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.