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.