I have been reading all the old Shelley literature lately, Hogg and
Trelawny and Medwin and Mrs. Shelley, and that terrible piece of
analysis, _The Real Shelley_. Hogg's _Life of Shelley_ is an
incomparable book; I should put it in the first class of biographies
without hesitation. Of course, it is only a fragment; and much of it is
frankly devoted to the sayings and doings of Hogg; it is none the worse
for that. It is an intensely humorous book, in the first place. There
are marvellous episodes in it, splendid extravaganzas like the story of
Hogg's stay in Dublin, where he locked the door of his bedroom for
security, and the boy Pat crept through the panel of the door to get
his boots and keep them from him, and a man in the room below pushed up
a plank in the floor that he might converse, not with Hogg, but with
the man in the room above him; there is the anecdote of the little
banker who was convinced that Wordsworth was a poet because he had
trained himself to write in the dark if he woke up and had an
inspiration. There is the story of the Chevalier D'Arblay, and his
departure to France; and the description of his correspondence, in
which he said for years that he was inconsolable and suffering
inconceivable anguish at being obliged to absent himself from his wife;
yet never able to assign any reason for his stay. Then, too, the whole
book is written in the freshest and most crisp style, with a rare zest,
that gives the effect of the conversation of an irrepressibly impudent
and delightful person. The picture of Shelley himself is delightfully
drawn; it is a perfect mixture of rapturous admiration of Shelley's
fine qualities, with an acute perception of his absurdities. The
picture of Shelley at Oxford, asleep before the fire, toasting his
little curly head in the heat, or reading the _Iliad_ by the glow of
the embers, seems to bring one nearer to the poet than anything else
that is recorded of him. I cannot think why the book is not more
universally known; it seems to me one of the freshest pieces of
biography in the language.
Trelawny's Memorials are interesting, and contain the solemn and
memorable scene of the cremation of Shelley's remains--one of the most
vivid and impressive narratives I know. Then there are the chapters of
Leigh Hunt's Autobiography which deal with Shelley, a little
overwrought perhaps, but real biography for all that, and interesting
as bringing out the contrast between the simplicity and generosity of
Shelley and the affectation, bad breeding, and unscrupulous selfishness
of Byron. Medwin's Biography and Mrs. Shelley's Memorials are
worthless, because they attempt to idealise and deify the poet; and
then there is _The Real Shelley_, which is like a tedious legal
cross-examination of a highly imaginative and sensitive creature by a
shrewd and boisterous barrister.
It would be very difficult to compose a formal biography of Shelley,
because he was such a vague, imaginative, inconsistent creature. The
documentary evidence is often wholly contradictory, for the simple
reason that Shelley had no conception of accuracy. He did not, I am
sure, deliberately invent what was not true; but he had a very lively
imagination, and was capable of amplifying the smallest hints into
elaborate theories; his memory was very faulty, and he could construct
a whole series of mental pictures which were wholly inconsistent with
facts. It seems clear, too, that he was much under the influence of
opium at various times, and that his dreams and fancies, when he was
thus affected, presented themselves to him as objective facts. But, for
all that, it is not at all difficult to form a very real impression of
the man. He was one of those strange, unbalanced creatures that never
reach maturity; he was a child all his short life; he had the
generosity, the affection, the impulsiveness of a child, and he had,
too, the timidity, the waywardness, the excitability of a child. If a
project came into his mind, he flung himself into it with the whole
force of his nature; it was imperatively necessary that he should at
once execute his design. No considerations of prudence or common-sense
availed to check him; life became intolerable to him if he could not
gratify his whim. His abandonment of his first wife, his elopement with
Mary Godwin, are instances of this; what could be more amazing than his
deliberate invitation to his first wife, after his flight with Mary,
that she should come and join the party in a friendly way? He
preserved, too, that characteristic of the child, when confronted with
a difficult and disagreeable situation, of saying anything that came
into his head which seemed to offer a solution; the child does not
invent an elaborate falsification; it simply says whatever will untie
the knot quickest, without reference to facts. If we bear in mind this
natural and instinctive childlikeness in Shelley, we have the clue to
almost all his inconsistencies and entanglements. Most people, as they
grow up, and as the complicated fabric of society makes itself clear to
them, begin to arrange their life in sympathy with conventional ideals.
They learn that if they gratify their inclinations unreservedly, they
will have a heavy price to pay; and on the whole they find it more
convenient to recognise social limitations, and to get what pleasure
they can inside the narrow enclosure. But Shelley never grasped this
fact. He believed that all the difficulties of life and most of its
miseries would melt away if only people would live more in the light of
simple instinct and impulse. He never had any real knowledge of human
beings. The history of his life is the history of a series of
extravagant admirations for people, followed by no less extravagant
disillusionments. Of course, his circumstances fostered his tendencies.
Though he was often in money difficulties, he knew that there was
always money in the background; indeed, he was too fond of announcing
himself as the heir to a large property in Sussex. One cannot help
wondering what Shelley's life would have been if he had been born poor
and obscure, like Keats, and if he had been obliged to earn his living.
Still more curious it is to speculate what would have become of him if
he had lived to inherit his baronetcy and estates. He was anticipating
his inheritance so fast that he would probably have found himself a
poor man; but, on the other hand, his powers were rapidly maturing. He
would have been a terrible person to be responsible for, because one
could never have known what he would do next; all one could have felt
sure of would have been that he would carry out his purpose, whatever
it might be, with indomitable self-will. It is also curious to think
what his relations would have been with his wife. Mrs. Shelley was a
conventional woman, with a high ideal of social respectability. A woman
who used to make a great point of attending the Anglican services in
Italy was probably morbidly anxious to atone, if possible, for the one
error of her youth. It is difficult to believe that Shelley would have
continued to live with his wife for very long. Even his theory of free
love was a very inconsistent one. The essence of it is that the two
parties to the compact should weary of their union simultaneously.
Shelley seems to have felt that he had a right to break off relations
whenever he felt inclined; how he would have viewed it if his partner
had insisted on leaving him for another lover, while his own passion
was still unabated, is not so clear. He would no doubt have overwhelmed
her with moral indignation.
But in spite of all his faults there is something indescribably
attractive about the personality of Shelley. His eager generosity, his
loyalty, his tenderness are irresistible. One feels that he would have
always responded to a frank and simple appeal. A foil for his virtues
is provided by the character of Byron, whose nauseous affectations,
animal coarseness, niggardliness, except where his own personal comfort
was involved, and deep-seated snobbishness, makes Shelley into an angel
of light. Shelley seems to have been almost the only person who ever
evoked the true and frank admiration of Byron, and retained his regard.
On the other hand, Shelley, who began by idolising Byron, seems to have
gradually become aware of the ugly selfishness of his character.
But Shelley himself evokes a sort of deep compassionateness and
affection, such as is evoked by an impulsive, headstrong, engaging
child. One desires to have sheltered him, to have advised him, to have
managed his affairs for him; one ends by forgiving him all, or nearly
all. His character was essentially a noble one; he hated all
oppression, injustice, arrogance, selfishness, coarseness, cruelty.
When he erred, he erred like a child, not coldly and unscrupulously,
but carried away by intensity of desire. It may seem a curious image,
but one cannot help feeling that if Shelley had been contemporary with
and brought into contact with Christ, he would have been an ardent
follower and disciple, and would have been regarded with a deep
tenderness and love; his sins would have been swiftly forgiven. I do
not wish to minimise them; he behaved ungratefully, inconsiderately,
wilfully. His usage of his first wife is a deep blot on his character.
But in spite of his desertion of her, and his abduction of Mary Godwin,
his life was somehow an essentially innocent one. It is possible to
paint his career in dark colours; it is impossible to say that his
example is an inspiring one; he is the kind of character that society
is almost bound to take precautions against; he was indifferent to
social morality, he was regardless of truth, neglectful of commercial
honesty; but for all that one feels more hopeful about the race that
can produce a Shelley. We must be careful not to condone his faults in
the light of his poetical genius; but for all that, if Shelley had
never written a line of his exquisite poetry, I cannot help feeling
that if one had known him, one would have felt the same eager regard
for him. One cannot draw near to a personality by a process of logic.
But one fact emerges. There is little doubt that one of the most
oppressive, injurious, detestable forces in the world is the force of
conventionality, that instinct which makes men judge a character and an
action, not by its beauty or by its merits, but by comparing it with
the standard of how the normal man would regard it. This vast and
intolerable medium of dulness, which penetrates our lives like a thick,
dark mist, allowing us only to see the object in range of our immediate
vision, hostile to all originality, crushingly respectable, that
dictates our hours, our occupations, our amusements, our emotions, our
religion, is the most ruthless and tyrannical thing in the world.
Against this Shelley fought with all his might; his error was to hate
it so intensely as to fail to see the few grains of gold, the few
principles of kindness, of honesty, of consideration, of soberness,
that it contains. He paid dearly for his error, in the consciousness of
the contempt and infamy which were heaped upon his quivering spirit.
But he did undoubtedly love truth, beauty, and purity. One has to get
on the right side of his sins and indulgences, his grotesque political
theories, his inconsistencies; but when once one has apprehended the
real character, one is never in any doubt again.