her letter to Miss
Curran, with whom she was in correspondence about a monumental stone for
the tomb in Rome.

    The most pressing entreaties on my part, as well as Clare's, cannot
    draw a single line from Venice. It is now six months since we have
    heard, even in an indirect manner, from there. God knows what has
    happened, or what has not! I suppose Shelley must go to see what has
    become of the little thing; yet how or when I know not, for he has
    never recovered from his fatigue at Rome, and continually frightens me
    by the approaches of a dysentery. Besides, we must remove. My lying-in
    and winter are coming on, so we are wound up in an inextricable
    dilemma. This is very hard upon us; and I have no consolation in any
    quarter, for my misfortune has not altered the tone of my Father's
    letters, so that I gain care every day. And can you wonder that my
    spirits suffer terribly? that time is a weight to me? And I see no end
    to this. Well, to talk of something more interesting, Shelley has
    finished his tragedy, and it is sent to London to be presented to the
    managers. It is still a _deep secret_, and only one person, Peacock
    (who presents it), knows anything about it in England. With Shelley's
    public and private enemies, it would certainly fall if known to be
    his; his sister-in-law alone would hire enough people to damn it. It
    is written with great care, and we are in hopes that its story is
    sufficiently polished not to shock the audience. We shall see.
    Continue to direct to us at Leghorn, for if we should be gone, they
    will be faithfully forwarded to us. And when you return to Rome just
    have the kindness to inquire if there should be any stray letter for
    us at the post-office. I hope the country air will do you real good.
    You must take care of yourself. Remember that one day you will return
    to England, and that you may be happier there.--Affectionately yours,

      M. W. S.

At the end of September they removed to Florence, where they had engaged
pleasant lodgings for six months. The time of Mary's confinement was now
approaching, an event, in Shelley's words, "more likely than any other to
retrieve her from some part of her present melancholy depression."

They travelled by short, easy stages; stopping for a day at Pisa to pay a
visit to a lady with whom from this time their intercourse was frequent
and familiar. This was Lady Mountcashel, who had, when a young girl, been
Mary Wollstonecraft's pupil, and between whom and her teacher so warm an
attachment had existed as to arouse the jealousy and dislike of her
mother, Lady Kingsborough. She had long since been separated from Lord
Mountcashel, and lived in Italy with a Mr. Tighe and their two daughters,
Laura and Nerina. As Lady Mountcashel she had entertained Godwin at her
house during his visit to Ireland after his first wife's death. She is
described by him as a remarkable person, "a republican and a democrat in
all their sternness, yet with no ordinary portion either of understanding
or good nature." In dress and appearance she was somewhat singular, and
had that disregard for public opinion on such matters which is habitually
implied in the much abused term "strong-minded." In this respect she had
now considerably toned down. Her views on the relations of the sexes were
those of William Godwin, and she had put them into practice. But she and
the gentleman with whom she lived in permanent, though irregular, union
had succeeded in constraining, by their otherwise exemplary life, the
general respect and esteem. They were known as "Mr. and Mrs. Mason," and
had so far lived down criticism that their actual position had come to be
ignored or forgotten by those around them. Mr. Tighe, or "Tatty," as he
was familiarly called by his few intimates, was of a retiring disposition,
a lover of books and of solitude. Mrs. Mason was as remarkable for her
strong practical common sense as for her talents and cultivation and the
liberality of her views. She had a considerable knowledge of the world,
and was looked up to as a model of good breeding, and an oracle on matters
of deportment and propriety.

She had kept up correspondence with Godwin, and her acquaintance with the
Shelleys was half made before she saw them. She conceived an immediate
affection for Mary, as well for her own as for her mother's sake, and was
to prove a constant and valuable friend, not to her only, but to Shelley,
and most especially to Clare.

After a week in Florence, Mary's journal was resumed.

    _Saturday, October 9._--Arrive at Florence. Read Massinger. Shelley
    begins Clarendon; reads Massinger, and Plato's _Republic_. Clare has
    her first singing lesson on Saturday. Go to the opera and see a
    beautiful ballet

    _Monday, October 11._--Read Horace; work. Go to the Gallery. Shelley
    finishes the first volume of Clarendon. Read the _Little Thief_.

    _Wednesday, October 20._--Finish the First Book of Horace's Odes.
    Work, walk, read, etc. On Saturday letters are sent to England. On
    Tuesday one to Venice. Shelley visits the Galleries. Reads Spenser and
    Clarendon aloud.

    _Thursday, October 28._--Work; read; copy _Peter Bell_. Monday night a
    great fright with Charles Clairmont. Shelley reads Clarendon aloud and
    _Plato's Republic_. Walk. On Thursday the protest from the Bankers.
    Shelley writes to them, and to Peacock, Longdill, and H. Smith.

    _Tuesday, November 9._--Read Madame de Sevigne. Bad news from London.
    Shelley reads Clarendon aloud, and Plato. He writes to Papa.

On the 12th of November a son was born to the Shelleys, and brought the
first true balm of consolation to his poor mother's heart.

    "You may imagine," wrote Shelley to Leigh Hunt, "that this is a great
    relief and a great comfort to me amongst all my misfortunes.... Poor
    Mary begins (for the first time) to look a little consoled; for we
    have spent, as you may imagine, a miserable five months."

The child was healthy and pretty, and very like William. Neither Mary's
strength nor her spirits were altogether re-established for some time, but
the birth of "Percy Florence" was, none the less, the beginning of a new
life for her. She turned, with the renewed energy of hope, to her literary
work and studies. One of her first tasks was to transcribe the just
written fourth act of _Prometheus Unbound_. She had work of her own on
hand too; a historical novel, _Castruccio, Prince of Lucca_ (afterwards
published as _Valperga_), a laborious but very congenial task, which
occupied her for many months.

And indeed all the solace of new and tender ties, all the animating
interest of intellectual pursuits, was sorely needed to counteract the
wearing effect of harassing cares and threatening calamities. Godwin was
now being pressed for the accumulated unpaid house-rent of many years; so
many that, when the call came, it was unexpected by him, and he challenged
its justice. He had engaged in a law-suit on the matter, which he
eventually lost. The only point which appeared to admit of no reasonable
doubt was that Shelley would shortly be called upon to find a large sum of
money for him, and this at a time when he was himself in unexpected
pecuniary straits, owing to the non-arrival of his own remittances from
England--a circumstance rendered doubly vexatious by the fact that a large
portion of the money was pledged to Henry Reveley for the furtherance of
his steamboat. A draft for L200, destined for this purpose, was returned,
protested by Shelley's bankers. And though the money was ultimately
recovered, its temporary loss caused no small alarm. Meanwhile every mail
brought letters from Godwin of the most harrowing nature; the philosophy
which he inculcated in a case of bereavement was null and void where
impending bankruptcy was concerned. He well knew how to work on his
daughter's feelings, and he did not spare her. Poor Shelley was at his
wits' end.

    "Mary is well," he wrote (in December) to the Gisbornes; "but for this
    affair in London I think her spirits would be good. What shall I, what
    can I, what ought I to do? You cannot picture to yourself my
    perplexity."

It appeared not unlikely that he might even have to go to England, a
journey for which his present state of health quite unfitted him, and
which he could not but be conscious would be no permanent remedy, but only
a temporary alleviation, of Godwin's thoroughly unsound circumstances.
Mary, in her grief for her father, began to think that the best thing for
him might be to leave England altogether and settle abroad; an idea from
which Mrs. Mason, with her strong sagacity, earnestly dissuaded her.

Her views on the point were expressed in a letter to Shelley Mary had
written asking her if she could give Charles Clairmont any introductions
at Vienna, where he had now gone to seek his fortune as a teacher of
languages; and also begging for such assistance as she might be able to
lend in the matter of obtaining access to historical documents or other
MS. bearing on the subjects of Mary's projected novel.

    MRS. MASON TO SHELLEY.

    MY DEAR SIR--I deferred answering your letter till this post in hopes
    of being able to send some recommendations for your friend at Vienna,
    in which I have been disappointed; and I have now also a letter from
    my dear Mary; so I will answer both together. It gives me great
    pleasure to hear such a good account of the little boy and his
    mother.... I am sorry to perceive that your visit to Pisa will be so
    much retarded; but I admire Mary's courage and industry. I sincerely
    regret that it is not in my power to be of service to her in this
    undertaking.... All I can say is, that when you have got all you can
    there (where I suppose the manuscript documents are chiefly to be
    found) and that you come to this place, I have scarcely any doubt of
    being able to obtain for you many books on the subject which interests
    you. Probably everything in print which relates to it is as easy to be
    had here as at Florence.... I am very sorry indeed to think that Mr.
    Godwin's affairs are in such a bad way, and think he would be much
    happier if he had nothing to do with trade; but I am afraid he would
    not be comfortable out of England. You who are young do not mind the
    thousand little wants that men of his age are not habituated to; and
    I, who have been so many years a vagabond on the face of the earth,
    have long since forgotten them; but I have seen people of my age much
    discomposed at the absence of long-accustomed trifles; and though
    philosophy supports in great matters, it seldom vanquishes the small
    everydayisms of life. I say this that Mary may not urge her father too
    much to leave England. It may sound odd, but I can't help thinking
    that Mrs. Godwin would enjoy a tour in foreign countries more than he
    would. The physical inferiority of women sometimes teaches them to
    support or overlook little inconveniences better than men.

           *       *       *       *       *

    "I am very sorry," she writes to Mary in another letter, "to find you
    still suffer from low spirits. I was in hopes the little boy would
    have been the best remedy for that. Words of consolation are but empty
    sounds, for to time alone it belongs to wear out the tears of
    affliction. However, a woman who gives milk should make every exertion
    to be cheerful on account of the child she nourishes."

Whether the plan for Godwin's expatriation was ever seriously proposed to
him or not, it was, at any rate, never carried out. But none the less for
this did the Shelleys live in the shadow of his gloom, which co-operated
with their own pecuniary strait, previously alluded to, and with the
nipping effects of an unwontedly severe winter, to make life still
difficult and dreary for them.

    "Shelley Calderonised on the late weather," wrote Mary to Mrs.
    Gisborne; "he called it an epic of rain with an episode of frost, and
    a few similes concerning fine weather. We have heard from England,
    although not from the Bankers; but Peacock's letter renders the affair
    darker than ever. Ah! my dear friend, you, in your slow and sure way
    of proceeding, ought hardly to have united yourself to our eccentric
    star. I am afraid that you will repent it, and it grieves us both more
    than you can imagine that all should have gone so ill; but I think we
    may rest assured that this is delay, and not loss; it can be nothing
    else. I write in haste--a carriage at the door to take me out, and
    _Percy_ asleep on my knee. Adieu. Charles is at Vienna by this
    time."...

They had intended remaining six months at Florence, but the place suited
Shelley so ill that they took advantage of the first favourable change in
the weather, at the end of January, to remove to Pisa, where the climate
was milder, and where they now had pleasant friends in the Masons at "Casa
Silva." They wished, too, to consult the celebrated Italian surgeon,
Vacca, on the subject of Shelley's health. Vacca's advice took the shape
of an earnest exhortation to him to abstain from drugs and remedies, to
live a healthy life, and to leave his complaint, as far as possible, to
nature. And, though he continued liable to attacks of pain and illness,
and on one occasion had a severe nervous attack, the climate of Pisa
proved in the end more suitable to him than any other, and for more than
two years he remained there or in the immediate neighbourhood. He and Mary
were never more industrious than at this time; reading extensively, and
working together on a translation of Spinoza they had begun at Florence,
and which occupied them, at intervals, for many months. Little Percy, a
most healthy and satisfactory infant, had in March an attack of measles,
but so slight as to cause no anxiety. Once, however, during the summer
they had a fright about him, when an unusually alarming letter from her
father upset Mary so much as to cause in her nursling, through her,
symptoms of an illness similar to that which had destroyed little Clara.
On this occasion she authorised Shelley, at his earnest request, to
intercept future letters of the kind, an authority of which he had to
avail himself at no distant date, telling Godwin that his domestic peace,
Mary's health and happiness, and his child's life, could no longer be
entirely at his mercy.

No wonder that his own nervous ailments kept their hold of him. And to
make matters better for him and for Mary, Paolo, the rascally Italian
servant whom they had dismissed at Naples, now concocted a plot for
extorting money from Shelley by accusing him of frightful crimes. Legal
aid had to be called in to silence him. To this end they employed an
attorney of Leghorn, named Del Rosso, and, for convenience of
communication, they occupied for a few weeks Casa Ricci, the Gisbornes'
house there, the owners being absent in England. Shelley made Henry
Reveley's workshop his study. Hence he addressed his poetical "Letter to
Maria Gisborne," and here too it was that "on a beautiful summer evening
while wandering among the lanes, whose myrtle hedges were the bowers of
the fireflies (they) heard the carolling of the skylark, which inspired
one of the most beautiful of his poems."[37]

If external surroundings could have made them happy they might have been
so now, but Shelley, though in better health, was very nervous. Paolo's
scandal and the legal affair embittered his life, to an extent difficult
indeed to estimate, for it is certain that for some one else's sake,
though _whose_ sake has never transpired, he had accepted when at Naples
responsibilities at once delicate and compromising. Paolo had knowledge of
the matter, and used this knowledge partly to revenge himself on Shelley
for dismissing him from his service, partly to try and extort money from
him by intimidation. The Shelleys hoped they had "crushed him" with Del
Rosso's help, but they could not be certain, because, as Mary wrote to
Miss Curran, they "could only guess at his accomplices." With Shelley in a
state of extreme nervous irritability, with Mary deprived of repose by her
anguish on her father's account and her feverish anxiety to help him, with
Clare unsettled and miserable about Allegra, venting her misery by writing
to Byron letters unreasonable and provoking, though excusable, and then
regretting having sent them, they were not likely to be the most cheerful
or harmonious of trios.

The weather became intolerably hot by the end of August, and they migrated
to Casa Prinni, at the Baths of S. Giuliano di Pisa. The beauty of this
place, and the delightful climate, refreshed and invigorated them all.
They spent two or three days in seeing Lucca and the country around, when
Shelley wrote the _Witch of Atlas_. Exquisite poem as it is, it was, in
Mary's mood of the moment, a disappointment to her. Ever since the _Cenci_
she had been strongly impressed with the conviction that if he could but
write on subjects of universal _human_ interest, instead of indulging in
those airy creations of fancy which demand in the reader a sympathetic,
but rare, quality of imagination, he would put himself more in touch with
his contemporaries, who so greatly misunderstood him, and that, once he
had elicited a responsive feeling in other men, this would be a source of
profound happiness and of fresh and healthy inspiration to himself. "I
still think I was right," she says, woman-like, in the _Notes to the Poems
of 1820_, written long after Shelley's death. So from one point of view
she undoubtedly was, but there are some things which cannot be
constrained. Shelley was Shelley, and at the moment when he was moved to
write a poem like the _Witch of Atlas_, it was useless to wish that it
had been something quite different.

His next poem was to be inspired by a human subject, and perhaps then poor
Mary would have preferred a second Witch of Atlas.




CHAPTER XIII

SEPTEMBER 1820-AUGUST 1821


The baths were of great use to Shelley in allaying his nervous
irritability. Such an improvement in him could not be without a
corresponding beneficial effect on Mary. In the study of Greek, which she
had begun with him at Leghorn, she found a new and wellnigh inexhaustible
fund of intellectual pleasure. Their life, though very quiet, was somewhat
more varied than it had been at Leghorn, partly owing to their being
within easy reach of Pisa and of their friends at Casa Silva.

The Gisbornes had returned from England, and, during a short absence of
Clare's, Mary tried, but ineffectually, to persuade Mrs. Gisborne to come
and occupy her room for a time. Some circumstance had arisen which led
shortly after to a misunderstanding between the two families, soon over,
but painful while it lasted. It was probably connected with the
abandonment of the projected steamboat; Henry Reveley, while in England,
having changed his mind and reconsidered his future plans.

In October a curiously wet season set in.

    _Journal, Wednesday, October 18._--Rain till 1 o'clock. At sunset the
    arch of cloud over the west clears away; a few black islands float in
    the serene; the moon rises; the clouds spot the sky, but the depth of
    heaven is clear. The nights are uncommonly warm. Write. Shelley reads
    _Hyperion_ aloud. Read Greek.

      My thoughts arise and fade in solitude;
      The verse that would invest them melts away
      Like moonlight in the heaven of spreading day.
      How beautiful they were, how firm they stood,
      Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl.

    _Friday, October 20._--Shelley goes to Florence. Write. Read Greek.
    Wind N.W., but more cloudy than yesterday, yet sometimes the sun
    shines out; the wind high. Read Villani.

    _Saturday, October 21._--Rain in the night and morning; very cloudy;
    not an air stirring; the leaves of the trees quite still. After a
    showery morning it clears up somewhat, and the sun shines. Read
    Villani, and ride to Pisa.

    _Sunday, October 22._--Rainy night and rainy morning; as bad weather
    as is possible in Italy. A little patience and we shall have St.
    Martin's summer. At sunset the arch of clear sky appears where it
    sets, becoming larger and larger, until at 7 o'clock the dark clouds
    are alone over Monte Nero; Venus shines bright in the clear azure, and
    the trunks of the trees are tinged with the silvery light of the
    rising moon. Write, and read Villani. Shelley returns with Medwin.
    Read _Sismondi_.

Of Tom Medwin, Shelley's cousin and great admirer, who now for the first
time appeared on the scene, they were to see, if anything, more than they
wished.

He was a lieutenant on half-pay, late of the 8th Dragoons; much addicted
to literature, and with no mean opinion of his own powers in that line.

    _Journal, Tuesday, October 24._--Rainy night and morning; it does not
    rain in the afternoon. Shelley and Medwin go to Pisa. Walk; write.

    _Wednesday, October 25._--Rain all night. The banks of the Serchio
    break, and by dark all the baths are overflowed. Water four feet deep
    in our house. "The weather fine."

This flood brought their stay at the Baths to a sudden end. As soon as
they could get lodgings they returned to Pisa. Here, not long after,
Medwin fell ill, and was six weeks invalided in their house. They showed
him the greatest kindness; Shelley nursing him like a brother. His society
was, for a time, a tolerably pleasant change; he knew Spanish, and read
with Shelley a great deal in that language, but he had no depth or breadth
of mind, and his literary vanity and egotism made him at last what Mary
Shelley described as a _seccatura_, for which the nearest English
equivalent is, a bore.

    _Journal, Sunday, November 12._--Percy's birthday. A divine day; sunny
    and cloudless; somewhat cold in the evening. It would be pleasant
    enough living in Pisa if one had a carriage and could escape from
    one's house to the country without mingling with the inhabitants, but
    the Pisans and the Scolari, in short, the whole population, are such
    that it would sound strange to an English person if I attempted to
    express what I feel concerning them--crawling and crab-like through
    their sapping streets. Read _Corinne_. Write.

    _Monday, November 13._--Finish _Corinne_. Write. My eyes keep me from
    all study; this is very provoking.

    _Tuesday, November 14._--Write. Read Homer, Targione, and Spanish. A
    rainy day. Shelley reads Calderon.

    _Thursday, November 23._--Write. Read Greek and Spanish. Medwin ill.
    Play at chess.

    _Friday, November 24._--Read Greek, Villani, and Spanish with M....
    Pacchiani in the evening. A rainy and cloudy day.

    _Friday, December 1._--Read Greek, _Don Quixote_, Calderon, and
    Villani. Pacchiani comes in the evening. Visit La Viviani. Walk.
    Sgricci is introduced. Go to a _funzione_ on the death of a student.

    _Saturday, December 2._--Write an Italian letter to Hunt. Read
    _Oedipus_, _Don Quixote_, and Calderon. Pacchiani and a Greek prince
    call--Prince Mavrocordato.

In these few entries occur four new and remarkable names. Pacchiani, who
had been, if he was not still, a university professor, but who was none
the less an adventurer and an impostor; in orders, moreover, which only
served as a cloak for his hypocrisy; clever withal, and eloquent; well
knowing where, and how, to ingratiate himself. He amused, but did not
please the Shelleys. He was, however, one of those people who know
everybody, and through him they made several acquaintances; among them the
celebrated Improvisatore, Sgricci, and the young Greek statesman and
patriot, Prince Alexander Mavrocordato. With the improvisations of
Sgricci, his eloquence, his _entrain_, both Mary and Clare were fairly
carried away with excitement. Older, experienced folk looked with a more
critical eye on his performances, but to these English girls the
exhibition was an absolute novelty, and seemed inspired. Sgricci was
during this winter a frequent visitor at "Casa Galetti."

Prince Mavrocordato proved deeply interesting, both to Mary and Shelley.
He "was warmed by those aspirations for the independence of his country
which filled the hearts of many of his countrymen," and in the revolution
which, shortly afterwards, broke out there, he was to play an important
part, as one of the foremost of modern Greek statesmen. To him, at a
somewhat later date, was dedicated Shelley's lyrical drama of _Hellas_;
"as an imperfect token of admiration, sympathy, and friendship."

This new acquaintance came to Mary just when her interest in the Greek
language and literature was most keen. Before long the prince had
volunteered to help her in her studies, and came often to give her Greek
lessons, receiving instruction in English in return.

    "Do you not envy my luck," she wrote to Mrs. Gisborne, "that having
    begun Greek, an amiable, young, agreeable, and learned Greek prince
    comes every morning to give me a lesson of an hour and a half. This is
    the result of an acquaintance with Pacchiani. So you see, even the
    Devil has his use."

The acquaintance with Pacchiani had already had another and a yet more
memorable result, which affected Mary none the less that it did so
indirectly. Through him they had come to know Emilia Viviani, the noble
and beautiful Italian girl, immured by her father in a convent at Pisa
until such time as a husband could be found for her who would take a wife
without a dowry. Shelley's acquaintance with Emilia was an episode, which
at one time looked like an era, in his existence. An era in his poetry it
undoubtedly was, since it is to her that the _Epipsychidion_ is addressed.

Mary and Clare were the first to see the lovely captive, and were struck
with astonishment and admiration. But on Shelley the impression she made
was overwhelming, and took possession of his whole nature. Her
extraordinary beauty and grace, her powers of mind and conversation,
warmed by that glow of genius so exclusively southern, another variety of
which had captivated them all in Sgricci, and which to northern minds
seems something phenomenal and inspired,--these were enough to subdue any
man, and, when added to the halo of interest shed around her by her
misfortunes and her misery, made her, to Shelley, irresistible.

All his sentiments, when aroused, were passions; he pitied, he
sympathised, he admired and venerated passionately; he scorned, hated, and
condemned passionately too. But he never was swayed by any love that did
not excite his imagination: his attachments were ever in proportion to
the power of idealisation evoked in him by their objects. And never,
surely, was there a subject for idealisation like Emilia; the Spirit of
Intellectual Beauty in the form of a goddess; the captive maiden waiting
for her Deliverer; the perfect embodiment of immortal Truth and
Loveliness, held in chains by the powers of cruelty, tyranny, and
hypocrisy.

She was no goddess, poor Emilia, as indeed he soon found out; only a
lovely young creature of vivid intelligence and a temperament in which
Italian ardour was mingled with Italian subtlety; every germ of sentiment
magnified and intensified in outward effect by fervour of manner and
natural eloquence; the very reverse of human nature in the north, where
depth of feeling is apt to be in proportion to its inveterate dislike of
discovery, where warmth can rarely shake off self-consciousness, and where
many of the best men and women are so much afraid of seeming a whit better
than they really are, that they take pains to appear worse. Rightly
balanced, the whole sum of Emilia's gifts and graces would have weighed
little against Mary's nobleness of heart and unselfish devotion; her
talents might not even have borne serious comparison with Clare's
vivacious intellect. But to Shelley, haunted by a vision of perfection,
and ever apt to recognise in a mortal image "the likeness of that which
is, perhaps, eternal,"[38] she seemed a revelation, and, like all
revelations, supreme, unique, superseding for the time every other
possibility. It was a brief madness, a trance of inspiration, and its
duration was counted only by days. They met for the first time early in
December. By the 10th she was corresponding with him as her _diletto
fratello_. Before the month was over _Epipsychidion_ had been written.

Before the middle of January he could write of her--

    My conception of Emilia's talents augments every day. Her moral nature
    is fine, but not above circumstances; yet I think her tender and true,
    which is always something. How many are only one of these things at a
    time!...

    There is no reason that you should fear any admixture of that which
    you call _love_....

This was written to Clare. She had very quickly become intimate and
confidential with Emilia, and estimated her to a nicety at her real worth,
admiring her without idealising her or caring to do so. She knew Shelley
pretty intimately too, and, being personally unconcerned in the matter,
could afford at once to be sympathetic and to speak her mind fearlessly;
the consequence being that Shelley was unconstrained in communication with
her.

That _Mary_ should be his most sympathetic confidant at this juncture was
not in the nature of things. She, too, had begun by idealising Emilia,
but her affection and enthusiastic admiration were soon outdone and might
well have been quenched by Shelley's rapt devotion. She did not
misunderstand him, she knew him too well for that, but the better she
understood him the less it was possible for her to feel with him; nor
could it have been otherwise unless she had been really as cold as she
sometimes appeared. Loyal herself, she never doubted Shelley's loyalty,
but she suffered, though she did not choose to show it: her love, like a
woman's,--perhaps even more than most women's--was exclusive; Shelley's,
like a man's,--like many of the best of men's,--inclusive.

She did not allow her feelings to interfere with her actions. She
continued to show all possible sympathy and kindness to Emilia, who in
return would style her her dearest, loveliest friend and sister. No
wonder, however, if at times Mary could not quite overcome a slight
constraint of manner, or if this was increased when her dearest sister,
with sweet unconsciousness, would openly probe the wound her pride would
fain have hidden from herself; when Emilia, for instance, wrote to
Shelley--

    Mary does not write to me. Is it possible that she loves me less than
    the others do? I should indeed be inconsolable at that.

Or to be informed in a letter to herself that this constraint of manner
had been talked over by Emilia with Shelley, who had assured her that
Mary's apparent coldness was only "the ash which covered an affectionate
heart."

He was right, indeed, and his words were the faithful echo of his own true
heart. He might have added, of himself, that his transient enthusiasms
resembled the soaring blaze of sparks struck by a hammer from a glowing
mass of molten metal.

But, in everyday prose, the situation was a trying one for Mary, and
surely no wife of two and twenty could have met it more bravely and simply
than she did.

    "It is grievous," she wrote to Leigh Hunt, "to see this beautiful girl
    wearing out the best years of her life in an odious convent, where
    both mind and body are sick from want of the appropriate exercise for
    each. I think she has great talent, if not genius; or if not an
    internal fountain, how could she have acquired the mastery she has of
    her own language, which she writes so beautifully, or those ideas
    which lift her so far above the rest of the Italians? She has not
    studied much, and now, hopeless from a five years' confinement,
    everything disgusts her, and she looks with hatred and distaste even
    on the alleviations of her situation. Her only hope is in a marriage
    which her parents tell her is concluded, although she has never seen
    the person intended for her. Nor do I think the change of situation
    will be much for the better, for he is a younger brother, and will
    live in the house with his mother, who they say is _molto seccante_.
    Yet she may then have the free use of her limbs; she may then be able
    to walk out among the fields, vineyards, and woods of her country,
    and see the mountains and the sky, and not as now, a dozen steps to
    the right, and then back to the left another dozen, which is the
    longest walk her convent garden affords, and that, you may be sure,
    she is very seldom tempted to take."

By the middle of February Shelley was sending his poem for publication,
speaking of it as the production of "a part of himself already dead." He
continued, however, to take an almost painful interest in Emilia's fate;
she, poor girl, though not the sublime creature he had thought her, was
infinitely to be pitied. Before their acquaintance ended, she was turning
it to practical account, after the fashion of most of Shelley's friends,
by begging for and obtaining considerable sums of money.

If Mary then indulged in a little retrospective sarcasm to her friend,
Mrs. Gisborne, it is hardly wonderful. Indeed, later allusions are not
wanting to show that this time was felt by her to be one of annoyance and
bitterness.

Two circumstances were in her favour. She was well, and, therefore,
physically able to look at things in their true light; and, during a great
part of the time, Clare was away. In the previous October, during their
stay at the Baths, she had at last resolved on trying to make out some
sort of life for herself, and had taken a situation as governess in a
Florentine family. She had come back to the Shelleys for the month of
December (when it was that she became acquainted with Emilia Vivani), but
had returned to Florence at Christmas.

She had been persuaded to this step by the judicious Mrs. Mason, who had
soon perceived the strained relations existing between Mary and Clare, and
had seen, too, that the disunion was only the natural and inevitable
result of circumstances. It was not only that the two girls were of
opposite and jarring temperament; there was also the fact that half the
suspicious mistrust with Shelley was regarded by those who did not
personally know him, and the shadow of which rested on Mary too, was
caused by Clare's continued presence among them. As things were now, it
might have passed without remark, but for the scandalous reports which
dated back to the Marlow days, and which had recently been revived by the
slanders of Paolo, although the extent of these slanders had not yet
transpired. Shelley had been alive enough to the danger at one time, but
had now got accustomed and indifferent to it. He had a great affection and
a great compassion for Clare; her vivacity enlivened him; he said himself
that he liked her although she teased him, and he certainly missed her
teasing when she was away. But Mary, to whom Clare's perpetual society was
neither a solace nor a change, and who, as the mother of children, could
no longer look at things from a purely egotistic point of view, must have
felt it positively unjust and wrong to allow their father's reputation to
be sacrificed--to say nothing of her own--to what was in no wise a
necessity. Shelley loved solitude--a mitigated solitude that is;--he
certainly did not pine for general society. Yet many of his letters bear
unmistakable evidence to the pain and resentment he felt at being
universally shunned by his own countrymen, as if he were an enemy of the
human race. But Mary, a woman, and only twenty-two, must have been
self-sufficient indeed if, with all her mental resources, she had not
required the renovation of change and contrast and varied intercourse, to
keep her mind and spirit fresh and bright, and to fit her for being a
companion and a resource to Shelley. That she and he were condemned to
protracted isolation was partly due to Clare, and when Mary was weak and
dejected, her consciousness of this became painful, and her feeling
towards the sprightly, restless Miss Clairmont was touched with positive
antipathy. Shelley, considering Clare the weaker party, supported her, in
the main, and certainly showed no desire to have her away. He might have
seen that to impose her presence on Mary in such circumstances was, in
fact, as great a piece of tyranny as he had suffered from when Eliza
Westbrook was imposed on him. But of this he was, and he remained,
perfectly unconscious. Clare ought to have retired from the field, but her
dependent condition, and her wretched anxiety about Allegra, were her
excuse for clinging to the only friends she had.

All this was evident to Mrs. Mason, and it was soon shown that she had
judged rightly, as the relations between Mary and Clare became cordial and
natural once they were relieved from the intolerable friction of daily
companionship.

During this time of excitement and unrest one new acquaintance had,
however, begun, which circumstances were to develop into a close and
intimate companionship.

In January there had arrived at Pisa a young couple of the name of
Williams; mainly attracted by the desire to see and to know Shelley, of
whose gifts and virtues and sufferings they had heard much from Tom
Medwin, their neighbour in Switzerland the year before. Lieutenant Edward
Elliker Williams had been, first, in the Navy, then in the Army; had met
his wife in India, and, returning with her to England, had sold his
commission and retired on half-pay. He was young, of a frank
straightforward disposition and most amiable temper, modest and
unpretentious, with some literary taste, and no strong prejudices. Jane
Williams was young and pretty, gentle and graceful, neither very
cultivated nor particularly clever, but with a comfortable absence of
angles in her disposition, and an abundance of that feminine tact which
prevents intellectual shortcomings from being painfully felt, and which
is, in its way, a manifestation of genius. Not an uncommon type of woman,
but quite new in the Shelleys' experience. At first they thought her
rather wanting in animation, and Shelley was conscious of her lack of
literary refinement, but these were more and more compensated for, as time
went on, by her natural grace and her taste for music. "Ned" was something
of an artist, and Mary Shelley sat more than once to him for her portrait.
There was, in short, no lack of subjects in common, and the two young
couples found a mutual pleasure in each other's society which increased in
measure as they became better acquainted.

In March poor Clare received with bitter grief the intelligence that her
child had been placed by Byron in a convent, at Bagnacavallo, not far from
Ravenna, where he now lived. Under the sway of the Countess Guiccioli,
whose father and brother were domesticated in his house, he was leading
what, in comparison with his Venetian existence, was a life of
respectability and virtue. His action with regard to Allegra was
considered by the Shelleys as, probably, inevitable in the circumstances,
but to Clare it was a terrible blow. She felt more hopelessly separated
from her child than ever, and she had seen enough of Italian convent
education and its results to convince her that it meant moral and
intellectual degradation and death. Her despairing representations to this
effect were, of course, unanswered by Byron, who contented himself with a
Mephistophelian sneer in showing her letter to the Hoppners.

With the true "malignity of those who turn sweet food into poison,
transforming all they touch to the malignity of their own natures,"[39] he
had no hesitation in giving credit to the reports about Clare's life in
the Shelleys' family, nor in openly implying his own belief in their
probable truth.

But for this, and for one great alarm caused by the sudden and
unaccountable stoppage of Shelley's income (through a mistake which
happily was discovered and speedily rectified by his good friend, Horace
Smith), the spring was, for Mary, peaceful and bright. She was assiduous
in her Greek studies, and keenly interested in the contemporary European
politics of that stirring time; as full of sympathy as Shelley himself
could be with the numerous insurrectionary outbreaks in favour of liberty.
And when the revolution in Greece broke out, and one bright April morning
Prince Mavrocordato rushed in to announce to her the proclamation of
Prince Hypsilantes, her elation and joy almost equalled his own.

In companionship with the Williams', aided and abetted by Henry Reveley,
Shelley's old passion for boating revived. In the little ten-foot long
boat procured for him for a few pauls, and then fitted up by Mr. Reveley,
they performed many a voyage, on the Arno, on the canal between Pisa and
Leghorn, and even on the sea. Their first trip was marked by an
accident--Williams contriving to overturn the boat. Nothing daunted,
Shelley declared next day that his ducking had added fire to, instead of
quenching, the nautical ardour which produced it, and that he considered
it a good omen to any enterprise that it began in evil, as making it more
likely that it would end in good.

All these events are touched on in the few specimen extracts from Mary's
journal and letters which follow--

    _Wednesday, January 31._--Read Greek. Call on Emilia Viviani. Shelley
    reads the _Vita Nuova_ aloud to me in the evening.

    _Friday, February 2._--Read Greek. Write. Emilia Viviani walks out
    with Shelley. The Opera, with the Williams' (_Il Matrimonio Segreto_).

    _Tuesday, February 6._--Read Greek. Sit to Williams. Call on Emilia
    Viviani. Prince Mavrocordato in the evening. A long metaphysical
    argument.

    _Wednesday, February 7._--Read Greek. Sit to Williams. In the evening
    the Williams', Prince Mavrocordato, and Mr. Taafe.

    _Monday, February 12._--Read Greek (no lesson). Finish the _Vita
    Nuova_. In the afternoon call on Emilia Viviani. Walk. Mr. Taafe
    calls.

    _Thursday, February 27._--Read Greek. The Williams to dine with us.
    Walk with them. Il Diavolo Pacchiani calls. Shelley reads "The Ancient
    Mariner" aloud.

    _Saturday, March 4._--Read Greek (no lesson). Walk with the Williams'.
    Read Horace with Shelley in the evening. A delightful day.

    _Sunday, March 5._--Read Greek. Write letters. The Williams' to dine
    with us. Walk with them. Williams relates his history. They spend the
    evening with us, with Prince Mavrocordato and Mr. Taafe.

    _Thursday, March 8._--Read Greek (no lesson). Call on Emilia Viviani.
    E. Williams calls. Shelley reads _The Case is Altered_ of Ben Jonson
    aloud in the evening. A mizzling day and rainy night.... March winds
    and rains are begun, the last puff of winter's breath,--the eldest
    tears of a coming spring; she ever comes in weeping and goes out
    smiling.

    _Monday, March 12._--Read Greek (no lesson). Finish the _Defence of
    Poetry_. Copy for Shelley; he reads to me the _Tale of a Tub_. A
    delightful day after a misty morning.

    _Wednesday, March 14._--Read Greek (no lesson). Copy for Shelley. Walk
    with Williams. Prince Mavrocordato in the evening. I have an
    interesting conversation with him concerning Greece. The second
    bulletin of the Austrians published. A sirocco, but a pleasant
    evening,

    _Friday, March 16._--Read Greek. Copy for Shelley. Walk with Williams.
    Mrs. Williams confined. News of the Revolution of Piedmont, and the
    taking of the citadel of Candia by the Greeks. A beautiful day, but
    not hot.

    _Sunday, March 18._--Read Greek. Copy for Shelley. A sirocco and
    mizzle. Bad news from Naples. Walk with Williams. Prince Mavrocordato
    in the evening.

    _Monday, March 26._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato. Finish the
    _Antigone_. A mizzling day. Spend the evening at the Williams'.

    _Wednesday, March 28._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato. Call on Emilia
    Viviani. Walk with Williams. Mr. Taafe in the evening. A fine day,
    though changeful as to clouds and wind. The State of Massa declares
    the Constitution. The Piedmontese troops are at Sarzana.

    _Sunday, April 1._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato calls with news
    about Greece. He is as gay as a caged eagle just free. Call on Emilia
    Viviani. Walk with Williams; he spends the evening with us.

    _Monday, April 2._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato calls with the
    proclamation of Ipsilanti. Write to him. Ride with Shelley into the
    Cascini. A divine day, with a north-west wind. The theatre in the
    evening. Tachinardi.

    _Wednesday, April 11._--Read Greek, and _Osservatore Fiorentino_. A
    letter that overturns us.[40] Walk with Shelley. In the evening
    Williams and Alex. Mavrocordato.

    _Friday, April 13._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato calls.
    _Osservatore Fiorentino_. Walk with the Williams'. Shelley at Casa
    Silva in the evening. An explanation of our difficulty.

    _Monday, April 16._--Write. Targioni. Read Greek. Mrs. Williams to
    dinner. In the evening Mr. Taafe. A wet morning: in the afternoon a
    fierce maestrale. Shelley, Williams, and Henry Reveley try to come up
    the canal to Pisa; miss their way, are capsized, and sleep at a
    contadino's.

    _Tuesday, April 24._--Read Greek. Alex. Mavrocordato. Hume. Villani.
    Walk with the Williams'. Alex. M. calls in the evening, with good news
    from Greece. The Morea free.

They now migrated once more to the beautiful neighbourhood of the Baths of
San Giuliano di Pisa; the Williams' established themselves at Pugnano,
only four miles off: the canal fed by the Serchio ran between the two
places, and the little boat was in constant requisition.

      Our boat is asleep on Serchio's stream,
      Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
      The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
      Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,
      And the oars, and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast,
      Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.[41]

    The canal which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full
    and picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered
    by trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day,
    multitudes of ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the
    fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the _cicale_, at
    noonday, kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It
    was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and
    inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more
    and more attached to the part of the country where chance appeared to
    cast us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm, situated on the height
    of one of the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods and
    overlooking a wide extent of country; or of settling still further in
    the maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and
    unfinished poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions
    around us. It is the nature of that poetry, however, which overflows
    from the soul, oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it
    is when oppressed by the weight of life and away from those he loves,
    that the poet has recourse to the solace of expression in verse.[42]


    _Journal, Thursday, May 3._--Read Villani. Go out in boat; call on
    Emilia Viviani. Walk with Shelley. In the evening Alex. Mavrocordato,
    Henry Reveley, Dancelli, and Mr. Taafe.

    _Friday, May 4._--Read Greek. (Alex. M.) Read Villani. Shelley goes to
    Leghorn by sea with Henry Reveley.

    _Tuesday, May 8._--Packing. Read Greek (Alex. Mavrocordato). Shelley
    goes to Leghorn. In the evening walk with Alex. M. to Pugnano. See the
    Williams; return to the Baths. Shelley and Henry Reveley come. The
    weather quite April; rain and sunshine, and by no means warm.

    _Saturday, June 23._--Abominably cold weather--rain, wind, and
    cloud--quite an Italian November or a Scotch May. Shelley and Williams
    go to Leghorn. Write. Read and finish Malthus. Begin the answer.[43]
    Jane (Williams) spends the day here, and Edward returns in the
    evening. Read Greek.

    _Sunday, June 24._--Write. Read the _Answer to Malthus_. Finish it.
    Shelley at Leghorn.

    _Monday, June 25._--Little babe not well. Shelley returns. The
    Williams call. Read old plays. Vacca calls.

    _Tuesday, June 26._--Babe well. Write. Read Greek. Shelley not well.
    Mr. Taafe and Granger dine with us. Walk with Shelley. Vacca calls.
    Alex. Mavrocordato sails.

    _Thursday, June 28._--Write. Read Greek. Read Mackenzie's works. Go to
    Pugnano in the boat. The warmest day this month. Fireflies in the
    evening.

They were near enough to Pisa to go over there from time to time to see
Emilia and other friends, and for Prince Mavrocordato to come frequently
and give them the latest political news: the Greek lessons had been
voluntarily abjured by Mary when it seemed probable that the Prince might
be summoned at any moment to play an active part in the affairs of his
country, as actually happened in June. Shelley was still tormented by the
pain in his side, but his health and spirits were insensibly improving, as
he himself afterwards admitted. He was occupied in writing _Hellas_; his
elegy on Keats's death, _Adonais_ also belongs to this time. Ned Williams,
infected by the surrounding atmosphere of literature, had tried his
'prentice hand on a drama. In the words of his own journal--

    Went in the summer to Pugnano--passed the first three months in
    writing a play entitled _The Promise, or a year, a month, and a day_.
    S. tells me if they accept it he has great hopes of its success before
    an audience, and his hopes always enliven mine.

Mary was straining every nerve to finish _Valperga_, in the hope of being
able to send it to England by the Gisbornes, who were preparing to leave
Italy,--a hope, however, which was not fulfilled.

    MARY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    BATHS OF S. GIULIANO,
    _30th June 1821_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Well, how do you get on? Mr. Gisborne says
    nothing of that in the note which he wrote yesterday, and it is that
    in which I am most interested.

    I pity you exceedingly in all the disagreeable details to which you
    are obliged to sacrifice your time and attention. I can conceive no
    employment more tedious; but now I hope it is nearly over, and that as
    the fruit of its conclusion you will soon come to see us. Shelley is
    far from well; he suffers from his side and nervous irritation. The
    day on which he returned from Leghorn he found little Percy ill of a
    fever produced by teething. He got well the next day, but it was so
    strong while it lasted that it frightened us greatly. You know how
    much reason we have to fear the deceitful appearance of perfect
    health. You see that this, your last summer in Italy, is manufactured
    on purpose to accustom you to the English seasons.

    It is warmer now, but we still enjoy the delight of cloudy skies. The
    "Creator" has not yet made himself heard. I get on with my occupation,
    and hope to finish the rough transcript this month. I shall then give
    about a month to corrections, and then I shall transcribe it. It has
    indeed been a child of mighty slow growth since I first thought of it
    in our library at Marlow. I then wanted the body in which I might
    embody my spirit. The materials for this I found at Naples, but I
    wanted other books. Nor did I begin it till a year afterwards at Pisa;
    it was again suspended during our stay at your house, and continued
    again at the Baths. All the winter I did not touch it, but now it is
    in a state of great forwardness, since I am at page 71 of the third
    volume. It has indeed been a work of some labour, since I have read
    and consulted a great many books. I shall be very glad to read the
    first volume to you, that you may give me your opinion as to the
    conduct and interest of the story. June is now at its last gasp. You
    talked of going in August, I hope therefore that we may soon expect
    you. Have you heard anything concerning the inhabitants of Skinner
    Street? It is now many months since I received a letter, and I begin
    to grow alarmed. Adieu.--Ever sincerely yours,

      MARY W. S.

On the 26th of July the Gisbornes came to pay their friends a short
farewell visit; on the 29th they started for England; Shelley going with
them as far as Florence, where he and Mary thought again of settling for
the winter, and where he wished to make inquiries about houses. During his
few days' absence the Williams' were almost constantly with Mary. Edward
Williams was busy painting a portrait of her in miniature, intended by
her as a surprise for Shelley on his birthday, the 4th of August. But when
that day arrived Shelley was unavoidably absent. On his return to the
Baths he had found a letter from Lord Byron, with a pressing invitation to
visit him at Ravenna, whence Byron was on the point of departing to join
Countess Guiccioli and her family, who had been exiled from the Roman
States for Carbonarism, and who, for the present, had taken refuge at
Florence.

Shelley's thoughts turned at once, as they could not but do, to poor
little Allegra, in her convent of Bagnacavallo. What was to become of her?
Where would or could she be sent? or was she to be conveniently forgotten
and left behind? He was off next day, the 3d; paid a flying visit to
Clare, who was staying for her health at Leghorn, and arrived at Ravenna
on the 6th.

The miniature was finished and ready for him on his birthday. Mary, alone
on that anniversary, was fain to look back over the past eventful seven
years,--their joys, their sorrows, their many changes. Not long before,
she had said, in a letter to Clare, "One is not gay, at least I am not,
but peaceful, and at peace with all the world." The same tone
characterises the entry in her journal for 4th August.

    Shelley's birthday. Seven years are now gone; what changes! what a
    life! We now appear tranquil, yet who knows what wind----but I will
    not prognosticate evil; we have had enough of it. When Shelley came to
    Italy I said, all is well, if it were permanent; it was more passing
    than an Italian twilight. I now say the same. May it be a Polar day,
    yet that, too, has an end.




CHAPTER XIV

AUGUST-NOVEMBER 1821


From Bologna Shelley wrote to Mary an amusing account of his journey, so
far. But this letter was speedily followed by another, written within a
few hours of his arrival at Ravenna; a letter, this second one, to make
Mary's blood run cold, although it is expressed with all the calmness and
temperance that Shelley could command.

    RAVENNA, _7th August 1821_.

    MY DEAREST MARY--I arrived last night at 10 o'clock, and sate up
    talking with Lord Byron until 5 this morning. I then went to sleep,
    and now awake at 11, and having despatched my breakfast as quick as
    possible, mean to devote the interval until 12, when the post departs,
    to you.

    Lord Byron is very well, and was delighted to see me. He has, in fact,
    completely recovered his health, and lives a life totally the reverse
    of that which he led at Venice. He has a permanent sort of _liaison_
    with Contessa Guiccioli, who is now at Florence, and seems from her
    letters to be a very amiable woman. She is waiting there until
    something shall be decided as to their emigration to Switzerland or
    stay in Italy, which is yet undetermined on either side. She was
    compelled to escape from the Papal territory in great haste, as
    measures had already been taken to place her in a convent, where she
    would have been unrelentingly confined for life. The oppression of the
    marriage contract, as existing in the laws and opinions of Italy,
    though less frequently exercised, is far severer than that of England.
    I tremble to think of what poor Emilia is destined to.

    Lord Byron had almost destroyed himself in Venice; his state of
    debility was such that he was unable to digest any food; he was
    consumed by hectic fever, and would speedily have perished, but for
    this attachment, which has reclaimed him from the excesses into which
    he threw himself, from carelessness rather than taste. Poor fellow! he
    is now quite well, and immersed in politics and literature. He has
    given me a number of the most interesting details on the former
    subject, but we will not speak of them in a letter. Fletcher is here,
    and as if, like a shadow, he waxed and waned with the substance of his
    master, Fletcher also has recovered his good looks, and from amidst
    the unseasonable gray hairs a fresh harvest of flaxen locks has put
    forth.

    We talked a great deal of poetry and such matters last night, and, as
    usual, differed, and I think more than ever. He affects to patronise a
    system of criticism fit for the production of mediocrity, and,
    although all his fine poems and passages have been produced in
    defiance of this system, yet I recognise the pernicious effects of it
    in the _Doge of Venice_, and it will cramp and limit his future
    efforts, however great they may be, unless he gets rid of it. I have
    read only parts of it, or rather, he himself read them to me, and gave
    me the plan of the whole.

    Allegra, he says, is grown very beautiful, but he complains that her
    temper is violent and imperious. He has no intention of leaving her in
    Italy; indeed, the thing is too improper in itself not to carry
    condemnation along with it. Contessa Guiccioli, he says, is very fond
    of her; indeed, I cannot see why she should not take care of it, if
    she is to live as his ostensible mistress. All this I shall know more
    of soon.

    Lord Byron has also told me of a circumstance that shocks me
    exceedingly, because it exhibits a degree of desperate and wicked
    malice, for which I am at a loss to account. When I hear such things
    my patience and my philosophy are put to a severe proof, whilst I
    refrain from seeking out some obscure hiding-place, where the
    countenance of man may never meet me more. It seems that _Elise_,
    actuated either by some inconceivable malice for our dismissing her,
    or bribed by my enemies, has persuaded the Hoppners of a story so
    monstrous and incredible that they must have been prone to believe any
    evil to have believed such assertions upon such evidence. Mr. Hoppner
    wrote to Lord Byron to state this story as the reason why he declined
    any further communications with us, and why he advised him to do the
    same. Elise says that Claire was my mistress; that is very well, and
    so far there is nothing new; all the world has heard so much, and
    people may believe or not believe as they think good. She then
    proceeds further to say that Claire was with child by me; that I gave
    her the most violent medicine to procure abortion; that this not
    succeeding she was brought to bed, and that I immediately tore the
    child from her and sent it to the Foundling Hospital,--I quote Mr.
    Hoppner's words,--and this is stated to have taken place in the winter
    after we left Este. In addition, she says that both Claire and I
    treated you in the most shameful manner; that I neglected and beat
    you, and that Claire never let a day pass without offering you insults
    of the most violent kind, in which she was abetted by me.

    As to what Reviews and the world say, I do not care a jot, but when
    persons who have known me are capable of conceiving of me--not that I
    have fallen into a great error, as would have been the living with
    Claire as my mistress--but that I have committed such unutterable
    crimes as destroying or abandoning a child, and that my own! Imagine
    my despair of good! Imagine how it is possible that one of so weak and
    sensitive a nature as mine can run further the gauntlet through this
    hellish society of men! _You_ should write to the Hoppners a letter
    refuting the charge, in case you believe and know, and can prove that
    it is false, stating the grounds and proof of your belief. I need not
    dictate what you should say, nor, I hope, inspire you with warmth to
    rebut a charge which you only can effectually rebut. If you will send
    the letter to me here, I will forward it to the Hoppners. Lord Byron
    is not up. I do not know the Hoppners' address, and I am anxious not
    to lose a post.

      P. B. S.

Mary's feelings on the perusal of this letter may be faintly imagined by
those who read it now, and who know what manner of woman she actually was.
They are expressed, as far as they could be expressed, in the letter
which, in accordance with Shelley's desire, and while still smarting under
the first shock of grief and profound indignation, she wrote off to Mrs.
Hoppner, and enclosed in a note to Shelley himself.

    MARY TO SHELLEY.

    MY DEAR SHELLEY--Shocked beyond all measure as I was, I instantly
    wrote the enclosed. If the task be not too dreadful, pray copy it for
    me; I cannot.

    Read that part of your letter that contains the accusation. I tried,
    but I could not write it. I think I could as soon have died. I send
    also Elise's last letter: enclose it or not, as you think best.

    I wrote to you with far different feelings last night, beloved friend,
    our barque is indeed "tempest tost," but love me as you have ever
    done, and God preserve my child to me, and our enemies shall not be
    too much for us. Consider well if Florence be a fit residence for us.
    I love, I own, to face danger, but I would not be imprudent.

    Pray get my letter to Mrs. Hoppner copied for a thousand reasons.
    Adieu, dearest! Take care of yourself--all yet is well. The shock for
    me is over, and I now despise the slander; but it must not pass
    uncontradicted. I sincerely thank Lord Byron for his kind
    unbelief.--Affectionately yours,

      M. W. S.

    Do not think me imprudent in mentioning E.'s[44] illness at Naples. It
    is well to meet facts. They are as cunning as wicked. I have read over
    my letter; it is written in haste, but it were as well that the first
    burst of feeling should be expressed.


    PISA, _10th August 1821_.

    MY DEAR MRS. HOPPNER--After a silence of nearly two years I address
    you again, and most bitterly do I regret the occasion on which I now
    write. Pardon me that I do not write in French; you understand English
    well, and I am too much impressed to shackle myself in a foreign
    language; even in my own my thoughts far outrun my pen, so that I can
    hardly form the letters. I write to defend him to whom I have the
    happiness to be united, whom I love and esteem beyond all living
    creatures, from the foulest calumnies; and to you I write this, who
    were so kind, and to Mr. Hoppner, to both of whom I indulged the
    pleasing idea that I have every reason to feel gratitude. This is
    indeed a painful task. Shelley is at present on a visit to Lord Byron
    at Ravenna, and I received a letter from him to-day, containing
    accounts that make my hand tremble so much that I can hardly hold the
    pen. It tells me that Elise wrote to you, relating the most hideous
    stories against him, and that you have believed them. Before I speak
    of these falsehoods, permit me to say a few words concerning this
    miserable girl. You well know that she formed an attachment with Paolo
    when we proceeded to Rome, and at Naples their marriage was talked of.
    We all tried to dissuade her; we knew Paolo to be a rascal, and we
    thought so well of her. An accident led me to the knowledge that
    without marrying they had formed a connection. She was ill; we sent
    for a doctor, who said there was danger of a miscarriage, I would not
    throw the girl on the world without in some degree binding her to this
    man. We had them married at Sir R. A. Court's. She left us, turned
    Catholic at Rome, married him, and then went to Florence. After the
    disastrous death of my child we came to Tuscany. We have seen little
    of them, but we have had knowledge that Paolo has formed a scheme of
    extorting money from Shelley by false accusations. He has written him
    threatening letters, saying that he would be the ruin of him, etc. We
    placed them in the hands of a celebrated lawyer here, who has done
    what he can to silence him. Elise has never interfered in this, and
    indeed the other day I received a letter from her, entreating, with
    great professions of love, that I would send her money. I took no
    notice of this, but although I know her to be in evil hands, I would
    not believe that she was wicked enough to join in his plans without
    proof. And now I come to her accusations, and I must indeed summon all
    my courage whilst I transcribe them, for tears will force their way,
    and how can it be otherwise?

    You know Shelley, you saw his face, and could you believe them?
    Believe them only on the testimony of a girl whom you despised? I had
    hoped that such a thing was impossible, and that although strangers
    might believe the calumnies that this man propagated, none who had
    ever seen my husband could for a moment credit them.

    He says Claire was Shelley's mistress, that--upon my word I solemnly
    assure you that I cannot write the words. I send you a part of
    Shelley's letter that you may see what I am now about to refute, but I
    had rather die than copy anything so vilely, so wickedly false, so
    beyond all imagination fiendish.

    But that you should believe it! That my beloved Shelley should stand
    thus slandered in your minds--he, the gentlest and most humane of
    creatures--is more painful to me, oh! far more painful than words can
    express. Need I say that the union between my husband and myself has
    ever been undisturbed? Love caused our first imprudence--love, which,
    improved by esteem, a perfect trust one in the other, a confidence and
    affection which, visited as we have been by severe calamities (have we
    not lost two children?), has increased daily and knows no bounds. I
    will add that Claire has been separated from us for about a year. She
    lives with a respectable German family at Florence. The reasons for
    this were obvious: her connection with us made her manifest as the
    Miss Clairmont, the mother of Allegra; besides we live much alone, she
    enters much into society there, and, solely occupied with the idea of
    the welfare of her child, she wished to appear such that she may not
    be thought in after times to be unworthy of fulfilling the maternal
    duties. You ought to have paused before you tried to convince the
    father of her child of such unheard-of atrocities on her part. If his
    generosity and knowledge of the world had not made him reject the
    slander with the ridicule it deserved, what irretrievable mischief you
    would have occasioned her. Those who know me well believe my simple
    word--it is not long ago that my father said in a letter to me that he
    had never known me utter a falsehood,--but you, easy as you have been
    to credit evil, who may be more deaf to truth--to you I swear by all
    that I hold sacred upon heaven and earth, by a vow which I should die
    to write if I affirmed a falsehood,--I swear by the life of my child,
    by my blessed, beloved child, that I know the accusations to be false.
    But I have said enough to convince you, and are you not convinced? Are
    not my words the words of truth? Repair, I conjure you, the evil you
    have done by retracting your confidence in one so vile as Elise, and
    by writing to me that you now reject as false every circumstance of
    her infamous tale.

    You were kind to us, and I will never forget it; now I require
    justice. You must believe me, and do me, I solemnly entreat you, the
    justice to confess you do so.

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

    I send this letter to Shelley at Ravenna, that he may see it, for
    although I ought, the subject is too odious to me to copy it. I wish
    also that Lord Byron should see it; he gave no credit to the tale, but
    it is as well that he should see how entirely fabulous it is.

Shelley, meanwhile, never far from her in thought, and knowing only too
well how acutely she would suffer from all this, was writing to her
again.

    SHELLEY TO MARY.

    MY DEAREST MARY--I wrote to you yesterday, and I begin another letter
    to-day without knowing exactly when I can send it, as I am told the
    post only goes once a week. I daresay the subject of the latter half
    of my letter gave you pain, but it was necessary to look the affair in
    the face, and the only satisfactory answer to the calumny must be
    given by you, and could be given by you alone. This is evidently the
    source of the violent denunciations of the _Literary Gazette_, in
    themselves contemptible enough, and only to be regarded as effects
    which show us their cause, which, until we put off our mortal nature,
    we never despise--that is, the belief of persons who have known and
    seen you that you are guilty of crimes. A certain degree and a certain
    kind of infamy is to be borne, and, in fact, is the best compliment
    which an exalted nature can receive from a filthy world, of which it
    is its hell to be a part, but this sort of thing exceeds the measure,
    and even if it were only for the sake of our dear Percy, I would take
    some pains to suppress it. In fact it shall be suppressed, even if I
    am driven to the disagreeable necessity of prosecuting him before the
    Tuscan tribunals....

           *       *       *       *       *

    Write to me at Florence, where I shall remain a day at least, and send
    me letters, or news of letters. How is my little darling? and how are
    you, and how do you get on with your book? Be severe in your
    corrections, and expect severity from me, your sincere admirer. I
    flatter myself you have composed something unequalled in its kind, and
    that, not content with the honours of your birth and your hereditary
    aristocracy, you will add still higher renown to your name. Expect me
    at the end of my appointed time. I do not think I shall be detained.
    Is Claire with you? or is she coming? Have you heard anything of my
    poor Emilia, from whom I got a letter the day of my departure, saying
    that her marriage was deferred for a very short time, on account of
    the illness of her Sposo? How are the Williams', and Williams
    especially? Give my very kindest love to them.

    Lord Byron has here splendid apartments in the house of his mistress's
    husband, who is one of the richest men in Italy. _She_ is divorced,
    with an allowance of 1200 crowns a year--a miserable pittance from a
    man who has 120,000 a year. Here are two monkeys, five cats, eight
    dogs, and ten horses, all of whom (except the horses) walk about the
    house like the masters of it. Tita, the Venetian, is here, and
    operates as my valet; a fine fellow, with a prodigious black beard,
    and who has stabbed two or three people, and is one of the most
    good-natured-looking fellows I ever saw.

    We have good rumours of the Greeks here, and a Russian war. I hardly
    wish the Russians to take any part in it. My maxim is with Aeschylus:
    [Greek: to dyssebes--meta men pleiona tiktei, sphetera d'eikota
    genna].

           *       *       *       *       *

    There is a Greek exercise for you. How should slaves produce anything
    but tyranny, even as the seed produces the plant? Adieu, dear
    Mary.--Yours affectionately,

      S.

At Ravenna there was only a weekly post. Shelley had to wait a long time
for Mary's answer, and before it could reach him he was writing to her yet
a third time. His mind was now full of Allegra. She was not to be left
alone in Italy. Shelley, enlightened by Emilia Viviani, had been able to
give Byron, on the subject of convents, such information as to "shake his
faith in the purity of these receptacles." But no conclusions of any sort
had been arrived at as to her future; and Shelley entreated Mary to rack
her brains, to inquire of all her friends, to leave no stone unturned, if
by any possibility she could find some fitting asylum, some safe home for
the lovely child. He had been to see the little girl at her convent, and
all readers of his letters know the description of the fairy creature,
who, with her "contemplative seriousness, mixed with excessive vivacity,
seemed a thing of a higher and a finer order" than the children around
her; happy and well cared for, as far as he could judge; pale, but
lovelier and livelier than ever, and full of childish glee and fun.

At this point of his letter Mary's budget arrived, and Shelley continued
as follows--

    RAVENNA, _Thursday_.

    I have received your letter with that to Mrs. Hoppner. I do not
    wonder, my dearest friend, that you should have been moved. I was at
    first, but speedily regained the indifference which the opinion of
    anything or anybody, except our own consciousness, amply merits, and
    day by day shall more receive from me. I have not recopied your
    letter, such a measure would destroy its authenticity, but have given
    it to Lord Byron, who has engaged to send it with his own comments to
    the Hoppners. People do not hesitate, it seems, to make themselves
    panders and accomplices to slander, for the Hoppners had exacted from
    Lord Byron that these accusations should be concealed from _me_: Lord
    Byron is not a man to keep a secret, good or bad, but in openly
    confessing that he has not done so he must observe a certain delicacy,
    and therefore wished to send the letter himself, and, indeed, this
    adds weight to your representations. Have you seen the article in the
    _Literary Gazette_ on me? They evidently allude to some story of this
    kind. However cautious the Hoppners have been in preventing the
    calumniated person from asserting his justification, you know too much
    of the world not to be certain that this was the utmost limit of their
    caution. So much for nothing.

    Lord Byron is immediately coming to Pisa. He will set off the moment I
    can get him a house. Who would have imagined this?... What think you
    of remaining at Pisa? The Williams' would probably be induced to stay
    there if we did; Hunt would certainly stay, at least this winter, near
    us, should he emigrate at all; Lord Byron and his Italian friends
    would remain quietly there; and Lord Byron has certainly a very great
    regard for us. The regard of such a man is worth some of the tribute
    we must pay to the base passions of humanity in any intercourse with
    those within their circle; he is better worth it than those on whom we
    bestow it from mere custom.

    The Masons are there, and, as far as solid affairs are concerned, are
    my friends. I allow this is an argument for Florence. Mrs. Mason's
    perversity is very annoying to me, especially as Mr. Tighe is
    seriously my friend. This circumstance makes me averse from that
    intimate continuation of intercourse which, once having begun, I can
    no longer avoid.

    At Pisa I need not distil my water, if I _can_ distil it anywhere.
    Last winter I suffered less from my painful disorder than the winter I
    spent in Florence. The arguments for Florence you know, and they are
    very weighty; judge (_I know you like the job_) which scale is
    overbalanced. My greatest content would be utterly to desert all human
    society. I would retire with you and our child to a solitary island in
    the sea, would build a boat, and shut upon my retreat the flood-gates
    of the world. I would read no reviews and talk with no authors. If I
    dared trust my imagination, it would tell me that there are one or two
    chosen companions besides yourself whom I should desire. But to this I
    would not listen. Where two or three are gathered together the devil
    is among them, and good far more than evil impulses, love far more
    than hatred, has been to me, except as you have been its object, the
    source of all sorts of mischief. So on this plan I would be _alone_,
    and would devote either to oblivion or to future generations the
    overflowings of a mind which, timely withdrawn from the contagion,
    should be kept fit for no baser object. But this it does not appear
    that we shall do. The other side of the alternative (for a medium
    ought not to be adopted) is to form for ourselves a society of our own
    class, as much as possible, in intellect or in feelings, and to
    connect ourselves with the interests of that society. Our roots never
    struck so deeply as at Pisa, and the transplanted tree flourishes not.
    People who lead the lives which we led until last winter are like a
    family of Wahabee Arabs pitching their tent in the midst of London. We
    must do one thing or the other,--for yourself, for our child, for our
    existence. The calumnies, the sources of which are probably deeper
    than we perceive, have ultimately for object the depriving us of the
    means of security and subsistence. You will easily perceive the
    gradations by which calumny proceeds to pretext, pretext to
    persecution, and persecution to the ban of fire and water. It is for
    this, and not because this or that fool, or the whole court of fools,
    curse and rail, that calumny is worth refuting or chastising.

      P. B. S.

"So much for nothing," indeed. When Byron made himself responsible for
Mary's letter, it was, probably, without any definite intention of
withholding it from those to whom it was addressed. He may well have
wished to add to this glowing denial of his own insinuations some
palliating personal explanation. When, in the previous March, Clare had
protested against an Italian convent education for Allegra, he had sent
her letter to the Hoppners with a sneer at the "excellent grace" with
which these representations came from a woman of the writer's character
and present way of life. And yet he knew Shelley,--knew him as the
Hoppners could not do; he knew what Shelley had done for him, for Clare,
and Allegra; and to how much slander and misrepresentation he had
voluntarily submitted that they might go scot-free. Byron was,--and he
knew it,--the last person who should have accepted or allowed others to
accept this fresh scandal without proof and without inquiry. He was
ashamed of the part he had played, and reluctant to confess to the
Hoppners that he had been wrong, and that his words, as often happened,
had been far in advance of his knowledge or his solid convictions; but his
intentions were to do the best he could. And, satisfying himself with good
intentions, he put off the unwelcome day until the occasion was past, and
till, finally, the friend whose honour had been entrusted to his keeping
was beyond his power to help or to harm. Shelley was dead; and how then
explain to the Hoppners why the letter had not been sent before? It was
"not worth while," probably, to revive the subject in order to vindicate a
mere memory, nor yet to remove an unjust and cruel stigma from the
character of those who survived. However it may have been, one thing is
undoubted. Mary Shelley never received any answer to her letter of
protest, which, after Byron's death, was found safe among his papers.

One more note Shelley sent to Mary from Ravenna on the subject of the
promised portrait. It would not seem that the miniature was actually
despatched now, but as his return was so long delayed, the birthday plot
had to be divulged.

    RAVENNA, _Tuesday, 15th August 1821_.

    MY DEAREST LOVE--I accept your kind present of your picture, and wish
    you would get it prettily framed for me. I will wear, for your sake,
    upon my heart this image which is ever present to my mind.

    I have only two minutes to write; the post is just setting off. I
    shall leave the place on Thursday or Friday morning. You would forgive
    me for my longer stay if you knew the fighting I have had to make it
    so short. I need not say where my own feelings impel me.

    It still remains fixed that Lord Byron should come to Tuscany, and, if
    possible, Pisa; but more of that to-morrow.--Your faithful and
    affectionate

      S.

The foregoing painful episode was enough to fill Mary's mind during the
fortnight she was alone. It was well for her that she was within easy
reach of cheerful friends, yet, even as it was, she could not altogether
escape from bitter thoughts. Clare was at Leghorn, and had to be told of
everything. Mary could not but think of the relief it would be to them all
if she were to marry; a remote possibility to which she probably alludes
in the following letter, written at this time to Miss Curran--

    MARY SHELLEY TO MISS CURRAN.

    SAN GIULIANO, _17th August_.

    MY DEAR MISS CURRAN--It gives me great pain to hear of your
    ill-health. Will this hot summer conduce to a better state or not? I
    hope anxiously, when I hear from you again, to learn that you are
    better, having recovered from your weakness, and that you have no
    return of your disorder. I should have answered your letter before,
    but we have been in the confusion of moving. We are now settled in an
    agreeable house at the Baths of San Giuliano, about four miles from
    Pisa, under the shadow of mountains, and with delightful scenery
    within a walk. We go on in our old manner, with no change. I have had
    many changes for the worse; one might be for the better, but that is
    nearly impossible. Our child is well and thriving, which is a great
    comfort, and the Italian sky gives Shelley health, which is to him a
    rare and substantial enjoyment. I did [not] receive the letter you
    mention to have written in March, and you also have missed one of our
    letters in which Shelley acknowledged the receipt of the drawings you
    mention, and requested that the largest pyramid might be erected if
    they could case it with white marble for L25. However, the whole had
    better stand as I mentioned in my last; for, without the most rigorous
    inspection, great cheating would take place, and no female could
    detect them. When we visit Rome, we can do that which we wish. Many
    thanks for your kindness, which has been very great. I would send you
    on the books I mentioned, but we live out of the world, and I know of
    no conveyance. Mr. Purniance says that he sent the life of your father
    by sea to Rome, directed to you; so, doubtless, it is in the
    custom-house there.

    How enraged all our mighty rulers are at the quiet revolutions which
    have taken place; it is said that some one said to the Grand Duke
    here: "Ma richiedono una constituzione qui?" "Ebene, la daro subito"
    was the reply; but he is not his own master, and Austria would take
    care that that should not be the case; they say Austrian troops are
    coming here, and the Tuscan ones will be sent to Germany. We take in
    _Galignani_, and would send them to you if you liked. I do not know
    what the expense would be, but I should think slight. If you
    recommence painting, do not forget Beatrice. I wish very much for a
    copy of that; you would oblige us greatly by making one. Pray let me
    hear of your health. God knows when we shall be in Rome;
    circumstances must direct, and they dance about like
    will-o'-the-wisps, enticing and then deserting us. We must take care
    not to be left in a bog. Adieu, take care of yourself. Believe in
    Shelley's sincere wishes for your health, and in kind remembrances,
    and in my being ever sincerely yours,

      M. W. SHELLEY.

    Clare desires (not remembrances, if they are not pleasant), however
    she sends a proper message, and says she would be obliged to you, if
    you let her have her picture, if you could find a mode of conveying
    it....

    Do you know we lose many letters, having spies (not Government ones)
    about us in plenty; they made a desperate push to do us a desperate
    mischief lately, but succeeded no further than to blacken us among the
    English; so if you receive a fresh batch (or green bag) of scandal
    against us, I assure you it is all a _lie_. Poor souls! we live
    innocently, as you well know; if we did not, ten to one God would take
    pity on us, and we should not be so unfortunate.

Shelley's absence, though eventful, was, after all, a short one. In about
a fortnight he was back again at the Bagni, and for a few weeks life was
quiet.

On the 18th of September Mary records--

    Picnic on the Pugnano Mountains; music in the evening. Sleep there.

On another occasion, wishing to find some tolerably cool seaside place
where they might spend the next summer, they went,--the Shelleys and
Clare,--on a two or three days' expedition of discovery to Spezzia, and
were enchanted with the beauty of the bay. Clare had, shortly after, to
return to her situation at Florence, but the Shelleys decided to winter at
Pisa. They took a top flat in the "Tre Palazzi di Chiesa," on the Lung'
Arno, and spent part of October in furnishing it. They took possession
about the 25th; the Williams' coming, not many days later, to occupy a
lower flat in the same house. At Lord Byron's request, the Shelleys had
taken for him Casa Lanfranchi, the finest palace in the Lung' Arno, just
opposite the house where they themselves were established. This close
juxtaposition of abodes was likely to prove somewhat inconvenient, in case
of Clare's occasional presence at Tre Palazzi. Her first visit, however,
to which the following characteristic letter refers, was to the Masons at
Casa Silva, and it came to an end just before Byron's arrival in Pisa.
Clare had been staying with the Williams' at Pugnano.

    CLARE TO MARY.

    MY DEAR MARY--I arrived last night--won't you come and see me to-day?
    The Williams' wish you to forward them Mr. Webb's answer, if possible,
    to reach them by 2 o'clock afternoon to-day. If Mr. Webb says yes (you
    will open his note), send Dominico with it to them, and he passing by
    the Baths must order Pancani to be at Pugnano by 5 o'clock in the
    afternoon. If there comes no letter from Mr. Webb, they will equally
    come to you, and I wish you could also in that case contrive to get
    Pancani ordered for them, for we forgot to arrange how that could be
    done; if not, they will be there expecting, and perhaps get involved
    for the next month. I wish you to be so good as to send me immediately
    my large box and the clothes from the Busati, indeed all that you have
    of mine, for I must arrange my boxes to get them _bollate_
    immediately. Don't delay, and my band-box too. If you could of your
    great bounty give me a sponge, I should be infinitely obliged to you.
    Then, when it is dark, and the Williams' arrived, will you ask Mr.
    Williams to be so good as to come and knock at Casa Silva, and I will
    return to spend the evening with you? Shelley won't do to fetch me,
    because he looks singular in the streets. But I wish he would come now
    to give me some money, as I want to write to Livorno and arrange
    everything. Later will be inconvenient for me. Kiss the chick for me,
    and believe me, yours affectionately,

      CLARE.


    _Journal._--All October is left out, it seems.--We are at the Baths,
    occupied with furnishing our house, copying my novel, etc. etc.

Mary's intention was to devote any profits which might proceed from this
work to the relief of her father's necessities, and the hope of being able
to help him had stimulated her industry and energy while it eased her
heart. She aimed at selling the copyright for L400, and Shelley opened
negotiations to this effect with Ollier the publisher. His letter on the
subject bears such striking testimony to the estimate he had formed of
Mary's powers, and gives, besides, so complete a sketch of the novel
itself, that it cannot be omitted here.

    SHELLEY TO MR. OLLIER.

    PISA, _25th September 1822_.

    DEAR SIR--It will give me great pleasure if I can arrange the affair
    of Mrs. Shelley's novel with you to her and your satisfaction. She has
    a specific purpose in the sum which she instructed me to require, and,
    although this purpose could not be answered without ready money, yet I
    should find means to answer her wishes in that point if you could make
    it convenient to pay one-third at Christmas, and give bills for the
    other two-thirds at twelve and eighteen months. It would give me
    peculiar satisfaction that you, rather than any other person, should
    be the publisher of this work; it is the product of no slight labour,
    and I flatter myself, of no common talent, I doubt not it will give no
    less credit than it will receive from your names. I trust you know me
    too well to believe that my judgment deliberately given in testimony
    of the value of any production is influenced by motives of interest or
    partiality.

    The romance is called _Castruccio, Prince of Lucca_, and is founded,
    not upon the novel of Machiavelli under that name, which substitutes a
    childish fiction for the far more romantic truth of history, but upon
    the actual story of his life. He was a person who, from an exile and
    an adventurer, after having served in the wars of England and Flanders
    in the reign of our Edward the Second, returned to his native city,
    and liberating it from its tyrants, became himself its tyrant, and
    died in the full splendour of his dominion, which he had extended over
    the half of Tuscany. He was a little Napoleon, and with a dukedom
    instead of an empire for his theatre, brought upon the same all the
    passions and errors of his antitype. The chief interest of the romance
    rests upon Euthanasia, his betrothed bride, whose love for him is only
    equalled by her enthusiasm for the liberty of the Republic of
    Florence, which is in some sort her country, and for that of Italy, to
    which Castruccio is a devoted enemy, being an ally of the party of the
    Emperor. This character is a masterpiece; and the keystone of the
    drama, which is built up with admirable art, is the conflict between
    these passions and these principles. Euthanasia, the last survivor of
    a noble house, is a feudal countess, and her castle is the scene of
    the exhibition of the knightly manners of the time. The character of
    Beatrice, the prophetess, can only be done justice to in the very
    language of the author. I know nothing in Walter Scott's novels which
    at all approaches to the beauty and the sublimity of this--creation, I
    may say, for it is perfectly original; and, although founded upon the
    ideas and manners of the age which is represented, is wholly without
    a similitude in any fiction I ever read. Beatrice is in love with
    Castruccio, and dies; for the romance, although interspersed with much
    lighter matter, is deeply tragic, and the shades darken and gather as
    the catastrophe approaches. All the manners, customs of the age, are
    introduced; the superstitions, the heresies, and the religious
    persecutions are displayed; the minutest circumstance of Italian
    manners in that age is not omitted; and the whole seems to me to
    constitute a living and moving picture of an age almost forgotten. The
    author visited the scenery which she describes in person; and one or
    two of the inferior characters are drawn from her own observation of
    the Italians, for the national character shows itself still in certain
    instances under the same forms as it wore in the time of Dante. The
    novel consists, as I told you before, of three volumes, each at least
    equal to one of the _Tales of my Landlord_, and they will be very soon
    ready to be sent.

No arrangement, however, was come to at this time, and early in January
Mary wrote to her father, offering the work to him, and asking him, if he
accepted it, to make a bargain concerning it with a publisher.

Godwin accepted the offer, and undertook the responsibility, in a letter
from which the following is an extract--

    _31st January 1822._

    I am much gratified by your letter of the 11th, which reached me on
    Saturday last; it is truly generous of you to desire that I would make
    use of the produce of your novel. But what can I say to it? It is
    against the course of nature, unless, indeed, you were actually in
    possession of a fortune.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I said in the preface to _Mandeville_ there were two or three works
    further that I should be glad to finish before I died. If I make use
    of the money from you in the way you suggest, that may enable me to
    complete my present work.

The MS. was, accordingly, despatched to England, but was not published
till many months later.

_Valperga_ (as it was afterwards called) was a book of much power and more
promise; very remarkable when the author's age is taken into
consideration. Apart from local colouring, the interest of the tale turns
on the development of the character--naturally powerful and disposed to
good, but spoilt by popularity and success, and unguided by principle--of
Castruccio himself; and on the contrast between him and Euthanasia, the
noble and beautiful woman who sacrifices her possessions, her hopes, and
her affections to the cause of fidelity and patriotism.

Beatrice, the prophetess, is one of those gifted but fated souls, who,
under the persuasion that they are supernaturally inspired, mistake the
ordinary impulses of human nature for Divine commands, and, finding their
mistake, yet encourage themselves in what they know to be delusion till
the end,--a tragic end.

There are some remarkable descriptive passages, especially one where the
wandering Beatrice comes suddenly upon a house in a dreary landscape which
she knows, although she has never seen it before except in a haunting
dream; every detail of it is horribly familiar, and she is paralysed by
the sense of imminent calamity, which, in fact, bursts upon her directly
afterwards.

Euthanasia dies at sea, and the account of the running down and wreck of
her ship is a curious, almost prophetic, foreshadowing of the calamity by
which, all too soon, Shelley was to lose his life.

    The wind changed to a more northerly direction during the night, and
    the land-breeze of the morning filled their sails, so that, although
    slowly, they dropt down southward. About noon they met a Pisan vessel,
    who bade them beware of a Genoese squadron, which was cruising off
    Corsica; so they bore in nearer to the shore. At sunset that day a
    fierce sirocco arose, accompanied by thunder and lightning, such as is
    seldom seen during the winter season. Presently they saw huge dark
    columns descending from heaven, and meeting the sea, which boiled
    beneath; they were borne on by the storm, and scattered by the wind.
    The rain came down in sheets, and the hail clattered, as it fell to
    its grave in the ocean; the ocean was lashed into such waves that,
    many miles inland, during the pauses of the wind, the hoarse and
    constant murmurs of the far-off sea made the well-housed landsman
    mutter one more prayer for those exposed to its fury.

    Such was the storm, as it was seen from shore. Nothing more was ever
    known of the Sicilian vessel which bore Euthanasia. It never reached
    its destined port, nor were any of those on board ever after seen. The
    sentinels who watched near Vado, a town on the sea-beach of the
    Maremma, found on the following day that the waves had washed on shore
    some of the wrecks of a vessel; they picked up a few planks and a
    broken mast, round which, tangled with some of its cordage, was a
    white silk handkerchief, such a one as had bound the tresses of
    Euthanasia the night that she had embarked; and in its knot were a few
    golden hairs.

           *       *       *       *       *

To follow the fate of Mary's novel, it has been necessary somewhat to
anticipate the history, which is resumed in the next chapter, with the
journal and letters of the latter part of 1821.




CHAPTER XV

NOVEMBER 1821-APRIL 1822


    _Journal, Thursday, November 1._--Go to Florence. Copy. Ride with the
    Guiccioli. Albe arrives.

    _Sunday, November 4._--The Williams' arrive. Copy. Call on the
    Guiccioli.

    _Thursday, November 15._--Copy. Read _Caleb Williams_ to Jane. Ride
    with the Guiccioli. Shelley goes on translating Spinoza with Edward.
    Medwin arrives. Taafe calls. Argyropulo calls. Good news from the
    Greeks.

    _Tuesday, November 28._--Ride with the Guiccioli. Suffer much with
    rheumatism in my head.

    _Wednesday, November 29._--I mark this day because I begin my Greek
    again, and that is a study that ever delights me. I do not feel the
    bore of it, as in learning another language, although it be so
    difficult, it so richly repays one; yet I read little, for I am not
    well. Shelley and the Williams go to Leghorn; they dine with us
    afterwards with Medwin. Write to Clare.

    _Thursday, November 30._--Correct the novel. Read a little Greek. Not
    well. Ride with the Guiccioli. The Count Pietro (Gamba) in the
    evening.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    PISA, _30th November 1821_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Although having much to do be a bad excuse for
    not writing to you, yet you must in some sort admit this plea on my
    part. Here we are in Pisa, having furnished very nice apartments for
    ourselves, and what is more, paid for the furniture out of the fruits
    of two years' economy, we are at the top of the Tre Palazzi di Chiesa.
    I daresay you know the house, next door to La Scoto's house on the
    north side of Lung' Arno; but the rooms we inhabit are south, and look
    over the whole country towards the sea, so that we are entirely out of
    the bustle and disagreeable _puzzi_, etc., of the town, and hardly
    know that we are so enveloped until we descend into the street. The
    Williams' have been less lucky, though they have followed our example
    in furnishing their own house, but, renting it of Mr. Webb, they have
    been treated scurvily. So here we live, Lord Byron just opposite to us
    in Casa Lanfranchi (the late Signora Felichi's house). So Pisa, you
    see, has become a little nest of singing birds. You will be both
    surprised and delighted at the work just about to be published by him;
    his _Cain_, which is in the highest style of imaginative poetry. It
    made a great impression upon me, and appears almost a revelation, from
    its power and beauty. Shelley rides with him; I, of course, see little
    of him. The lady _whom he serves_ is a nice pretty girl without
    pretensions, good hearted and amiable; her relations were banished
    Romagna for Carbonarism.

    What do you know of Hunt? About two months ago he wrote to say that on
    21st October he should quit England, and we have heard nothing more of
    him in any way; I expect some day he and six children will drop in
    from the clouds, trusting that God will temper the wind to the shorn
    lamb. Pray when you write, tell us everything you know concerning him.
    Do you get any intelligence of the Greeks? Our worthy countrymen take
    part against them in every possible way, yet such is the spirit of
    freedom, and such the hatred of these poor people for their
    oppressors, that I have the warmest hopes--[Greek: mantis eim' esthlon
    agonon]. Mavrocordato is there, justly revered for the sacrifice he
    has made of his whole fortune to the cause, and besides for his
    firmness and talents. If Greece be free, Shelley and I have vowed to
    go, perhaps to settle there, in one of those beautiful islands where
    earth, ocean, and sky form the paradise. You will, I hope, tell us all
    the news of our friends when you write. I see no one that you know. We
    live in our usual retired way, with few friends and no acquaintances.
    Clare is returned to her usual residence, and our tranquillity is
    unbroken in upon, except by those winds, sirocco or tramontana, which
    now and then will sweep over the ocean of one's mind and disturb or
    cloud its surface. Since this must be a double letter, I save myself
    the trouble of copying the enclosed, which was a part of a letter
    written to you a month ago, but which I did not send. Will you attend
    to my requests? Every day increases my anxiety concerning the desk. Do
    have the goodness to pack it off as soon as you can.

    Shelley was at your hive yesterday; it is as dirty and busy as ever,
    so people live in the same narrow circle of space and thought, while
    time goes on, not as a racehorse, but a "six inside dilly," and puts
    them down softly at their journey's end; while they have slept and
    ate, and _ecco tutto_. With this piece of morality, dear Mrs.
    Gisborne, I end. Shelley begs every remembrance of his to be joined
    with mine to Mr. Gisborne and Henry.--Ever yours,

      MARY W. S.

    And now, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, I have a great favour to ask of you.
    Ollier writes to say that he has placed our two desks in the hands of
    a merchant of the city, and that they are to come--God knows when!
    Now, as we sent for them two years ago, and are tired of waiting, will
    you do us the favour to get them out of his hands, and to send them
    without delay? If they can be sent without being opened, send them _in
    statu quo_; if they must be opened, do not send the smallest but get a
    key (being a patent lock a key will cost half a guinea) made for the
    largest and send it, and return the other to Peacock. If you send the
    desk, will you send with it the following things?--A few copies of all
    Shelley's works, particularly of the second edition of the _Cenci_, my
    mother's posthumous works, and _Letters from Norway_ from Peacock, if
    you can, but do not delay the box for them.


    _Journal, Sunday, December 2._--Read the _History of Shipwrecks_. Read
    Herodotus with Shelley. Ride with La Guiccioli. Pietro and her in the
    evening.

    _Monday, December 3._--Write letters. Read Herodotus with Shelley.
    Finish _Caleb Williams_ to Jane. Taafe calls. He says that his Turk is
    a very moral man, for that when he began a scandalous story he
    interrupted him immediately, saying, "Ah! we must never speak thus of
    our neighbours!" Taafe would do well to take the hint.

    _Thursday, December 6._--Read Homer. Walk with Williams. Spend the
    evening with them. Call on T. Guiccioli with Jane, while Taafe amuses
    Shelley and Edward. Read Tacitus. A dismal day.

    _Friday, December 7._--Letter from Hunt and Bessy. Walk with Shelley.
    Buy furniture for them, etc. Walk with Edward and Jane to the garden,
    and return with T. Guiccioli in the carriage. Edward reads the
    _Shipwreck of the Wager_ to us in the evening.

    _Saturday, December 8._--Get up late and talk with Shelley. The
    Williams and Medwin to dinner. Walk with Edward and Jane in the
    garden. Return with T. Guiccioli. T. G. and Pietro in the evening.
    Write to Clare. Read Tacitus.

    _Sunday, December 9._--Go to church at Dr. Nott's. Walk with Edward
    and Jane in the garden. In the evening first Pietro and Teresa,
    afterwards go to the Williams'.

    _Monday, December 10._--Out shopping. Walk with the Williams and T.
    Guiccioli to the garden. Medwin at tea. Afterwards we are alone, and
    after reading a little Herodotus, Shelley reads Chaucer's _Flower and
    the Leaf_, and then Chaucer's _Dream_ to me. A divine, cold,
    tramontana day.

    _Monday, January 14._--Read _Emile_. Call on T. Guiccioli and see Lord
    Byron. Trelawny arrives.

Edward John Trelawny, whose subsequent history was to be closely bound up
with that of Shelley and of Mrs. Shelley, was of good Cornish family, and
had led a wandering life, full of romantic adventure. He had become
acquainted with Williams and Medwin in Switzerland a year before, since
which he had been in Paris and London. Tired of a town life and of
society, and in order to "maintain the just equilibrium between the body
and the brain," he had determined to pass the next winter hunting and
shooting in the wilds of the Maremma, with a Captain Roberts and
Lieutenant Williams. For the exercise of his brain, he proposed passing
the summer with Shelley and Byron, boating in the Mediterranean, as he had
heard that they proposed doing. Neither of the poets were as yet
personally known to him, but he had lost no time in seeking their
acquaintance. On the very evening of his arrival in Pisa he repaired to
the Tre Palazzi, where, in the Williams' room, he first saw Shelley, and
was struck speechless with astonishment.

    Was it possible this mild-looking beardless boy could be the veritable
    monster at war with all the world? Excommunicated by the Fathers of
    the Church, deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord
    Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by
    the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school?
    I could not believe it; it must be a hoax.

But presently, when Shelley was led to talk on a theme that interested
him--the works of Calderon,--his marvellous powers of mind and command of
language held Trelawny spell-bound: "After this touch of his quality," he
says, "I no longer doubted his identity."

Mrs. Shelley appeared soon after, and the visitor looked with lively
curiosity at the daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft.

    Such a rare pedigree of genius was enough to interest me in her,
    irrespective of her own merits as an authoress. The most striking
    feature in her face was her calm, gray eyes; she was rather under the
    English standard of woman's height, very fair and light-haired; witty,
    social, and animated in the society of friends, though mournful in
    solitude; like Shelley, though in a minor degree, she had the power of
    expressing her thoughts in varied and appropriate words, derived from
    familiarity with the works of our vigorous old writers. Neither of
    them used obsolete or foreign words. This command of our language
    struck me the more as contrasted with the scanty vocabulary used by
    ladies in society, in which a score of poor hackneyed phrases suffice
    to express all that is felt or considered proper to reveal.[45]

Mary's impressions of the new-comer may be gathered from her journal and
her subsequent letter to Mrs. Gisborne.

    _Journal, Saturday, January 19._--Copy. Walk with Jane. The Opera in
    the evening. Trelawny is extravagant--_un giovane
    stravagante_,--partly natural, and partly, perhaps, put on, but it
    suits him well, and if his abrupt but not unpolished manners be
    assumed, they are nevertheless in unison with his Moorish face (for he
    looks Oriental yet not Asiatic), his dark hair, his Herculean form;
    and then there is an air of extreme good nature which pervades his
    whole countenance, especially when he smiles, which assures me that
    his heart is good. He tells strange stories of himself, horrific ones,
    so that they harrow one up, while with his emphatic but unmodulated
    voice, his simple yet strong language, he pourtrays the most
    frightful situations; then all these adventures took place between the
    ages of thirteen and twenty.

    I believe them now I see the man, and, tired with the everyday
    sleepiness of human intercourse, I am glad to meet with one who, among
    other valuable qualities, has the rare merit of interesting my
    imagination. The _crew_ and Medwin dine with us.

    _Sunday, January 27._--Read Homer. Walk. Dine at the Williams'. The
    Opera in the evening. Ride with T. Guiccioli.

    _Monday, January 28._--The Williams breakfast with us. Go down Bocca
    d'Arno in the boat with Shelley and Jane. Edward and E. Trelawny meet
    us there; return in the gig; they dine with us; very tired.

    _Tuesday, January 29._--Read Homer and Tacitus. Ride with T.
    Guiccioli. E. Trelawny and Medwin to dinner. The Baron Lutzerode in
    the evening.

      But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
      We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

    Read the first volume of the _Pirate_.

    _Sunday, February 3._--Read Homer. Walk to the garden with Jane.
    Return with Medwin to dinner. Trelawny in the evening. A wild day and
    night, some clouds in the sky in the morning, but they clear away. A
    north wind.

    _Monday, February 4._--Breakfast with the Williams'. Edward, Jane, and
    Trelawny go to Leghorn. Walk with Jane. Southey's letter concerning
    Lord Byron. Write to Clare. In the evening the Gambas and Taafe.

    _Thursday, February 7._--Read Homer, Tacitus, and _Emile_. Shelley and
    Edward depart for La Spezzia. Walk with Jane, and to the Opera with
    her in the evening. With E. Trelawny afterwards to Mrs. Beauclerc's
    ball. During a long, long evening in mixed society how often do one's
    sensations change, and, swiftly as the west wind drives the shadows of
    clouds across the sunny hill or the waving corn, so swift do
    sensations pass, painting--yet, oh! not disfiguring--the serenity of
    the mind. It is then that life seems to weigh itself, and hosts of
    memories and imaginations, thrown into one scale, make the other kick
    the beam. You remember what you have felt, what you have dreamt; yet
    you dwell on the shadowy side, and lost hopes and death, such as you
    have seen it, seem to cover all things with a funeral pall.

    The time that was, is, and will be, presses upon you, and, standing
    the centre of a moving circle, you "slide giddily as the world reels."
    You look to heaven, and would demand of the everlasting stars that the
    thoughts and passions which are your life may be as ever-living as
    they. You would demand of the blue empyrean that your mind might be as
    clear as it, and that the tears which gather in your eyes might be the
    shower that would drain from its profoundest depths the springs of
    weakness and sorrow. But where are the stars? Where the blue empyrean?
    A ceiling clouds that, and a thousand swift consuming lights supply
    the place of the eternal ones of heaven. The enthusiast suppresses her
    tears, crushes her opening thoughts, and.... But all is changed; some
    word, some look excite the lagging blood, laughter dances in the eyes,
    and the spirits rise proportionably high.

      The Queen is all for revels, her light heart,
      Unladen from the heaviness of state,
      Bestows itself upon delightfulness.

    _Friday, February 8._--Sometimes I awaken from my visionary monotony,
    and my thoughts flow until, as it is exquisite pain to stop the
    flowing of the blood, so is it painful to check expression and make
    the overflowing mind return to its usual channel. I feel a kind of
    tenderness to those, whoever they may be (even though strangers), who
    awaken the train and touch a chord so full of harmony and thrilling
    music, when I would tear the veil from this strange world, and pierce
    with eagle eyes beyond the sun; when every idea, strange and
    changeful, is another step in the ladder by which I would climb....

    Read _Emile_. Jane dines with me, walk with her. E. Trelawny and Jane
    in the evening. Trelawny tells us a number of amusing stories of his
    early life. Read third canto of _L'Inferno_.

    They say that Providence is shown by the extraction that may be ever
    made of good from evil, that we draw our virtues from our faults. So I
    am to thank God for making me weak. I might say, "Thy will be done,"
    but I cannot applaud the permitter of self-degradation, though dignity
    and superior wisdom arise from its bitter and burning ashes.

    _Saturday, February 9._--Read _Emile_. Walk with Jane, and ride with
    T. Guiccioli. Dine with Jane. Taafe and T. Medwin call. I retire with
    E. Trelawny, who amuses me as usual by the endless variety of his
    adventures and conversation.


    MARY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    PISA, _9th February 1822_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Not having heard from you, I am anxious about
    my desk. It would have been a great convenience to me if I could have
    received it at the beginning of the winter, but now I should like it
    as soon as possible. I hope that it is out of Ollier's hands. I have
    before said what I would have done with it. If both desks can be sent
    without being opened, let them be sent; if not, give the small one
    back to Peacock. Get a key made for the larger, and send it, I entreat
    you, by the very next vessel. This key will cost half a guinea, and
    Ollier will not give you the money, but give me credit for it, I
    entreat you. I pray now let me have the desk as soon as possible.
    Shelley is now gone to Spezzia to get houses for our colony for the
    summer.

    It will be a large one, too large, I am afraid, for unity; yet I hope
    not. There will be Lord Byron, who will have a large and beautiful
    boat built on purpose by some English navy officers at Genoa. There
    will be the Countess Guiccioli and her brother; the Williams', whom
    you know; Trelawny, a kind of half-Arab Englishman, whose life has
    been as changeful as that of Anastasius, and who recounts the
    adventures as eloquently and as well as the imagined Greek. He is
    clever; for his moral qualities I am yet in the dark; he is a strange
    web which I am endeavouring to unravel. I would fain learn if
    generosity is united to impetuousness, probity of spirit to his
    assumption of singularity and independence. He is 6 feet high, raven
    black hair, which curls thickly and shortly, like a Moor's, dark gray
    expressive eyes, overhanging brows, upturned lips, and a smile which
    expresses good nature and kindheartedness. His shoulders are high,
    like an Oriental's, his voice is monotonous, yet emphatic, and his
    language, as he relates the events of his life, energetic and simple,
    whether the tale be one of blood and horror, or of irresistible
    comedy. His company is delightful, for he excites me to think, and if
    any evil shade the intercourse, that time will unveil--the sun will
    rise or night darken all. There will be, besides, a Captain Roberts,
    whom I do not know, a very rough subject, I fancy,--a famous angler,
    etc. We are to have a small boat, and now that those first divine
    spring days are come (you know them well), the sky clear, the sun hot,
    the hedges budding, we sitting without a fire and the windows open, I
    begin to long for the sparkling waves, the olive- hills and
    vine-shaded pergolas of Spezzia. However, it would be madness to go
    yet. Yet as _ceppo_ was bad, we hope for a good _pasqua_, and if April
    prove fine, we shall fly with the swallows. The Opera here has been
    detestable. The English Sinclair is the _primo tenore_, and acquits
    himself excellently, but the Italians, after the first, have enviously
    selected such operas as give him little or nothing to do. We have
    English here, and some English balls and parties, to which I
    (_mirabile dictu_) go sometimes. We have Taafe, who bores us out of
    our senses when he comes, telling a young lady that her eyes shed
    flowers--why therefore should he send her any? I have sent my novel to
    Papa. I long to hear some news of it, as, with an author's vanity, I
    want to see it in print, and hear the praises of my friends. I should
    like, as I said when you went away, a copy of _Matilda_. It might come
    out with the desk. I hope as the town fills to hear better news of
    your plans, we long to hear from you. What does Henry do? How many
    times has he been in love?--Ever yours,

      M. W. S.

    Shelley would like to see the review of the _Prometheus_ in the
    _Quarterly_.


    _Thursday, February 14._--Read Homer and _Anastasius_. Walk with the
    Williams' in the evening.... "Nothing of us but what must suffer a
    sea-change."

This entry marks the day to which Mary referred in a letter written more
than a year later, where she says--

    A year ago Trelawny came one afternoon in high spirits with news
    concerning the building of the boat, saying, "Oh! we must all embark,
    all live aboard; we will all 'suffer a sea-change.'" And dearest
    Shelley was delighted with the quotation, saying that he would have it
    for the motto for his boat.

Little did they think, in their lightness of spirit, that in another year
the motto of the boat would serve for the inscription on Shelley's tomb.

    _Journal, Monday, February 18._--Read Homer. Walk with the Williams'.
    Jane, Trelawny, and Medwin in the evening.[46]

    _Monday, February 25._--What a mart this world is? Feelings,
    sentiments,--more invaluable than gold or precious stones is the coin,
    and what is bought? Contempt, discontent, and disappointment, unless,
    indeed, the mind be loaded with drearier memories. And what say the
    worldly to this? Use Spartan coin, pay away iron and lead alone, and
    store up your precious metal. But alas! from nothing, nothing comes,
    or, as all things seem to degenerate, give lead and you will receive
    clay,--the most contemptible of all lives is where you live in the
    world, and none of your passions or affections are brought into
    action. I am convinced I could not live thus, and as Sterne says that
    in solitude he would worship a tree, so in the world I should attach
    myself to those who bore the semblance of those qualities which I
    admire. But it is not this that I want; let me love the trees, the
    skies, and the ocean, and that all-encompassing spirit of which I may
    soon become a part,--let me in my fellow-creature love that which is,
    and not fix my affection on a fair form endued with imaginary
    attributes; where goodness, kindness, and talent are, let me love and
    admire them at their just rate, neither adorning nor diminishing, and
    above all, let me fearlessly descend into the remotest caverns of my
    own mind; carry the torch of self-knowledge into its dimmest recesses;
    but too happy if I dislodge any evil spirit, or enshrine a new deity
    in some hitherto uninhabited nook.

    Read _Wrongs of Women_ and Homer. Clare departs. Walk with Jane and
    ride with T. Guiccioli. T. G. dines with us.

    _Thursday, February 28._--Take leave of the Argyropolis. Walk with
    Shelley. Ride with T. Guiccioli. Read letters. Spend the evening at
    the Williams'. Trelawny there.

    _Friday, March 1._--An embassy. Walk. My first Greek lesson. Walk with
    Edward. In the evening work.

    _Sunday, March 3._--A note to, and a visit from, Dr. Nott. Go to
    church. Walk. The Williams' and Trelawny to dinner.

Mary's experiments in the way of church-going, so new a thing in her
experience, and so little in accordance with Shelley's habits of thought
and action, excited some surprise and comment. Hogg, Shelley's early
friend, who heard of it from Mrs. Gisborne, now in England, was
especially shocked. In a letter to Mary, Mrs. Gisborne remarked, "Your
friend Hogg is _molto scandalizzato_ to hear of your weekly visits to the
_piano di sotto_" (the services were held on the ground floor of the Tre
Palazzi).

The same letter asks for news of Emilia Viviani. Mrs. Gisborne had heard
that she was married, and feared she had been sacrificed to a man whom she
describes as "that insipid, sickening Italian mortal, Danieli the lawyer."
She proceeds to say--

    We invited Varley one evening to meet Hogg, who was curious to see a
    man really believing in astrology in the nineteenth century. Varley,
    as usual, was not sparing of his predictions. We talked of Shelley
    without mentioning his name; Varley was curious, and being informed by
    Hogg of his exact age, but describing his person as short and
    corpulent, and himself as a _bon vivant_, Varley amused us with the
    following remarks: "Your friend suffered from ill-fortune in May or
    June 1815. Vexatious affairs on the 2d and 14th of June, or perhaps
    latter end of May 1820. The following year, disturbance about a lady.
    Again, last April, at 10 at night, or at noon, disturbance about a
    bouncing stout lady, and others. At six years of age, noticed by
    ladies and gentlemen for learning. In July 1799, beginning of charges
    made against him. In September 1800, at noon, or dusk, very violent
    charges. Scrape at fourteen years of age. Eternal warfare against
    parents and public opinion, and a great blow-up every seven years till
    death," etc. etc. _Is all this true?_

Not a little amused, Mary answered her friend as follows--

    PISA, _7th March 1822_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--I am very sorry that you have so much trouble
    with my commissions, and vainly, too! _ma che vuole?_ Ollier will not
    give you the money, and we are, to tell you the truth, too poor at
    present to send you a cheque upon our banker; two or three
    circumstances having caused

      That climax of all human ills,
      The inflammation of our weekly bills.

    But far more than that, we have not touched a quattrino of our
    Christmas quarter, since debts in England and other calls swallowed it
    entirely up. For the present, therefore, we must dispense with those
    things I asked you for. As for the desk, we received last post from
    Ollier (without a line) the bill of lading that he talks of, and, _si
    Dio vuole_, we shall receive it safe; the vessel in which they were
    shipped is not yet arrived. The worst of keeping on with Ollier
    (though it is the best, I believe, after all) is that you will never
    be able to make anything of his accounts, until you can compare the
    number of copies in hand with his account of their sale. As for my
    novel, I shipped it off long ago to my father, telling him to make the
    best of it; and by the way in which he answered my letter, I fancy he
    thinks he can make something of it. This is much better than Ollier,
    for I should never have got a penny from him; and, moreover, he is a
    very bad bookseller to publish with--_ma basta poi_, with all these
    _seccaturas_.

    Poor dear Hunt, you will have heard by this time of the disastrous
    conclusion of his third embarkment; he is to try a third time in
    April, and if he does not succeed then, we must say that the sea is
    _un vero precipizio_, and let him try land. By the bye, why not
    consult Varley on the result? I have tried the _Sors Homeri_ and the
    _Sors Virgilii_; the first says (I will write this Greek better, but I
    thought that Mr. Gisborne could read the Romaic writing, and I now
    quite forget what it was)--

      [Greek: Elomen, teios moi adelpheon allos epephnen.
      hos d'opot' Iasioni euplokamos Demeter.
      Dourateon megan hippon, hoth' heiato pantes aristoi.]

    Which first seems to say that he will come, though his brother may be
    prosecuted for a libel. Of the second, I can make neither head nor
    tail; and the third is as oracularly obscure as one could wish, for
    who these great people are who sat in a wooden horse, _chi lo sa_?
    Virgil, except the first line, which is unfavourable, is as
    enigmatical as Homer--

      Fulgores nunc horrificos, sonitumque, metumque
      Tum leves calamos, et rasae hastilia virgae
      Connexosque angues, ipsamque in pectore divae.

    But to speak of predictions or anteductions, some of Varley's are
    curious enough: "Ill-fortune in May or June 1815." No; it was then
    that he arranged his income; there was no ill except health, _al
    solito_, at that time. The particular days of the 2d and 14th of June
    1820 were not ill, but the whole time was disastrous. It was then we
    were alarmed by Paolo's attack and disturbance. About a lady in the
    winter of last year, enough, God knows! Nothing particular about a fat
    bouncing lady at 10 at night: and indeed things got more quiet in
    April. In July 1799 Shelley was only seven years of age. "A great
    blow-up every seven years." Shelley is not at home; when he returns I
    will ask him what happened when he was fourteen. In his twenty-second
    year we made our _scappatura_; at twenty-eight and twenty-nine, a good
    deal of discomfort on a certain point, but it hardly amounted to a
    blow-up. Pray ask Varley also about me.

    So Hogg is shocked that, for good neighbourhood's sake, I visited the
    _piano di sotto_; let him reassure himself, since instead of a weekly,
    it was only a monthly visit; in fact, after going three times I stayed
    away until I heard he was going away. He preached against atheism,
    and, they said, against Shelley. As he invited me himself to come,
    this appeared to me very impertinent; so I wrote to him, to ask him
    whether he intended any personal allusion, but he denied the charge
    most entirely. This affair, as you may guess, among the English at
    Pisa made a great noise; the gossip here is of course out of all
    bounds, and some people have given them something to talk about. I
    have seen little of it all; but that which I have seen makes me long
    most eagerly for some sea-girt isle, where with Shelley, my babe, and
    books and horses, we may give the rest to the winds; this we shall not
    have for the present. Shelley is entangled with Lord Byron, who is in
    a terrible fright lest he should desert him. We shall have boats, and
    go somewhere on the sea-coast, where, I daresay, we shall spend our
    time agreeably enough, for I like the Williams' exceedingly, though
    there my list begins and ends.

    Emilia married Biondi; we hear that she leads him and his mother (to
    use a vulgarism) a devil of a life. The conclusion of our friendship
    (_a la Italiana_) puts me in mind of a nursery rhyme, which runs
    thus--

      As I was going down Cranbourne lane,
      Cranbourne lane was dirty,
      And there I met a pretty maid,
      Who dropt to me a curtsey;

      I gave her cakes, I gave her wine,
      I gave her sugar-candy,
      But oh! the little naughty girl,
      She asked me for some brandy.

    Now turn "Cranbourne Lane" into Pisan acquaintances, which I am sure
    are dirty enough, and "brandy" into that wherewithal to buy brandy
    (and that no small sum _pero_), and you have the whole story of
    Shelley's Italian Platonics. We now know, indeed, few of those whom we
    knew last year. Pacchiani is at Prato; Mavrocordato in Greece; the
    Argyropolis in Florence; and so the world slides. Taafe is still
    here--the butt of Lord Byron's quizzing, and the poet laureate of
    Pisa. On the occasion of a young lady's birthday he wrote--

      Eyes that shed a thousand flowers!
      Why should flowers be sent to you?
      Sweetest flowers of heavenly bowers,
      Love and friendship, are what are due.

           *       *       *       *       *

    After some divine _Italian_ weather, we are now enjoying some fine
    English weather; _cioe_, it does not rain, but not a ray can pierce
    the web aloft.--Most truly yours,

      MARY W. S.


    MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. HUNT.

    _5th March 1822._

    MY DEAREST MARIANNE--I hope that this letter will find you quite well,
    recovering from your severe attack, and looking towards your haven
    Italy with best hopes. I do indeed believe that you will find a relief
    here from your many English cares, and that the winds which waft you
    will sing the requiem to all your ills. It was indeed unfortunate that
    you encountered such weather on the very threshold of your journey,
    and as the wind howled through the long night, how often did I think
    of you! At length it seemed as if we should never, never meet; but I
    will not give way to such a presentiment. We enjoy here divine
    weather. The sun hot, too hot, with a freshness and clearness in the
    breeze that bears with it all the delights of spring. The hedges are
    budding, and you should see me and my friend Mrs. Williams poking
    about for violets by the sides of dry ditches; she being herself--

      A violet by a mossy stone
      Half hidden from the eye.

    Yesterday a countryman seeing our dilemma, since the ditch was not
    quite dry, insisted on gathering them for us, and when we resisted,
    saying that we had no _quattrini_ (_i.e._ farthings, being the generic
    name for all money), he indignantly exclaimed, _Oh! se lo faccio per
    interesse!_ How I wish you were with us in our rambles! Our good
    cavaliers flock together, and as they do not like _fetching a walk
    with the absurd womankind_, Jane (_i.e._ Mrs. Williams) and I are off
    together, and talk morality and pluck violets by the way. I look
    forward to many duets with this lady and Hunt. She has a very pretty
    voice, and a taste and ear for music which is almost miraculous. The
    harp is her favourite instrument; but we have none, and a very bad
    piano; however, as it is, we pass very pleasant evenings, though I can
    hardly bear to hear her sing "Donne l'amore"; it transports me so
    entirely back to your little parlour at Hampstead--and I see the
    piano, the bookcase, the prints, the casts--and hear Mary's
    _far-ha-ha-a_!

    We are in great uncertainty as to where we shall spend the summer.
    There is a beautiful bay about fifty miles off, and as we have
    resolved on the sea, Shelley bought a boat. We wished very much to go
    there; perhaps we shall still, but as yet we can find but one house;
    but as we are a colony "which moves altogether or not at all," we have
    not yet made up our minds. The apartments which we have prepared for
    you in Lord Byron's house will be very warm for the summer; and indeed
    for the two hottest months I should think that you had better go into
    the country. Villas about here are tolerably cheap, and they are
    perfect paradises. Perhaps, as it was with me, Italy will not strike
    you as so divine at first; but each day it becomes dearer and more
    delightful; the sun, the flowers, the air, all is more sweet and more
    balmy than in the _Ultima Thule_ that you inhabit.

      M. W. S.

The journal for the next few weeks has nothing eventful to record. The
preceding letter to Mrs. Hunt gives a simple and pleasing picture of their
daily life. Perhaps Mary had never been quite so happy before; she wrote
to the Hunts that she thought she grew younger. Both she and Shelley were
occasionally ailing, and Shelley's letters show that his spirits suffered
depression at times, still, in this respect as well as in health, he was
better than he had been in any former spring. The proximity of Byron and
his circle was not, however, favourable to inspiration or to literary
composition. Byron's temperament acted as a damper to enthusiasm in
others, and Shelley, though his estimate of Byron's genius was very high,
was perpetually jarred and crossed by his worldliness and his moral
shallowness and vulgarity. He invariably, acted, however, as Byron's true
and disinterested friend; and Byron was fully aware of the value of his
friendship and of his literary help and criticism.

Trelawny, to whom Byron had taken kindly enough, estimated the difference
in the moral worth of the two poets with singular justice.

    "I believed in many things then, and believe in some now," he wrote,
    more than five and thirty years afterwards: "I could not sympathise
    with Byron, who believed in nothing."

His friendship for Byron, nevertheless, was to be loyal and lasting. But
his favourite resort in these Pisan days was the "hospitable and cheerful
abode of the Shelleys."

    "There," he says, "I found those sympathies and sentiments which the
    Pilgrim denounced as illusions, believed in as the only realities."

At Byron's social gatherings--riding-parties or dinner-parties--he made a
point of getting Shelley if he could; and Shelley was very compliant,
although the society of which Byron was the nucleus was neither congenial
nor interesting to him, and he always took the first good opportunity of
escaping. Daily intercourse of this kind tended gradually to estrange
rather than unite the two poets: by accentuating differences it brought
into evidence that gulf between their natures which, in spite of the one
touch of kinship that certainly existed, was equally impassable by one and
by the other. Besides, the subject of Clare and Allegra, never far below
the surface, would occasionally come up, and this was a sore point on both
sides. As has already been said, Byron appreciated Shelley, though he did
not sympathise with him. In after days he bore public testimony to the
purity and unselfishness of Shelley's character and to the upright and
disinterested motives which actuated him in all he did. But his respect
for Shelley was not so strong as his antipathy to Clare, and Shelley's
feeling towards her was regarded by him with a cynical sneer which he had
no care to hide, and of which its object could not always be unconscious.
It is not wonderful that at times there swept across Shelley's mind, like
a black cloud, the conviction that neither a sense of honour nor justice
restrained Byron from the basest insinuations. And then again this
suspicion would pass away as too dreadful to be entertained.

Meanwhile Clare, in the pursuit of her newly-adopted profession, was
thinking of going to Vienna, and she longed for a sight of her child
first. She had been unusually long, or she fancied so, without news of
Allegra, and she was growing desperately anxious,--with only too good
cause, as the event showed. She wrote to Byron, entreating him to arrange
for a visit or an interview. Byron took no notice of her letters. The
Shelleys dared not annoy him unnecessarily on the subject, as he had been
heard to threaten if they did so to immure Allegra in some secret convent
where no one could get at her or even hear of her. Clare, working herself
up into a state of half-frenzied excitement, sent them letter after
letter, suggesting and urging wild plans (which Shelley was to realise)
for carrying off the child by armed force; indeed, one of her schemes
seems to have been to take advantage of the projected interview, if
granted, for putting this design into execution. Some such proposed breach
of faith must have been the occasion of Shelley's answering her--

    I know not what to think of the state of your mind, or what to fear
    for you. Your late plan about Allegra seems to me in its present form
    pregnant with irremediable infamy to all the actors in it except
    yourself.

He did not think that in her present excited mental condition she was fit
to go to Vienna, and he entreated her to postpone the idea. His advice,
often repeated in different words, was, that she should not lose herself
in distant and uncertain plans, but "systematise and simplify" her
motions, at least for the present, and, if she felt in the least disposed,
that she should come and stay with them--

    If you like, come and look for houses with me in our boat; it might
    distract your mind.

He and Mary had resolved to quit Pisa as soon as the weather made it
desirable to do so; but their plans and their anxieties were alike
suspended by a temporary excitement of which Mary's account is given in
the following letter--

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    PISA, _6th April 1822_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Not many days after I had written to you
    concerning the fate which ever pursues us at spring-tide, a
    circumstance happened which showed that we were not forgotten this
    year. Although, indeed, now that it is all over, I begin to fear that
    the King of Gods and men will not consider it a sufficiently heavy
    visitation, although for a time it threatened to be frightful enough.
    Two Sundays ago, Lord Byron, Shelley, Trelawny, Captain Hay, Count
    Gamba, and Taafe were returning from their usual evening ride, when,
    near the Porta della Piazza, they were passed by a soldier who
    galloped through the midst of them knocking up against Taafe. This
    nice little gentleman exclaimed, "Shall we endure this man's
    insolence?" Lord Byron replied, "No! we will bring him to an account,"
    and Shelley (whose blood always boils at any insolence offered by a
    soldier) added, "As you please!" so they put spurs to their horses
    (_i.e._ all but Taafe, who remained quietly behind), followed and
    stopped the man, and, fancying that he was an officer, demanded his
    name and address, and gave their cards. The man who, I believe, was
    half drunk, replied only by all the oaths and abuse in which the
    Italian language is so rich. He ended by saying, "If I liked I could
    draw my sabre and cut you all to pieces, but as it is, I only arrest
    you," and he called out to the guards at the gate _arrestategli_. Lord
    Byron laughed at this, and saying _arrestateci pure_, gave spurs to
    his horse and rode towards the gate, followed by the rest. Lord Byron
    and Gamba passed, but before the others could, the soldier got under
    the gateway, called on the guard to stop them, and drawing his sabre,
    began to cut at them. It happened that I and the Countess Guiccioli
    were in a carriage close behind and saw it all, and you may guess how
    frightened we were when we saw our cavaliers cut at, they being
    totally unarmed. Their only safety was, that the field of battle being
    so confined, they got close under the man, and were able to arrest his
    arm. Captain Hay was, however, wounded in his face, and Shelley thrown
    from his horse. I cannot tell you how it all ended, but after cutting
    and slashing a little, the man sheathed his sword and rode on, while
    the others got from their horses to assist poor Hay, who was faint
    from loss of blood. Lord Byron, when he had passed the gate, rode to
    his own house, got a sword-stick from one of his servants, and was
    returning to the gate, Lung' Arno, when he met this man, who held out
    his hand saying, _Siete contento?_ Lord Byron replied, "No! I must
    know your name, that I may require satisfaction of you." The soldier
    said, _Il mio nome e Masi, sono sargente maggiore_, etc. etc. While
    they were talking, a servant of Lord Byron's came and took hold of the
    bridle of the sergeant's horse. Lord Byron ordered him to let it go,
    and immediately the man put his horse to a gallop, but, passing Casa
    Lanfranchi, one of Lord Byron's servants thought that he had killed
    his master and was running away; determining that he should not go
    scot-free, he ran at him with a pitchfork and wounded him. The man
    rode on a few paces, cried out, _Sono ammazzato_, and fell, was
    carried to the hospital, the Misericordia bell ringing. We were all
    assembled at Casa Lanfranchi, nursing our wounded man, and poor
    Teresa, from the excess of her fright, was worse than any, when what
    was our consternation when we heard that the man's wound was
    considered mortal! Luckily none but ourselves knew who had given the
    wound; it was said by the wise Pisani, to have been one of Lord
    Byron's servants, set on by his padrone, and they pitched upon a poor
    fellow merely because _aveva lo sguardo fiero, quanto un assassino_.
    For some days Masi continued in great danger, but he is now
    recovering. As long as it was thought he would die, the Government did
    nothing; but now that he is nearly well, they have imprisoned two
    men, one of Lord Byron's servants (the one with the _sguardo fiero_),
    and the other a servant of Teresa's, who was behind our carriage, both
    perfectly innocent, but they have been kept _in segreto_ these ten
    days, and God knows when they will be let out. What think you of this?
    Will it serve for our spring adventure? It is blown over now, it is
    true, but our fate has, in general, been in common with Dame Nature,
    and March winds and April showers have brought forth May flowers.

    You have no notion what a ridiculous figure Taafe cut in all this--he
    kept far behind during the danger, but the next day he wished to take
    all the honour to himself, vowed that all Pisa talked of him alone,
    and coming to Lord Byron said, "My Lord, if you do not dare ride out
    to-day, I will alone." But the next day he again changed, he was
    afraid of being turned out of Tuscany, or of being obliged to fight
    with one of the officers of the sergeant's regiment, of neither of
    which things there was the slightest danger, so he wrote a declaration
    to the Governor to say that he had nothing to do with it; so
    embroiling himself with Lord Byron, he got between Scylla and
    Charybdis, from which he has not yet extricated himself; for
    ourselves, we do not fear any ulterior consequences.


    _10th April._

    We received _Hellas_ to-day, and the bill of lading. Shelley is well
    pleased with the former, though there are some mistakes. The only
    danger would arise from the vengeance of Masi, but the moment he is
    able to move, he is to be removed to another town; he is a _pessimo
    soggetto_, being the crony of Soldaini, Rosselmini, and Augustini,
    Pisan names of evil fame, which, perhaps, you may remember. There is
    only one consolation in all this, that if it be our fate to suffer, it
    is more agreeable, and more safe to suffer in company with five or six
    than alone. Well! after telling you this long story, I must relate our
    other news. And first, the Greek Ali Pashaw is dead, and his head sent
    to Constantinople; the reception of it was celebrated there by the
    massacre of four thousand Greeks. The latter, however, get on. The
    Turkish fleet of 25 sail of the line-of-war vessels, and 40
    transports, endeavoured to surprise the Greek fleet in its winter
    quarters; finding them prepared, they bore away for Lante, and pursued
    by the Greeks, took refuge in the bay of Naupacto. Here they first
    blockaded them, and obtained a complete victory. All the soldiers on
    board the transports, in endeavouring to land, were cut to pieces, and
    the fleet taken or destroyed. I heard something about Hellenists which
    greatly pleased me. When any one asks of the peasants of the Morea
    what news there is, and if they have had any victory, they reply: "I
    do not know, but for us it is [Greek: e tan, e epi tas]," being their
    Doric pronunciation of [Greek: e tan, e epi tes], the speech of the
    Spartan mother, on presenting his shield to her son; "With this or on
    this."

    I wish, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, that you would send the first part of
    this letter, addressed to Mr. W. Godwin at Nash's, Esq., Dover Street.
    I wish him to have an account of the fray, and you will thus save me
    the trouble of writing it over again, for what with writing and
    talking about it, I am quite tired. In a late letter of mine to my
    father, I requested him to send you _Matilda_. I hope that he has
    complied with my desire, and, in that case, that you will get it
    copied and send it to me by the first opportunity, perhaps by Hunt, if
    he comes at all. I do not mention commissions to you, for although
    wishing much for the things about which I wrote [we have], for the
    present, no money to spare. We wish very much to hear from you again,
    and to hear if there are any hopes of your getting on in your plans,
    what Henry is doing, and how you continue to like England. The months
    of February and March were with us as hot as an English June. In the
    first days of April we have had some very cold weather; so that we are
    obliged to light fires again. Shelley has been much better in health
    this winter than any other since I have known him, Pisa certainly
    agrees with him exceedingly well, which is its only merit, in my eyes.
    I wish fate had bound us to Naples instead. Percy is quite well; he
    begins to talk, Italian only now, and to call things _bello_ and
    _buono_, but the droll thing is, that he is right about the genders.
    A silk _vestito_ is _bello_, but a new _frusta_ is _bella_. He is a
    fine boy, full of life, and very pretty. Williams is very well, and
    they are getting on very well. Mrs. Williams is a miracle of economy,
    and, as Mrs. Godwin used to call it, makes both ends meet with great
    comfort to herself and others. Medwin is gone to Rome; we have heaps
    of the gossip of a petty town this winter, being just in the _coterie_
    where it was all carried on; but now _Grazie a Messer Domenedio_, the
    English are almost all gone, and we, being left alone, all subjects of
    discord and clacking cease. You may conceive what a _bisbiglio_ our
    adventure made. The Pisans were all enraged because the _maledetti
    inglesi_ were not punished; yet when the gentlemen returned from their
    ride the following day (busy fate) an immense crowd was assembled
    before Casa Lanfranchi, and they all took off their hats to them.
    Adieu. _State bene e felice._ Best remembrances to Mr. Gisborne, and
    compliments to Henry, who will remember Hay as one of the Maremma
    hunters; he is a friend of Lord Byron's.--Yours ever truly,

      MARY W. S.

This affair, and the consequent inquiry and examination of witnesses in
connection with it took up several days, on one of which Mary and Countess
Guiccioli were under examination for five hours.

In the meantime Byron decided to go to Leghorn for his summer boating;
whereupon Shelley wrote and definitively proposed to Clare that she should
accompany his party to Spezzia, promising her quiet and privacy, and
immunity from annoyance, while she bided her time with regard to Allegra.
Clare accepted the offer, and joined them at Pisa on the 15th of April in
the expectation of starting very shortly. It turned out, however, that no
suitable houses were, after all, to be had on the coast. This was an
unexpected disappointment, and on the 23d she and the Williams' went off
to Spezzia for another search. They were hardly on their way when letters
were received by Shelley and Mary with the grievous news that Allegra had
died of typhus fever in the convent of Bagnacavallo.




CHAPTER XVI

APRIL-JULY 1882


"Evil news. Not well."

These few words are Mary's record of this frightful blow. She was again in
delicate health, suffering from the same depressing symptoms as before
Percy's birth, and for a like reason.

No wonder she was made downright ill by the shock, and by the sickening
apprehension of the scene to follow when Clare should hear the news.

On the next day but one--the 25th of April--the travellers returned.

Williams says, in his diary for that day--

    Meet S., his face bespoke his feelings. C.'s child was dead, and he
    had the office to break it to her, or rather not to do so; but,
    fearful of the news reaching her ears, to remove her instantly from
    this place.

Shelley could not tell Clare at once. Not while they were in Pisa, and
with Byron close by. One, unfurnished, house was to be had, the Casa
Magni, in the Bay of Lerici. Thither, on the chance of getting it, they
must go, and instantly. Mary's indisposition must be ignored; she must
undertake the negotiations for the house. Within twenty-four hours she was
off to Spezzia, with Clare and little Percy, escorted by Trelawny; poor
Clare quite unconscious of the burden on her friends' minds. Shelley
remained behind another day, to pack up the necessary furniture; but, on
the 27th, he with the whole Williams family left Pisa for Lerici. Thence,
while waiting for the furniture to arrive by sea, he wrote to Mary at
Spezzia.

    SHELLEY TO MARY.

    LERICI, _Sunday, 28th April 1822_.

    DEAREST MARY--I am this moment arrived at Lerici, where I am
    necessarily detained, waiting the furniture, which left Pisa last
    night at midnight, and as the sea has been calm and the wind fair, I
    may expect them every moment. It would not do to leave affairs here in
    an _impiccio_, great as is my anxiety to see you. How are you, my best
    love? How have you sustained the trials of the journey? Answer me this
    question, and how my little babe and Clare are. Now to business--

    Is the Magni House taken? if not, pray occupy yourself instantly in
    finishing the affair, even if you are obliged to go to Sarzana, and
    send a messenger to me to tell me of your success. I, of course,
    cannot leave Lerici, to which port the boats (for we were obliged to
    take two) are directed. But _you_ can come over in the same boat that
    brings you this letter, and return in the evening. I hear that
    Trelawny is still with you. Tell Clare that, as I must probably in a
    few days return to Pisa for the affair of the lawsuit, I have brought
    her box with me, thinking she might be in want of some of its
    contents.

    I ought to say that I do not think there is accommodation for you all
    at this inn; and that, even if there were, you would be better off at
    Spezzia; but if the Magni House is taken, then there is no possible
    reason why you should not take a row over in the boat that will bring
    this; but do not keep the men long. I am anxious to hear from you on
    every account.--Ever yours,

      S.

Mary's answer was that she had concluded for Casa Magni, but that no other
house was to be had in all that neighbourhood. It was in a neglected
condition, and not very roomy or convenient; but, such as it was, it had
to accommodate the Williams', as well as the Shelleys, and Clare.
Considerable difficulty was experienced by Shelley in obtaining leave for
the landing of the furniture; this obstacle got over, they at last took
possession.

    EDWARD WILLIAMS' JOURNAL.

    _Wednesday, May 1._--Cloudy, with rain. Came to Casa Magni after
    breakfast, the Shelleys having contrived to give us rooms. Without
    them, heaven knows what we should have done. Employed all day putting
    the things away. All comfortably settled by 4. Passed the evening in
    talking over our folly and our troubles.

The worst trouble, however, was still impending. Finding how crowded and
uncomfortable they were likely to be, Clare, after a day or two, decided
that it was best for herself and for every one that she should return to
Florence, and announced her intention accordingly. Compelled by the
circumstances, Shelley then disclosed to her the true state of the case.
Her grief was excessive, but was, after the first, succeeded by a calmness
unusual in her and surprising to her friends; a reaction from the fever
of suspense and torment in which she had lived for weeks past, and which
were even a harder strain on her powers of endurance than the truth,
grievous though that was, putting an end to all hope as well as to all
fear. For the present she remained at the Villa Magni.

    The ground floor of this habitation was appropriated, as is often done
    in Italy, for stowing the implements and produce of the land, as rent
    is paid in kind there. In the autumn you find casks of wine, jars of
    oil, tools, wood, occasionally carts, and, near the sea, boats and
    fishing-nets. Over this floor were a large saloon and four bedrooms
    (which had once been whitewashed), and nothing more; there was an
    out-building for cooking, and a place for the servants to eat and
    sleep in. The Williams had one room, and Shelley and his wife occupied
    two more, facing each other.[47]

Facing the sea, and almost over it, a verandah or open terrace ran the
whole length of the building; it was over the projecting ground floor, and
level with the inhabited story.

The surrounding scenery was magnificent, but wild to the last degree, and
there was something unearthly in the perpetual moaning and howling of
winds and waves. Poor Mary now began to feel the ill effects of her
enforced over-exertions. She became very unwell, suffering from utter
prostration of strength and from hysterical affections. Rest, quiet, and
freedom from worry were essential to her condition, but none of these
could she have, nor even sleep at night. The absence of comfort and
privacy, added to the great difficulty of housekeeping, and the melancholy
with which Clare's misfortune had infected the whole party, were all very
unfavourable to her.

After staying for three weeks, Clare returned for a short visit to
Florence. Shelley's letters to her during her absence afford occasional
glimpses, from which it is easy to infer more, into the state of affairs
at Casa Magni. Mrs. Williams was "by no means acquiescent in the present
system of things." The plan of having all possessions in common does not
work well in the kitchen; the respective servants of the two families were
always quarrelling and taking each other's things. Jane, who was a good
housekeeper, had the defects of her qualities, and "pined for her own
house and saucepans." "It is a pity," remarks Shelley, "that any one so
pretty and amiable should be so selfish." Not that these matters troubled
him much. Such little "squalls" gave way to calm, "in accustomed
vicissitude" (to use his own words); and Mrs. Williams had far too much
tact to dwell on domestic worries to him. His own nerves were for a time
shaken and unstrung, but he recovered, and, after the first, was unusually
well. He was in love with the wild, beautiful place, and with the life at
sea; for to his boat he escaped whenever any little breezes ruffled the
surface of domestic life so that its mirror no longer reflected his own
unwontedly bright spirits. At first he and Williams had only the small
flat-bottomed boat in which they had navigated the Arno and Serchio, but
in a fortnight there arrived the little schooner which Captain Roberts had
built for Shelley at Genoa, and then their content was perfect.

For Mary no such escape from care and discomfort was open; she was too
weak to go about much, and it is no wonder that, after the Williams'
installation, she merely chronicles, "The rest of May a blank."

Williams' diary partly fills this blank; and it is so graphic in its
exceeding simplicity that, though it has been printed before, portions may
well be included here.

    EXTRACTS FROM WILLIAMS' DIARY.

    _Thursday, May 2._--Cloudy, with intervals of rain. Went out with
    Shelley in the boat--fish on the rocks--bad sport. Went in the evening
    after some wild ducks--saw nothing but sublime scenery, to which the
    grandeur of a storm greatly contributed.

    _Friday, May 3._--Fine. The captain of the port despatched a vessel
    for Shelley's boat. Went to Lerici with S., being obliged to market
    there; the servant having returned from Sarzana without being able to
    procure anything.

    _Sunday, May 5._--Fine. Kept awake the whole night by a heavy swell,
    which made a noise on the beach like the discharge of heavy artillery.
    Tried with Shelley to launch the small flat-bottomed boat through the
    surf; we succeeded in pushing it through, but shipped a sea on
    attempting to land. Walk to Lerici along the beach, by a winding path
    on the mountain's side. Delightful evening,--the scenery most sublime.

    _Monday, May 6._--Fine. Some heavy drops of rain fell to-day, without
    a cloud being visible. Made a sketch of the western side of the bay.
    Read a little. Walked with Jane up the mountain.

    After tea walking with Shelley on the terrace, and observing the
    effect of moonshine on the waters, he complained of being unusually
    nervous, and stopping short, he grasped me violently by the arm, and
    stared steadfastly on the white surf that broke upon the beach under
    our feet. Observing him sensibly affected, I demanded of him if he
    were in pain. But he only answered by saying, "There it is
    again--there"! He recovered after some time, and declared that he saw,
    as plainly as he then saw me, a naked child (Allegra) rise from the
    sea, and clap its hands as in joy, smiling at him. This was a trance
    that it required some reasoning and philosophy entirely to awaken him
    from, so forcibly had the vision operated on his mind. Our
    conversation, which had been at first rather melancholy, led to this;
    and my confirming his sensations, by confessing that I had felt the
    same, gave greater activity to his ever-wandering and lively
    imagination.

    _Sunday, May 12._--Cloudy and threatening weather. Wrote during the
    morning. Mr. Maglian called after dinner, and, while walking with him
    on the terrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of
    Porto Venere, which proved at length to be Shelley's boat. She had
    left Genoa on Thursday, but had been driven back by prevailing bad
    winds, a Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they
    speak most highly of her performances. She does, indeed, excite my
    surprise and admiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a
    stretch off the land to try her, and I find she fetches whatever she
    looks at. In short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer.

    _Monday, May 13._--Rain during night in torrents--a heavy gale of wind
    from S.W., and a surf running heavier than ever; at 4 gale unabated,
    violent squalls....

    ... In the evening an electric arch forming in the clouds announces a
    heavy thunderstorm, if the wind lulls. Distant thunder--gale
    increases--a circle of foam surrounds the bay--dark, evening, and
    tempestuous, with flashes of lightning at intervals, which give us no
    hope of better weather. The learned in these things say, that it
    generally lasts three days when once it commences as this has done. We
    all feel as if we were on board ship--and the roaring of the sea
    brings this idea to us even in our beds.

    _Wednesday, May 15._--Fine and fresh breeze in puffs from the land.
    Jane and Mary consent to take a sail. Run down to Porto Venere and
    beat back at 1 o'clock. The boat sailed like a witch. After the late
    gale, the water is covered with purple nautili, or as the sailors call
    them, Portuguese men-of-war. After dinner Jane accompanied us to the
    point of the Magra; and the boat beat back in wonderful style.

    _Wednesday, May 22._--Fine, after a threatening night. After breakfast
    Shelley and I amused ourselves with trying to make a boat of canvas
    and reeds, as light and as small as possible. She is to be 8-1/2 feet
    long, and 4-1/2 broad....

    _Wednesday, June 12._--Launched the little boat, which answered our
    wishes and expectations. She is 86 lbs. English weight, and stows
    easily on board. Sailed in the evening, but were becalmed in the
    offing, and left there with a long ground swell, which made Jane
    little better than dead. Hoisted out our little boat and brought her
    on shore. Her landing attended by the whole village.

    _Thursday, June 13._--Fine. At 9 saw a vessel between the straits of
    Porto Venere, like a man-of-war brig. She proved to be the _Bolivar_,
    with Roberts and Trelawny on board, who are taking her round to
    Livorno. On meeting them we were saluted by six guns. Sailed together
    to try the vessels--in speed no chance with her, but I think we keep
    as good a wind. She is the most beautiful craft I ever saw, and will
    do more for her size. She costs Lord Byron L750 clear off and ready
    for sea, with provisions and conveniences of every kind.

In the midst of this happy life one anxiety there was, however, which
pursued Shelley everywhere; and neither on shore nor at sea could he
escape from it,--that of Godwin's imminent ruin.

The first of the letters which follow had reached Mary while still at
Pisa. The next letter, and that of Mrs. Godwin were, at Shelley's request,
intercepted by Mrs. Mason and sent to him. He could not and would not show
them to Mary, and wrote at last to Mrs. Godwin, to try and put a stop to
them.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    SKINNER STREET, _19th April 1822_.

    MY DEAREST MARY--The die, so far as I am concerned, seems now to be
    cast, and all that remains is that I should entreat you to forget that
    you have a father in existence. Why should your prime of youthful
    vigour be tarnished and made wretched by what relates to me? I have
    lived to the full age of man in as much comfort as can reasonably be
    expected to fall to the lot of a human being. What signifies what
    becomes of the few wretched years that remain?

    For the same reason, I think I ought for the future to drop writing to
    you. It is impossible that my letters can give you anything but
    unmingled pain. A few weeks more, and the formalities which still
    restrain the successful claimant will be over, and my prospects of
    tranquillity must, as I believe, be eternally closed.--Farewell,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.


    GODWIN TO MARY.

    SKINNER STREET, _3d May 1822_.

    DEAR MARY--I wrote to you a fortnight ago, and professed my intention
    of not writing again. I certainly will not write when the result shall
    be to give pure, unmitigated pain. It is the questionable shape of
    what I have to communicate that still thrusts the pen into my hand.
    This day we are compelled, by summary process, to leave the house we
    live in, and to hide our heads in whatever alley will receive us. If
    we can compound with our creditor, and he seems not unwilling to
    accept L400 (I have talked with him on the subject), we may emerge
    again. Our business, if freed from this intolerable burthen, is more
    than ever worth keeping.

    But all this would, perhaps, have failed in inducing me to resume the
    pen, but for _one extraordinary accident_. Wednesday, 1st May, was the
    day when the last legal step was taken against me; and Wednesday
    morning, a few hours before this catastrophe, Willats, the man who,
    three or four years before, lent Shelley L2000 at two for one, called
    on me to ask whether Shelley wanted any more money on the same terms.
    What does this mean? In the contemplation of such a coincidence, I
    could almost grow superstitious. But, alas! I fear--I fear--I am a
    drowning man, catching at a straw.--Ever most affectionately, your
    father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

    Please to direct your letters, till you hear further, to the care of
    Mr. Monro, No. 60 Skinner Street.


    MRS. MASON TO SHELLEY.

    _May 1822._

    I send you in return for Godwin's letter one still worse, because I
    think it has more the appearance of truth. I was desired to convey it
    to Mary, but that I should not think right. At the same time, I don't
    well know how you can conceal all this affair from her; they really
    seem to want assistance at present, for their being turned out of the
    house is a serious evil. I rejoice in your good health, to which I
    have no doubt the boat and the Williams' much contribute, and wish
    there may be no prospect of its being disturbed.

    Mary ought to know what is said of the novel, and how can she know
    that without all the rest? You will contrive what is best. In the part
    of the letter which I do send, she (Mrs. Godwin) adds, that at this
    moment Mr. Godwin does not offer the novel to any bookseller, lest his
    actual situation might make it be supposed that it would be sold
    cheap. Mrs. Godwin also wishes to correspond directly with Mrs.
    Shelley, but this I shall not permit; she says Godwin's health is much
    the worse for all this affair.

    I was astonished at seeing Clare walk in on Tuesday evening, and I
    have not a spare bed now in the house, the children having outgrown
    theirs, and been obliged to occupy that which I had formerly; she
    proposed going to an inn, but preferred sleeping on a sofa, where I
    made her as comfortable as I could, which is but little so; however,
    she is satisfied. I rejoice to see that she has not suffered so much
    as you expected, and understand now her former feelings better than at
    first. When there is nothing to hope or fear, it is natural to be
    calm. I wish she had some determined project, but her plans seem as
    unsettled as ever, and she does not see half the reasons for
    separating herself from your society that really exist. I regret to
    perceive her great repugnance to Paris, which I believe to be the
    place best adapted to her. If she had but the temptation of good
    letters of introduction!--but I have no means of obtaining them for
    her--she intends, I believe, to go to Florence to-morrow, and to
    return to your habitation in a week, but talks of not staying the
    whole summer. I regret the loss of Mary's good health and spirits, but
    hope it is only the consequence of her present situation, and,
    therefore, merely temporary, but I dread Clare's being in the same
    house for a month or two, and wish the Williams' were half a mile from
    you. I must write a few lines to Mary, but will say nothing of having
    heard from Mrs. Godwin; you will tell her what you think right, but
    you know my opinion, that things which cannot be concealed are better
    told at once. I should suppose a bankruptcy would be best, but the
    Godwins do not seem to think so. If all the world valued obscure
    tranquillity as much as I do, it would be a happier, though possibly
    much duller, world than it is, but the loss of wealth is quite an
    epidemic disease in England, and it disturbs their rest more than
    the[48] ... I should have a thousand things to say, but that I have a
    thousand other things to do, and you give me hope of conversing with
    you before long.--Ever yours very sincerely,

      M. M.


    SHELLEY TO MRS. GODWIN.

    LERICI, _29th May 1882_.

    DEAR MADAM--Mrs. Mason has sent me an extract from your last letter to
    show to Mary, and I have received that of Mr. Godwin, in which he
    mentions your having left Skinner Street.

    In Mary's present state of health and spirits, much caution is
    requisite with regard to communications which must agitate her in the
    highest degree, and the object of my present letter is simply to
    inform you that I thought it right to exercise this caution on the
    present occasion. Mary is at present about three months advanced in
    pregnancy, and the irritability and languor which accompany this state
    are always distressing, and sometimes alarming. I do not know even how
    soon I can permit her to receive such communications, or even how soon
    you or Mr. Godwin would wish they should be conveyed to her, if you
    could have any idea of the effect. Do not, however, let me be
    misunderstood. It is not my intention or my wish that the
    circumstances in which your family is involved should be concealed
    from her; but that the detail of them should be suspended until they
    assume a more prosperous character, or at least till letters addressed
    to her or intended for her perusal on that subject should not convey a
    supposition that she could do more than she does, thus exasperating
    the sympathy which she already feels too intensely for her Father's
    distress, which she would sacrifice all she possesses to remedy, but
    the remedy of which is beyond her power. She imagined that her novel
    might be turned to immediate advantage for him. I am greatly
    interested in the fate of this production, which appears to me to
    possess a high degree of merit, and I regret that it is not Mr.
    Godwin's intention to publish it immediately. I am sure that Mary
    would be delighted to amend anything that her Father thought imperfect
    in it, though I confess that if his objection relates to the
    character of Beatrice, _I_ shall lament the deference which would be
    shown by the sacrifice of any portion of it to feelings and ideas
    which are but for a day. I wish Mr. Godwin would write to her on that
    subject; he might advert to the letter (for it is only the last one)
    which I have suppressed, or not, as he thought proper.

    I have written to Mr. Smith to solicit the loan of L400, which, if I
    can obtain in that manner, is very much at Mr. Godwin's service. The
    views which I now entertain of my affairs forbid me to enter into any
    further reversionary transactions; nor do I think Mr. Godwin would be
    a gainer by the contrary determination; as it would be next to
    impossible to effectuate any such bargain at this distance, nor could
    I burthen my income, which is only sufficient to meet its various
    claims, and the system of life in which it seems necessary I should
    live.

    We hear you hear Jane's (Clare's) news from Mrs. Mason. Since the late
    melancholy event she has become far more tranquil; nor should I have
    anything to desire with regard to her, did not the uncertainty of my
    own life and prospects render it prudent for her to attempt to
    establish some sort of independence as a security against an event
    which would deprive her of that which she at present enjoys. She is
    well in health, and usually resides at Florence, where she has formed
    a little society for herself among the Italians, with whom she is a
    great favourite. She was here for a week or two; and although she has
    at present returned to Florence, we expect her on a visit to us for
    the summer months. In the winter, unless some of her various plans
    succeed, for she may be called _la fille aux mille projets_, she will
    return to Florence. Mr. Godwin may depend upon receiving immediate
    notice of the result of my application to Mr. Smith. I hope soon to
    have an account of your situation and prospects, and remain, dear
    Madam, yours very sincerely,

      P. B. SHELLEY.

    Mrs. Godwin.

    We will speak another time, of what is deeply interesting both to Mary
    and to myself, of my dear William.

The knowledge of all this on Shelley's mind,--the consciousness that he
was hiding it from Mary, and that she was probably more than half aware of
his doing so, gave him a feeling of constraint in his daily intercourse
with her. To talk with her, even about her father, was difficult, for he
could neither help nor hide his feeling of irritation and indignation at
the way in which Godwin persecuted his daughter after the efforts she had
made in his behalf, and for which he had hardly thanked her.

It would have to come, the explanation; but for the present, as Shelley
wrote to Clare, he was content to put off the evil day. Towards the end of
the month Mary's health had somewhat improved, and the letter she then
wrote to Mrs. Gisborne gives a connected account of all the past
incidents.

    MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    CASA MAGNI, Presso a LERICI,
    _2d June 1822_.

    MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--We received a letter from Mr. Gisborne the
    other day, which promised one from you. It is not yet come, and
    although I think that you are two or three in my debt, yet I am good
    enough to write to you again, and thus to increase your debt. Nor will
    I allow you, with one letter, to take advantage of the Insolvent Act,
    and thus to free yourself from all claims at once. When I last wrote,
    I said that I hoped our spring visitation had come and was gone, but
    this year we were not quit so easily. However, before I mention
    anything else, I will finish the story of the _zuffa_ as far as it is
    yet gone. I think that in my last I left the sergeant recovering; one
    of Lord Byron's and one of the Guiccioli's servants in prison on
    suspicion, though both were innocent. The judge or advocate, called a
    Cancelliere, sent from Florence to determine the affair, dislikes the
    Pisans, and, having _poca paga_, expected a present from Milordo, and
    so favoured our part of the affair, was very civil, and came to our
    houses to take depositions against the law. For the sake of the
    lesson, Hogg should have been there to learn to cross-question. The
    Cancelliere, a talkative buffoon of a Florentine, with "mille scuse
    per l'incomodo," asked, "Dove fu lei la sera del 24 marzo? Andai a
    spasso in carozza, fuori della Porta della Piaggia." A little clerk,
    seated beside him, with a great pile of papers before him, now dipped
    his pen in his ink-horn, and looked expectant, while the Cancelliere,
    turning his eyes up to the ceiling, repeated, "Io fui a spasso," etc.
    This scene lasted two, four, six, hours, as it happened. In the space
    of two months the depositions of fifteen people were taken, and
    finding Tita (Lord Byron's servant) perfectly innocent, the
    Cancelliere ordered him to be liberated, but the Pisan police took
    fright at his beard. They called him "il barbone," and, although it
    was declared that on his exit from prison he should be shaved, they
    could not tranquillise their mighty minds, but banished him. We, in
    the meantime, were come to this place, so he has taken refuge with us.
    He is an excellent fellow, faithful, courageous, and daring. How could
    it happen that the Pisans should be frightened at such a _mirabile
    mostro_ of an Italian, especially as the day he was let out of
    _segreto_, and was a _largee_ in prison, he gave a feast to all his
    fellow-prisoners, hiring chandeliers and plate! But poor Antonio, the
    Guiccioli's servant, the meekest-hearted fellow in the world, is kept
    in _segreto_; not found guilty, but punished as such,--_e chi sa_ when
    he will be let out?--so rests the affair.

    About a month ago Clare came to visit us at Pisa, and went with the
    Williams' to find a house in the Gulf of Spezzia, when, during her
    absence, the disastrous news came of the death of Allegra. She died of
    a typhus fever, which had been raging in the Romagna; but no one wrote
    to say it was there. She had no friends except the nuns of the
    Convent, who were kind to her, I believe; but you know Italians. If
    half of the Convent had died of the plague, they would never have
    written to have had her removed, and so the poor child fell a
    sacrifice. Lord Byron felt the loss at first bitterly; he also felt
    remorse, for he felt that he had acted against everybody's counsels
    and wishes, and death had stamped with truth the many and often-urged
    prophecies of Clare, that the air of the Romagna, joined to the
    ignorance of the Italians, would prove fatal to her. Shelley wished to
    conceal the fatal news from her as long as possible, so when she
    returned from Spezzia he resolved to remove thither without delay,
    with so little delay that he packed me off with Clare and Percy the
    very next day. She wished to return to Florence, but he persuaded her
    to accompany me; the next day he packed up our goods and chattels, for
    a furnished house was not to be found in this part of the world, and,
    like a torrent hurrying everything in its course, he persuaded the
    Williams' to do the same. They came here; but one house was to be
    found for us all; it is beautifully situated on the sea-shore, under
    the woody hills,--but such a place as this is! The poverty of the
    people is beyond anything, yet they do not appear unhappy, but go on
    in dirty content, or contented dirt, while we find it hard work to
    purvey miles around for a few eatables. We were in wretched discomfort
    at first, but now are in a kind of disorderly order, living from day
    to day as we can. After the first day or two Clare insisted on
    returning to Florence, so Shelley was obliged to disclose the truth.
    You may judge of what was her first burst of grief and despair;
    however she reconciled herself to her fate sooner than we expected;
    and although, of course, until she form new ties, she will always
    grieve, yet she is now tranquil--more tranquil than when prophesying
    her disaster; she was for ever forming plans for getting her child
    from a place she judged but too truly would be fatal to her. She has
    now returned to Florence, and I do not know whether she will join us
    again. Our colony is much smaller than we expected, which we consider
    a benefit. Lord Byron remains with his train at Montenero. Trelawny
    is to be the commander of his vessel, and of course will be at
    Leghorn. He is at present at Genoa, awaiting the finishing of this
    boat. Shelley's boat is a beautiful creature; Henry would admire her
    greatly; though only 24 feet by 8 feet she is a perfect little ship,
    and looks twice her size. She had one fault, she was to have been
    built in partnership with Williams and Trelawny. Trelawny chose the
    name of the _Don Juan_, and we acceded; but when Shelley took her
    entirely on himself we changed the name to the _Ariel_. Lord Byron
    chose to take fire at this, and determined that she should be called
    after the Poem; wrote to Roberts to have the name painted on the
    mainsail, and she arrived thus disfigured. For days and nights, full
    twenty-one, did Shelley and Edward ponder on her anabaptism, and the
    washing out the primeval stain. Turpentine, spirits of wine, buccata,
    all were tried, and it became dappled and no more. At length the piece
    had to be taken out and reefs put, so that the sail does not look
    worse. I do not know what Lord Byron will say, but Lord and Poet as he
    is, he could not be allowed to make a coal barge of our boat. As only
    one house was to be found habitable in this gulf, the Williams' have
    taken up their abode with us, and their servants and mine quarrel like
    cats and dogs; and besides, you may imagine how ill a large family
    agrees with my laziness, when accounts and domestic concerns come to
    be talked of. _Ma pazienza._ After all the place does not suit me; the
    people are _rozzi_, and speak a detestable dialect, and yet it is
    better than any other Italian sea-shore north of Naples. The air is
    excellent, and you may guess how much better we like it than Leghorn,
    when, besides, we should have been involved in English society--a
    thing we longed to get rid of at Pisa. Mr. Gisborne talks of your
    going to a distant country; pray write to me in time before this takes
    place, as I want a box from England first, but cannot now exactly name
    its contents. I am sorry to hear you do not get on, but perhaps Henry
    will, and make up for all. Percy is well, and Shelley singularly so;
    this incessant boating does him a great deal of good. I have been
    very unwell for some time past, but am better now. I have not even
    heard of the arrival of my novel; but I suppose for his own sake, Papa
    will dispose of it to the best advantage. If you see it advertised,
    pray tell me, also its publisher, etc.

    We have heard from Hunt the day he was to sail, and anxiously and
    daily now await his arrival. Shelley will go over to Leghorn to him,
    and I also, if I can so manage it. We shall be at Pisa next winter, I
    believe, fate so decrees. Of course you have heard that the lawsuit
    went against my Father. This was the summit and crown of our spring
    misfortunes, but he writes in so few words, and in such a manner, that
    any information that I could get, through any one, would be a great
    benefit to me. Adieu. Pray write now, and at length. Remember both
    Shelley and me to Hogg. Did you get _Matilda_ from Papa?--Yours ever,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

    Continue to direct to Pisa.

Clare returned to the Casa Magni on the 6th of July. The weather had now
become intensely hot, and Mary was again prostrated by it. Alarming
symptoms appeared, and after a wretched week of ill health, these came to
a crisis in a dangerous miscarriage. She was destitute of medical aid or
appliances, and, weakened as she already was, they feared for her life.
She had lain ill for several hours before some ice could be procured, and
Shelley then took upon himself the responsibility of its immediate use;
the event proved him right; and when at last a doctor came, he found her
doing well. Her strength, however, was reduced to the lowest ebb; her
spirits also; and within a week of this misfortune her recovery was
retarded by a dreadful nervous shock she received through Shelley's
walking in his sleep.[49]

While Mary was enduring a time of physical and mental suffering beyond
what can be told, and such as no man can wholly understand, Shelley, for
his part, was enjoying unwonted health and good spirits. And such
creatures are we all that unwonted health in ourself is even a stronger
power for happiness than is the sickness of another for depression.

He was sorry for Mary's gloom, but he could not lighten it, and he was
persistently content in spite of it. This has led to the supposition that
there was, at this time, a serious want of sympathy between Shelley and
Mary. His only want, he said in an often-quoted letter, was the presence
of those who could feel, and understand him, and he added, "Whether from
proximity, and the continuity of domestic intercourse, Mary does not."

It would have been almost miraculous had it been otherwise. Perhaps
nothing in the world is harder than for a person suffering from exhausting
illness, and from the extreme of nervous and mental depression, to enter
into the mood of temporary elation of another person whose spirits, as a
rule, are uneven, and in need of constant support from others. But the
context of this very letter of Shelley's shows clearly enough that he
meant nothing desperate, no shipwreck of the heart; for, as the people who
could "feel, and understand him," he instances his correspondents, Mr. and
Mrs. Gisborne, saying that his satisfaction would be complete if only
_they_ were of the party; although, were his wishes not limited by his
hopes, Hogg would also be included. He would have liked a little
intellectual stimulus and comradeship. As it was, he was well satisfied
with an intercourse of which "words were not the instruments."

    I like Jane more and more, and I find Williams the most amiable of
    companions.

Jane's guitar and her sweet singing were a new and perpetual delight to
him, and she herself supplied him with just as much suggestion of an
unrealised ideal as was necessary to keep his imagination alive. She, on
her side, understood him and knew how to manage him perfectly; as a great
man may be understood by a clever woman who is so far from having an
intellectual comprehension of him that she is not distressed by the
consciousness of its imperfection or its absence, but succeeds by dint of
delicate social intuition, guided by just so much sense of humour as saves
her from exaggeration, or from blunders; and who understands her great man
on his human side so much better than the poor creature understands
himself, as to wind him at will, easily, gracefully, and insensibly, round
her little finger. And so, without sacrificing a moment's peace of mind,
Jane Williams won over Shelley an ascendency which was pleasing to both
and convenient to every one. No better instance could be given of her
method than the well-known episode of his sudden proposal to her to
overturn the boat, and, together, to "solve the great mystery"; inimitably
told by Trelawny. And so the month of June sped away.

    "I have a boat here," wrote Shelley to John Gisborne, ... "it cost me
    L80, and reduced me to some difficulty in point of money. However, it
    is swift and beautiful, and appears quite a vessel. Williams is
    captain, and we glide along this delightful bay, in the evening wind,
    under the summer moon, until earth appears another world. Jane brings
    her guitar, and if the past and the future could be obliterated, the
    present would content me so well that I could say with Faust to the
    present moment, 'Remain; thou art so beautiful.'"

And now, like Faust, having said this, like Faust's, his hour had come.

He heard from Genoa of the Leigh Hunts' arrival, so far, on their journey,
and wrote at once to Hunt a letter of warmest welcome to Italy, promising
to start for Leghorn the instant he should hear of the Hunts' vessel
having sailed for that port.

    Poor Mary, who sends you a thousand loves, has been seriously ill,
    having suffered a most debilitating miscarriage. She is still too
    unwell to rise from the sofa, and must take great care of herself for
    some time, or she would come with us to Leghorn. Lord Byron is in
    _villegiatura_ near Leghorn, and you will meet besides with a Mr.
    Trelawny, a wild, but kind-hearted seaman.

The Hunts sailed; and, on the 1st of July, Shelley and Williams, with
Charles Vivian, the sailor-lad who looked after their boat, started in the
_Ariel_ for Leghorn, where they arrived safely. Thence Shelley, with Leigh
Hunt, proceeded to Pisa. It had not been their intention to stay long, but
Shelley found much to detain him. Matters with respect to Byron and the
projected magazine wore a most unsatisfactory appearance; Byron's
eagerness had cooled, and his reception of the Hunts was chilling in the
extreme. Poor Mrs. Hunt was very seriously ill, and the letter which Mary
received from her husband was mainly to explain his prolonged absence. She
had let him go from her side with the greatest unwillingness; she was
haunted by the gloomiest forebodings and a sense of unexplained misery
which they all ascribed to her illness, and her letters were written in a
tone of depression which made Shelley anxious on her account, and Edward
Williams on that of his wife, who, he feared, might be unhappy during his
absence from her.

But Jane wrote brightly, and gave an improved account of Mary.

    SHELLEY TO MARY.

    PISA, _4th July 1822_.

    MY DEAREST MARY--I have received both your letters, and shall attend
    to the instructions they convey. I did not think of buying the
    _Bolivar_; Lord Byron wishes to sell her, but I imagine would prefer
    ready money. I have as yet made no inquiries about houses near
    Pugnano--I have had no moment of time to spare from Hunt's affairs. I
    am detained unwillingly here, and you will probably see Williams in
    the boat before me, but that will be decided to-morrow.

    Things are in the worst possible situation with respect to poor Hunt.
    I find Marianne in a desperate state of health, and on our arrival at
    Pisa sent for Vacca. He decides that her case is hopeless, and,
    although it will be lingering, must end fatally. This decision he
    thought proper to communicate to Hunt, indicating at the same time
    with great judgment and precision the treatment necessary to be
    observed for availing himself of the chance of his being deceived.
    This intelligence has extinguished the last spark of poor Hunt's
    spirits, low enough before. The children are well and much improved.
    Lord Byron is at this moment on the point of leaving Tuscany. The
    Gambas have been exiled, and he declares his intention of following
    their fortunes. His first idea was to sail to America, which was
    changed to Switzerland, then to Genoa, and last to Lucca. Everybody is
    in despair, and everything in confusion. Trelawny was on the point of
    sailing to Genoa for the purpose of transporting the _Bolivar_
    overland to the Lake of Geneva, and had already whispered in my ear
    his desire that I should not influence Lord Byron against this
    terrestrial navigation. He next received _orders_ to weigh anchor and
    set sail for Lerici. He is now without instructions, moody and
    disappointed. But it is the worse for poor Hunt, unless the present
    storm should blow over. He places his whole dependence upon the
    scheme of the journal, for which every arrangement has been made. Lord
    Byron must, of course, furnish the requisite funds at present, as I
    cannot; but he seems inclined to depart without the necessary
    explanations and arrangements due to such a situation as Hunt's.
    These, in spite of delicacy, I must procure; he offers him the
    copyright of the _Vision of Judgment_ for the first number. This
    offer, if sincere, is _more_ than enough to set up the journal, and,
    if sincere, will set everything right.

    How are you, my best Mary? Write especially how is your health, and
    how your spirits are, and whether you are not more reconciled to
    staying at Lerici, at least during the summer. You have no idea how I
    am hurried and occupied; I have not a moment's leisure, but will write
    by next post. Ever, dearest Mary, yours affectionately,

      S.

    I have found the translation of the _Symposium_.


    SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

    PISA, _4th July 1822_.

    You will probably see Williams before I can disentangle myself from
    the affairs with which I am now surrounded. I return to Leghorn
    to-night, and shall urge him to sail with the first fair wind without
    expecting me. I have thus the pleasure of contributing to your
    happiness when deprived of every other, and of leaving you no other
    subject of regret but the absence of one scarcely worth regretting. I
    fear you are solitary and melancholy at the Villa Magni, and, in the
    intervals of the greater and more serious distress in which I am
    compelled to sympathise here, I figure to myself the countenance which
    has been the source of such consolation to me, shadowed by a veil of
    sorrow.

    How soon those hours passed, and how slowly they return, to pass so
    soon again, and perhaps for ever, in which we have lived together so
    intimately, so happily! Adieu, my dearest friend. I only write these
    lines for the pleasure of tracing what will meet your eyes. Mary will
    tell you all the news.

      S.


    FROM JANE WILLIAMS TO SHELLEY.

    _6th July._

    MY DEAREST FRIEND--Your few melancholy lines have indeed cast your own
    visionary veil over a countenance that was animated with the hope of
    seeing you return with far different tidings. We heard yesterday that
    you had left Leghorn in company with the _Bolivar_, and would
    assuredly be here in the morning at 5 o'clock; therefore I got up, and
    from the terrace saw (or I dreamt it) the _Bolivar_ opposite in the
    offing. She hoisted more sail, and went through the Straits. What can
    this mean? Hope and uncertainty have made such a chaos in my mind that
    I know not what to think. My own Neddino does not deign to lighten my
    darkness by a single word. Surely I shall see him to-night. Perhaps,
    too, you are with him. Well, _pazienza_!

    Mary, I am happy to tell you, goes on well; she talks of going to
    Pisa, and indeed your poor friends seem to require all her assistance.
    For me, alas! I can only offer sympathy, and my fervent wishes that a
    brighter cloud may soon dispel the present gloom. I hope much from the
    air of Pisa for Mrs. Hunt.

    Lord B.'s departure gives me pleasure, for whatever may be the present
    difficulties and disappointments, they are small to what you would
    have suffered had he remained with you. This I say in the spirit of
    prophecy, so gather consolation from it.

    I have only time left to scrawl you a hasty adieu, and am
    affectionately yours,

      J. W.

    Why do you talk of never enjoying moments like the past? Are you going
    to join your friend Plato, or do you expect I shall do so soon? _Buona
    notte._

Mary was slowly getting better, and hoping to feel brighter by the time
Shelley came back. On the 7th of July she wrote a few lines in her
journal, summing up the month during which she had left it untouched.

    _Sunday, July 7._--I am ill most of this time. Ill, and then
    convalescent. Roberts and Trelawny arrive with the _Bolivar_. On
    Monday, 16th June, Trelawny goes on to Leghorn with her. Roberts
    remains here until 1st July, when the Hunts being arrived, Shelley
    goes in the boat with him and Edward to Leghorn. They are still there.
    Read _Jacopo Ortis_, second volume of _Geographica Fisica_, etc. etc.

Next day, Monday the 8th, when the voyagers were expected to return, it
was so stormy all day at Lerici that their having sailed was considered
out of the question, and their non-arrival excited no surprise in Mary or
Jane. So many possibilities and probabilities might detain them at Leghorn
or Pisa, that their wives did not get anxious for three or four days; and
even then what the two women dreaded was not calamity at sea, but illness
or disagreeable business on shore. On Thursday, however, getting no
letters, they did become uneasy, and, but for the rough weather, Jane
Williams would have started in a row-boat for Leghorn. On Friday they
watched with feverish anxiety for the post; there was but one letter, and
it turned them to stone. It was to Shelley, from Leigh Hunt, begging him
to write and say how he had got home in the bad weather of the previous
Monday. And then it dawned upon them--a dawn of darkness. There was no
news; there would be no news any more.

One minute had untied the knot, and solved the great mystery. The _Ariel_
had gone down in the storm, with all hands on board.

And for four days past, though they had not known it, Mary Shelley and
Jane Williams had been widows.


END OF VOL. I

_Printed, by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.




FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Address to the Irish People."

[2] Possibly this may refer to Count Schlaberndorf, an expatriated
Prussian subject, who was imprisoned in Paris during the Reign of Terror,
and escaped, but subsequently returned, and lived there in retirement,
almost in concealment. He was a cynic, an eccentric, yet a patriot withal.
He was divorced from his wife, and Shelley had probably got hold of a
wrong version of his story.

[3] Byron.

[4] _Ibid._

[5]

  Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
  Thy gentle words stir poison there;
  Thou hast disturbed the only rest
  That was the portion of despair!
  Subdued to Duty's hard control,
  I could have borne my wayward lot:
  The chains that bind this ruined soul
  Had cankered then, but crushed it not.

[6] See his letter to Baxter, quoted before.

[7] _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour._

[8] _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour._

[9] _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour._

[10] The bailiffs.

[11] She was staying temporarily at Skinner Street.

[12] Referring to Fanny's letter, enclosed.

[13] Peacock's mother.

[14] A friend of Harriet Shelley's.

[15] It is presumed that these were for Clara, in answer to an
advertisement for a situation as companion.

[16] Godwin's friend and amanuensis.

[17] Which, unfortunately, may not be published.

[18] From this time Miss Clairmont is always mentioned as Clare, or
Claire, except by the Godwins, who adhered to the original "Jane."

[19] Byron.

[20] Word obliterated.

[21] Matthew Gregory Lewis, known as "Monk" Lewis.

[22] Hogg.

[23] _Revolt of Islam_, Dedication.

[24] _Revolt of Islam_, Dedication.

[25] The work referred to would seem to be Shelley's Oxford pamphlet.

[26] Baxter's son.

[27] Mr. Booth.

[28] What this accusation was does not appear.

[29] Alba.

[30] Shelley's solicitor.

[31] The nursemaid.

[32] Mrs. Hunt.

[33] See Godwin's letter to Baxter, chap. iii.

[34] Preface to _Prometheus Unbound_.

[35] Page 205.

[36] In _Frankenstein_.

[37] _Notes to Shelley's Poems_, by Mrs. Shelley.

[38] Letter to Mr. Gisborne, of June 18, 1822.

[39] Letter of Shelley's to Mr. Gisborne. (The passage, in the original,
has no personal reference to Byron.)

[40] Announcing the stoppage of Shelley's income.

[41] "The Boat on the Serchio."

[42] _Notes to Shelley's Poems_, by Mary Shelley.

[43] Godwin's _Answer to Malthus_.

[44] This initial has been printed _C._ Mrs. Shelley's letter leaves no
doubt that Elise's is the illness referred to.

[45] Trelawny's "Recollections."

[46] Williams' journal for this last day runs--

_February 18._--Jane unwell. S. turns physician. Called on Lord B., who
talks of getting up _Othello_. Laid a wager with S. that Lord B. quits
Italy before six months. Jane put on a Hindostanee dress and passed the
evening with Mary, who had also the Turkish costume.

[47] Trelawny's "Recollections."

[48] Word illegible.

[49] Recounted at length in a subsequent letter, to be quoted later on.




_AT ALL BOOKSELLERS._

WORD PORTRAITS OF FAMOUS WRITERS.

EDITED BY MABEL E. WOTTON.

In large crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.


'"The world has always been fond of personal details respecting men who
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CONTENTS.

  Joseph Addison.
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  Jane Austen.
  Francis, Lord Bacon.
  Joanna Baillie.
  Benjamin, Lord Beaconsfield.
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  Richard Bentley.
  James Boswell.
  Charlotte Bronte.
  Henry, Lord Brougham.
  Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
  John Bunyan.
  Edmund Burke.
  Robert Burns.
  Samuel Butler.
  George, Lord Byron.
  Thomas Campbell.
  Thomas Carlyle.
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  Geoffrey Chaucer.
  Philip, Lord Chesterfield.
  William Cobbett.
  Hartley Coleridge.
  Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
  William Collins.
  William Cowper
  George Crabbe.
  Daniel De Foe.
  Charles Dickens.
  Isaac D'Israeli.
  John Dryden.
  Mary Anne Evans (George Eliot).
  Henry Fielding.
  John Gay.
  Edward Gibbon.
  William Godwin.
  Oliver Goldsmith.
  David Gray.
  Thomas Gray.
  Henry Hallam.
  William Hazlitt.
  Felicia Hemans.
  James Hogg.
  Thomas Hood.
  Theodore Hook.
  David Hume.
  Leigh Hunt.
  Elizabeth Inchbald.
  Francis, Lord Jeffrey.
  Douglas Jerrold.
  Samuel Johnson.
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  John Keats.
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  Charles Kingsley.
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  Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.
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  Sir Thomas More.
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  Samuel Pepys.
  Alexander Pope.
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  Thomas de Quincey.
  Ann Radcliffe.
  Sir Walter Raleigh.
  Charles Reade.
  Samuel Richardson.
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  Sir Walter Scott.
  William Shakespeare.
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  Percy Bysshe Shelley.
  Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
  Sir Philip Sidney.
  Horace Smith.
  Sydney Smith.
  Tobias Smollett.
  Robert Southey.
  Edmund Spenser.
  Arthur Penrhyn Stanley.
  Sir Richard Steele.
  Laurence Sterne.
  Sir John Suckling.
  Jonathan Swift.
  William Makepeace Thackeray.
  James Thomson.
  Anthony Trollope.
  Edmund Waller.
  Horace Walpole.
  Izaac Walton.
  John Wilson.
  Ellen Wood (Mrs. Henry Wood).
  William Wordsworth.
  Sir Henry Wotton.

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***