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.