MARCH 1817-MARCH 1818
The Shelleys' new abode, although situated in a lovely part of the
country, was cold and cheerless, and, at that bleak time of year, must
have appeared at its worst. Albion House stood (and, though subdivided and
much altered in appearance, still stands) in what is now the main street
of Great Marlow, and at a considerable distance from the river. At the
back the garden-plot rises gradually from the level of the house,
terminating in a kind of artificial mound, overshadowed by a spreading
cedar; a delightfully shady lounge in summer, but shutting off sky and
sunshine from the house. There are two large, low, old-fashioned rooms;
one on the ground floor, somewhat like a farmhouse kitchen; the other
above it; both facing towards the garden. In one of these Shelley fitted
up a library, little thinking that the dwelling, which he had rashly taken
on a more than twenty years' lease, would be his home for only a year. The
rest of the house accommodated Mary, Clare, the children and servants,
and left plenty of room for visitors. Shelley was hospitality itself, and
though he never was in greater trouble for money than during this year, he
entertained a constant succession of guests. First among these was Godwin;
next, and most frequent, the genial but needy Leigh Hunt, with all his
family. With Mary, as with Shelley, he had quickly established himself on
a footing of easy, affectionate friendliness, as may be inferred from
Mary's letter, written to him during her first days at Marlow.
MARLOW, _1 o'clock, 5th March 1817_.
MY DEAR HUNT--Although you mistook me in thinking I wished you to
write about politics in your letters to me--as such a thought was very
far from me,--yet I cannot help mentioning your last week's
_Examiner_, as its boldness gave me extreme pleasure. I am very glad
to find that you wrote the leading article, which I had doubted, as
there was no significant hand. But though I speak of this, do not fear
that you will be teased by _me_ on these subjects when we enjoy your
company at Marlow. When there, you shall never be serious when you
wish to be merry, and have as many nuts to crack as there are words in
the Petitions to Parliament for Reform--a tremendous promise.
Have you never felt in your succession of nervous feelings one single
disagreeable truism gain a painful possession of your mind and keep it
for some months? A year ago, I remember, my private hours were all
made bitter by reflections on the certainty of death, and now the
flight of time has the same power over me. Everything passes, and one
is hardly conscious of enjoying the present until it becomes the past.
I was reading the other day the letters of Gibbon. He entreats Lord
Sheffield to come with all his family to visit him at Lausanne, and
dwells on the pleasure such a visit will occasion. There is a little
gap in the date of his letters, and then he complains that this
solitude is made more irksome by their having been there and departed.
So will it be with us in a few months when you will all have left
Marlow. But I will not indulge this gloomy feeling. The sun shines
brightly, and we shall be very happy in our garden this
summer.--Affectionately yours,
MARINA.
Not only did Shelley keep open house for his friends; his kindliness and
benevolence to the distressed poor in Marlow and the surrounding country
was unbounded. Nor was he content to give money relief; he visited the
cottagers; and made himself personally acquainted with them, their needs,
and their sufferings.
In all these labours of love and charity he was heartily and constantly
seconded by Mary.
No more alone through the world's wilderness,
Although (he) trod the paths of high intent,
(He) journeyed now.[23]
From the time of her union with him Mary had been his consoler, his
cherished love, all the dearer to him for the thought that she was
dependent on him and only on him for comfort and support, and
enlightenment of mind; but yet she was a child,--a clever child,--sedate
and thoughtful beyond her years, and full of true womanly devotion,--but
still one whose first and only acquaintance with the world had been made
by coming violently into collision with it, a dangerous experience, and
hardening, especially if prolonged. From the time of her marriage a
maturer, mellower tone is perceptible throughout her letters and writings,
as though, the unnatural strain removed, and, above all, intercourse with
her father restored, she glided naturally and imperceptibly into the place
Nature intended her to fill, as responsible woman and wife, with social as
well as domestic duties to fulfil.
The suffering of the past two or three years had left her wiser if also
sadder than before; already she was beginning to look on life with a calm
liberal judgment of one who knew both sides of many questions, yet still
her mind retained the simplicity and her spirit much of the buoyancy of
youth. The unquenchable spring of love and enthusiasm in Shelley's breast,
though it led him into errors and brought him grief and disillusionment,
was a talisman that saved him from Byronic sarcasm, from the bitterness of
recoil and the death of stagnation. He suffered from reaction, as all such
natures must suffer, but Mary was by his side to steady and balance and
support him, and to bring to him for his consolation the balm she had
herself received from him. Well might he write--
Now has descended a serener hour,
And, with inconstant fortune, friends return;
Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power
Which says: Let scorn be not repaid with scorn.[24]
And consolation and support were sorely needed. In March Lord Chancellor
Eldon pronounced the judgment by which he was deprived, on moral and
religious grounds, of the custody of his two elder children. How bitterly
he felt, how keenly he resented, this decree all the world knows. The
paper which he drew up during this celebrated case, in which he declared,
as far as he chose to declare them, his sentiments with regard to his
separation from Harriet and his union with Mary, is the nearest approach
to self-vindication Shelley ever made. But the decision of the Court cast
a slur on his name, and on that of his second wife. The final arrangements
about the children dragged on for many months. They were eventually given
over to the guardianship of a clergyman, a stranger to their father, who
had to set aside L200 a year of his income for their maintenance in exile.
Meanwhile Godwin's exactions were incessant, and his demands, sometimes
impossible to grant, were harder than ever to deal with now that they were
couched in terms of friendship, almost of affection. On 9th March we find
Shelley writing to him--
It gives me pain that I cannot send you the whole of what you want. I
enclose a cheque to within a few pounds of my possessions.
On 22d March (Godwin has been begging again, but this time in behalf of
his old assistant and amanuensis, Marshall)--
Marshall's proposal is one in which, however reluctantly, I must
refuse to engage. It is that I should grant bills to the amount of his
debts, which are to expire in thirty months.
On 15th April Godwin writes on his own behalf--
The fact is I owe L400 on a similar score, beyond the L100 that I owed
in the middle of 1815; and without clearing this, my mind will never
be perfectly free for intellectual occupations. If this were done, I
am in hopes that the produce of _Mandeville_, and the sensible
improvement in the commercial transactions of Skinner Street would
make me a free man, perhaps, for the rest of my life....
My life wears away in lingering sorrow at the endless delays that
attend on this affair.... Once every two or three months I throw
myself prostrate beneath the feet of Taylor of Norwich, and my other
discounting friends, protesting that this is absolutely for the last
time. Shall this ever have an end? Shall I ever be my own man again?
One can imagine how such a letter would work on his daughter's feelings.
Nor was Charles Clairmont backward about putting in his claims, although
his modest little requests require, like gems, to be extracted carefully
from the discursive raptures, the eloquent flights of fancy and poetic
description in which they are embedded. In January he had written from
Bagneres de Bigorre, where he was "acquiring the language"--
Sometimes I hardly dare believe, situated as I am, that I ought for a
moment to nourish the feelings of which I am now going to talk to
you; at other times I am so thoroughly convinced of their infinite
utility with regard to the moral existence of a being with strong
sensations, or at all events with regard to mine, that I fly to this
subject as to a tranquillising medicine, which has the power of so
arranging and calming every violent and illicit sensation of the soul
as to spread over the frame a deep and delightful contentment, for
such is the effect produced upon me by a contemplation of the perfect
state of existence, the perfect state of social domestic happiness
which I propose to myself. My life has hitherto been a tissue of
irregularity, which I assure you I am little content to reflect
upon.... I have been always neglectful of one of the most precious
possessions which a young man can hold--of my character.... You will
now see the object of this letter.... I desire strongly to marry, and
to devote myself to the temperate, rational duties of human life.... I
see, I confess, some objections to this step.... I am not forgetful of
what I owe to Godwin and my Mother, but we are in a manner entirely
separated.... It is true my feelings towards my Mother are cold and
inactive, but my attachment and respect for Godwin are unalterable,
and will remain so to the last moment of my existence.... The news of
his death would be to me a stroke of the severest affliction; that of
my own Mother would be no more than the sorrow occasioned by the loss
of a common acquaintance.
... Unless every obstacle on the part of the object of my affection
were laid aside, you may suppose I should not speak so decisively. She
is perfectly acquainted with every circumstance respecting me, and we
feel that we love and are suited to each other; we feel that we should
be exquisitely happy in being devoted to each other.
... I feel that I could not offer myself to the family without
assuring them of my capability of commanding an annual sufficiency to
support a little _menage_--that is to say, as near as I can obtain
information, 2000 francs, or about L80.... Do I dream, my dear
Shelley, when a gleam of gay hope gives me reason to doubt of the
possibility of my scheme?... Pray lose no time in writing to me, and
be as explicit as possible.
The following extract is from a letter to Mary, written in August (the
matrimonial scheme is now quite forgotten)--
I will begin by telling you that I received L10 some days ago, minus
the expenses.... I also received your letter, but not till after the
money.... I am most extremely vexed that Shelley will not oblige me
with a single word. It is now nearly six months that I have expected
from him a letter about my future plans.
Do, my dear Mary, persuade him to talk with you about them; and if he
always persists in remaining silent, I beg you will write for him, and
ask him what he would be inclined to approve.... Had I a little
fortune of L200 or L300 a year, nothing should ever tempt me to make
an effort to increase this golden sufficiency....
Respecting money matters.... I still owe (on the score of my
_pension_) nearly L15, this is all my debt here. Another month will
accumulate before I can receive your answer, and you will judge of
what will be necessary to me on the road, to whatever place I may be
destined. I cannot spend less than 3s. 6d. per day.
If Papa's novel is finished before you write, I wish to God you would
send it. I am now absolutely without money, but I have no occasion for
any, except for washing and postage, and for such little necessaries I
find no difficulty in borrowing a small sum.
If I knew Mamma's address, I should certainly write to her in France.
I have no heart to write to Skinner Street, for they will not answer
my letters. Perhaps, now that this haughty woman is absent, I should
obtain a letter. I think I shall make an effort with Fanny. As for
Clare, she has entirely forgotten that she has a brother in the
world.... Tell me if Godwin has been to visit you at Marlow; if you
see Fanny often; and all about the two Williams. What is Shelley
writing?
Shelley, when this letter arrived, was writing _The Revolt of Islam_. To
this poem, in spite of duns, sponges, and law's delays, his thoughts and
time were consecrated during his first six months at Marlow; in spite,
too, of his constant succession of guests; but society with him was not
always a hindrance to poetic creation or intellectual work. Indeed, a
congenial presence afforded him a kind of relief, a half-unconscious
stimulus which yet was no serious interruption to thought, for it was
powerless to recall him from his abstraction.
Mary's life at Marlow was very different from what it had been at
Bishopsgate and Bath. Her duties as house-mistress and hostess as well as
Shelley's companion and helpmeet left her not much time for reverie. But
her regular habits of study and writing stood her in good stead.
_Frankenstein_ was completed and corrected before the end of May. It was
offered to Murray, who, however, declined it, and was eventually published
by Lackington.
The negotiations with publishers calling her up to town, she paid a visit
to Skinner Street. Shelley accompanied her, but was obliged to return to
Marlow almost immediately, and as Mrs. Godwin also appears to have been
absent, Mary stayed alone with her father in her old home. To him this
was a pleasure.
"Such a visit," he had written to Shelley, "will tend to bring back years
that are passed, and make me young again. It will also operate to render
us more familiar and intimate, meeting in this snug and quiet house, for
such it appears to me, though I daresay you will lift up your hands, and
wonder I can give it that appellation."
To Mary every room in the house must have been fraught with unspeakable
associations. Alone with the memories of those who were gone, of others
who were alienated; conscious of the complete change in herself and
transference of her sphere of sympathy, she must have felt, when Shelley
left her, like a solitary wanderer in a land of shadows.
"I am very well here," she wrote, "but so intolerably restless that it
is painful to sit still for five minutes. Pray write. I hear so little
from Marlow that I can hardly believe that you and Willman live
there."
Another train of mingled recollections was awakened by the fact of her
chancing, one evening, to read through that third canto of _Childe Harold_
which Byron had written during their summer in Switzerland together.
Do you remember, Shelley, when you first read it to me one evening
after returning from Diodati. The lake was before us, and the mighty
Jura. That time is past, and this will also pass, when I may weep to
read these words.... Death will at length come, and in the last
moment all will be a dream.
What Mary felt was crystallised into expression by Shelley, not many
months later--
The stream we gazed on then, rolled by,
Its waves are unreturning;
But we yet stand
In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.
On the last day of May, Mary returned to Marlow, where the Hunts were
making a long stay. Externally life went quietly on. The summer was hot
and beautiful, and they passed whole days in their boat or their garden,
or in the woods. Their studies, as usual, were unremitting. Mary applied
herself to the works of Tacitus, Buffon, Rousseau, and Gibbon. Shelley's
reading at this time was principally Greek: Homer, Aeschylus, and Plato.
His poem was approaching completion. Mary, now that _Frankenstein_ was off
her hands, busied herself in writing out the journal of their first
travels. It was published, in December, as _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour_,
together with the descriptive letters from Geneva of 1816.
But her peace and Shelley's was threatened by an undercurrent of ominous
disturbance which gained force every day.
Byron remained abroad. But Clare and Clare's baby remained with the
Shelleys. At Bath she had passed as "Mrs." Clairmont, but now resumed her
former style, while Alba was said to be the daughter of a friend in
London, sent for her health into the country. As time, however, went by,
and the infant still formed one of the Marlow household, curiosity, never
long dormant, became aroused. Whose was this child? And if, as officious
gossip was not slow to suggest, it was Clare's, then who was its father?
As month after month passed without bringing any solution of this problem,
the vilest reports arose concerning the supposed relations of the
inhabitants of Albion House--false rumours that embittered the lives of
Alba's generous protectors, but to which Shelley's unconventionality and
unorthodox opinions, and the stigma attached to his name by the Chancery
decree, gave a certain colour of probability, and which in part, though
indirectly, conduced to his leaving England again,--as it proved, for
ever.
Again and again did he write to Byron, pointing out with great gentleness
and delicacy, but still in the plainest terms, the false situation in
which they were placed with regard to friends and even to servants by
their effort to keep Clare's secret; suggesting, almost entreating, that,
if no permanent decision could be arrived at, some temporary arrangement
should at least be made for Alba's boarding elsewhere. Byron, at this
time plunged in dissipation at Venice, shelved or avoided the subject as
long as he could. Clare was friendless and penniless, and her chances of
ever earning an honest living depended on her power of keeping up
appearances and preserving her character before the world. But the child
was a remarkably beautiful, intelligent, and engaging creature, and its
mother, impulsive, uncontrolled, and reckless, was at no trouble to
conceal her devotion to it, regardless of consequences, and of the fact
that these consequences had to be endured by others.
Those who had forfeited the world's kindness seemed, as such, to be the
natural _proteges_ of Shelley; and even Mary, who, not long before, had
summed up all her earthly wishes in two items,--"a garden, _et absentia
Claire_,"--stood by her now in spite of all. But their letters make it
perfectly evident that they were fully alive to the danger that threatened
them, and that, though they willingly harboured the child until some safe
and fitting asylum should be found for it, they had never contemplated its
residing permanently with them.
To Mary Shelley this state of things brought one bitter personal grief and
disappointment in the loss of her earliest friend, Isabel or Isobel
Baxter, now married to Mr. David Booth, late brewer and subsequently
schoolmaster at Newburgh-on-Tay, a man of shrewd and keen intellect, an
immense local reputation for learning, and an estimation of his own gifts
second to that of none of his admirers.
The Baxters, as has already been said, were people of independent mind, of
broad and liberal views; full of reverence and admiration for the
philosophical writings of Godwin. Mary, in her extreme youth and
inexperience, had quite expected that Isabel would have upheld her action
when she first left her father's house with Shelley. In that she was
disappointed, as was, after all, not surprising.
Now, however, her friend, whose heart must have been with her all along,
would surely feel justified in following that heart's dictates, and would
return to the familiar, affectionate friendship which survives so many
differences of opinion. And her hope received an encouragement when, in
August, Mr. Baxter, Isabel's father, accepted an invitation to stay at
Marlow. He arrived on the 1st of September, full of doubts as to what sort
of place he was coming to,--apprehensions which, after a very short
intercourse with Shelley, were changed into surprise and delight.
But his visit was cut short by the birth, on the very next day, of Mary's
little girl, Clara. He found it expedient to depart for a time, but
returned later in the month for a longer stay.
This second visit more than confirmed his first impression, and he wrote
to his daughter in warm, nay, enthusiastic praise of Shelley, against whom
Isabel was, not unnaturally, much prejudiced, so much so, it seems, as to
blind her even to the merits of his writings.
After a warm panegyric of Shelley as
A being of rare genius and talent, of truly republican frugality and
plainness of manners, and of a soundness of principle and delicacy of
moral tact that might put to shame (if shame they had) many of his
detractors,--and withal so amiable that you have only to be half an
hour in his company to convince you that there is not an atom of
malevolence in his whole composition.
Mr. Baxter proceeds--
Is there any wonder that I should become attached to such a man,
holding out the hand of kindness and friendship towards me? Certainly
not. Your praise of his book[25] put me in mind of what Pope says of
Addison--
Damn with faint praise; assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, others teach to sneer.
[You say] "some parts appear to be well written, but the arguments
appear to me to be neither new nor very well managed." After Hume such
a publication is quite puerile! As to the arguments not being new, it
would be a wonder indeed if any new arguments could be adduced in a
controversy which has been carried on almost since ever letters were
known. As to their not being well managed, I should be happy if you
would condescend on the particular instances of their being ill
managed; it was the first of Shelley's works I had read. I read it
with the notion that it _could_ only contain silly, crude, undigested
and puerile remarks on a worn-out subject; and yet I was unable to
discover any of that want of management which you complain of; but,
God help me, I thought I saw in it everything that was opposite. As
to its being puerile to write on such a subject after David Hume, I by
no means think that he has exhausted the subject. I think rather that
he has only proposed it--thrown it out, as it were, for a matter of
discussion to others who might come after him, and write in a less
bigoted, more liberal, and more enlightened age than the one he lived
in. Think only how many great men's labours we should decree to be
puerile if we were to hold everything puerile that has been written on
this subject since the days of Hume! Indeed, my dear, the remark
altogether savours more of the envy and illiberality of one jealous of
his talents than the frankness and candour characteristic of my
Isobel. Think, my dear, think for a moment what you would have said of
this work had it come from Robert,[26] who is as old as Shelley was
when he wrote it, or had it come from me, or even from----O! I must
not say David:[27] he, to be sure, is far above any such puerility.
Her father's letter made Isabel waver, but in vain. It had no effect on
Mr. Booth, who had been at the trouble of collecting and believing all the
scandals about Alba, or "Miss Auburn," as she seems to have been called.
He was not one to be biassed by personal feelings or beguiled by fair
appearances, in the face of stubborn, unaccountable facts. He preferred to
take the facts and draw his own inference--an inference which apparently
seemed to him no improbable one.
For a long time nothing decisive was said or done, but while the fate of
her early friendship hung in the balances, Mary's anxiety for some
settlement about Alba became almost intolerable to her, weighing on her
spirits, and helping, with other depressing causes, to retard her
restoration to health.
On the 19th of September she summed up in her journal the heads of the
seventeen days after Clara's birth during which she had written nothing.
I am confined Tuesday, 2d. Read _Rhoda_, Pastor's _Fireside_,
_Missionary_, _Wild Irish Girl_, _The Anaconda_, _Glenarvon_, first
volume of Percy's _Northern Antiquities_. Bargain with Lackington
concerning _Frankenstein_.
Letter from Albe (Byron). An unamiable letter from Godwin about Mrs.
Godwin's visits. Mr. Baxter returns to town. Thursday, 4th, Shelley
writes his poem; his health declines. Friday, 19th, Hunts arrive.
As the autumn advanced it became evident that the sunless house at Marlow
was exceedingly cold, and far too dreary a winter residence to be
desirable for one of Shelley's feeble constitution, or even for Mary and
her infant children. Shelley's health grew worse and worse. His poem was
finished and dedicated to Mary in the beautiful lines beginning--
So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,
And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;
As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery,
Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;
Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become
A star among the stars of mortal night,
If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,
Its doubtful promise thus I would unite
With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.
But the reaction from the "agony and bloody sweat of intellectual
travail," the troubles and griefs of the past year, and the ceaseless
worry about money, all told injuriously on his physical state. He had to
be constantly away from his home, up in town, on business; and his
thoughts turned longingly again towards Italy. Byron had signified his
consent to receive and provide for his daughter, subject to certain
stringent conditions, chief among which was the child's complete
separation from its mother, from the time it passed into his keeping. In
writing to him on 24th September, Shelley adverts to his own wish to
winter at Pisa, and the possibility in this case of his being himself
Alba's escort to Italy.
"Now, dearest, let me talk to you," he writes to Mary. "I think we
ought to go to Italy. I think my health might receive a renovation
there, for want of which perhaps I should never entirely overcome that
state of diseased action which is so painful to my beloved. I think
Alba ought to be with her father. This is a thing of incredible
importance to the happiness, perhaps, of many human beings. It might
be managed without our going there. Yes; but not without an expense
which would, in fact, suffice to settle us comfortably in a spot where
I might be regaining that health which you consider so valuable. It is
valuable to you, my own dearest. I see too plainly that you will never
be quite happy till I am well. Of myself I do not speak, for I feel
only for you."
He goes on to discuss the practicability of the plan from the financial
point of view, calculating what sum they may hope to get by the sale of
their lease and furniture, and how much he may be able to borrow, either
from his kind friend Horace Smith, or from money-lenders on _post obits_,
a ruinous process to which he was, all his life, forced to resort.
Poor Mary in the chilly house at Marlow, with her three-weeks-old baby,
her strength far from re-established, and her house full of guests, who
made themselves quite at home, was not likely to take the most sanguine
view of affairs.
_25th September 1817._
You tell me, dearest, to write you long letters, but I do not know
whether I can to-day, as I am rather tired. My spirits, however, are
much better than they were, and perhaps your absence is the cause. Ah!
my love! you cannot guess how wretched it was to see your languor and
increasing illness. I now say to myself, perhaps he is better; but
then I watched you every moment, and every moment was full of pain
both to you and to me. Write, my love, a long account of what Lawrence
says; I shall be very anxious until I hear.
I do not see a great deal of our guests; they rise late, and walk all
the morning. This is something like a contrary fit of Hunt's, for I
meant to walk to-day, and said so; but they left me, and I hardly wish
to take my first walk by myself; however, I must to-morrow, if he
still shows the same want of _tact_. Peacock dines here every day,
_uninvited_, to drink his bottle. I have not seen him; he morally
disgusts me; and Marianne says that he is very ill-tempered.
I was much pained last night to hear from Mr. Baxter that Mr. Booth is
ill-tempered and jealous towards Isabel; and Mr. Baxter thinks she
half regrets her marriage; so she is to be another victim of that
ceremony. Mr. Baxter is not at all pleased with his son-in-law; but
we can talk of that when we meet.
... A letter came from Godwin to-day, very short. You will see him;
tell me how he is. You are loaded with business, the event of most of
which I am anxious to learn, and none so much as whether you can do
anything for my Father.
MARLOW, _26th September 1817_.
You tell me to decide between Italy and the sea. I think, dearest,
if--what you do not seem to doubt, but which I do, a little--our
finances are in sufficiently good a state to bear the expense of the
journey, our inclination ought to decide. I feel some reluctance at
quitting our present settled state, but as we _must_ leave Marlow, I
do not know that stopping short on this side the Channel would be
pleasanter to me than crossing it. At any rate, my love, do not let us
encumber ourselves with a lease again.... By the bye, talking of
authorship, do get a sketch of Godwin's plan from him. I do not think
that I ought to get out of the habit of writing, and I think that the
thing he talked of would just suit me. I am glad to hear that Godwin
is well.... As to Mrs. Godwin, something very analogous to disgust
arises whenever I mention her. That last accusation of Godwin's[28]
adds bitterness to every feeling I ever felt against her.... Mr.
Baxter thinks that Mr. Booth keeps Isabel from writing to me. He has
written to her to-day warmly in praise of us both, and telling her by
all means not to let the acquaintance cool, and that in such a case
her loss would be much greater than mine. He has taken a prodigious
fancy to us, and is continually talking of and praising "Queen Mab,"
which he vows is the best poem of modern days.
MARLOW, _28th September 1817_.
DEAREST LOVE--Clare arrived yesterday night, and whether it might be
that she was in a croaking humour (in ill spirits she certainly was),
or whether she represented things as they really were, I know not,
but certainly affairs did not seem to wear a very good face. She talks
of Harriet's debts to a large amount, and something about Longdill's
having undertaken for them, so that they must be paid. She mentioned
also that you were entering into a _post obit_ transaction. Now this
requires our serious consideration on one account. These things (_post
obits_), as you well know, are affairs of wonderful length; and if you
must complete one before you settle on going to Italy, Alba's
departure ought certainly not to be delayed.... You have not mentioned
yet to Godwin your thoughts of Italy; but if you determine soon, I
would have you do it, as these things are always better to be talked
of some days before they take place. I took my first walk to-day. What
a dreadfully cold place this house is! I was shivering over a fire,
and the garden looked cold and dismal; but as soon as I got into the
road, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the sun was shining, and
the air warm and delightful.... I will now tell you something that
will make you laugh, if you are not too teased and ill to laugh at
anything. Ah! dearest, is it so? You know now how melancholy it makes
me sometimes to think how ill and comfortless you may be, and I so far
away from you. But to my story. In Elise's last letter to her _chere
amie_, Clare put in that Madame Clairmont was very ill, so that her
life was in danger, and added, in Elise's person, that she (Elise) was
somewhat shocked to perceive that Mademoiselle Clairmont's gaiety was
not abated by the _douloureuse_ situation of her amiable sister. Jenny
replies--
"Mon amie, avec quel chagrin j'apprends la maladie de cette jolie et
aimable Madame Clairmont; pauvre chere dame, comme je la plains. Sans
doute elle aime tendrement son mari, et en etre separee pour
toujours--en avoir la certitude elle sentir--quelle cruelle chose;
qu'il doit etre un mechant homme pour quitter sa femme. Je ne sais ce
qu'il y a, mais cette jeune et jolie femme me tient singulierement au
coeur; je l'avoue que je n'aime point mademoiselle sa soeur.
Comment! avoir a craindre pour les jours d'une si charmante soeur,
et n'en pas perdre un grain de gaite; elle me met en colere."
Here is a noble resentment thrown away! Really I think this
_mystification_ of Clare's a little wicked, although laughable. I am
just now surrounded by babes. Alba is scratching and crowing, William
is amusing himself with wrapping a shawl round him, and Miss Clara
staring at the fire.... Adieu, dearest love. I want to say again, that
you may fully answer me, how very, _very_ anxious I am to know the
whole extent of your present difficulties and pursuits; and remember
also that if this _post obit_ is to be a long business, Alba must go
before it is finished. Willy is just going to bed. When I ask him
where you are, he makes me a long speech that I do not understand. But
I know my own one, that you are away, and I wish that you were with
me. Come soon, my own only love.--Your affectionate girl,
M. W. S.
_P.S._--What of _Frankenstein_? and your own poem--have you fixed on a
name? Give my love to Godwin when Mrs. Godwin is not by, or you must
give it her, and I do not love her.
_5th October 1817._
... How happy I shall be, my own dear love, to see you again. Your
last was so very, very short a visit; and after you were gone I
thought of so many things I had to say to you, and had no time to say.
Come Tuesday, dearest, and let us enjoy some of each other's company;
come and see your sweet babes and the little Commodore;[29] she is
lively and an uncommonly interesting child. I never see her without
thinking of the expressions in my mother's letters concerning Fanny.
If a mother's eyes were not partial, she seemed like this Alba. She
mentions her intelligent eyes and great vivacity; but this is a
melancholy subject.
But Shelley's enforced absences became more and more frequent; brief
visits to his home were all that he could snatch. As the desire to escape
grew stronger, the fair prospect only seemed to recede. New complications
appeared in the shape of Harriet's creditors, who pressed hard on Shelley
for a settlement of their hitherto unknown and unsuspected claims. So
perilous with regard to them was his position that Mary herself was fain
to caution him to stay away and out of sight for fear of arrest. It was
almost more than she could do to keep up the mask of cheerfulness, yet her
letters of counsel and encouragement were her husband's mainstay.
"Dearest and best of living beings," he wrote in October, "how much do
your letters console me when I am away from you. Your letter to-day
gave me the greatest delight; so soothing, so powerful and quiet are
your expressions, that it is almost like folding you to my heart....
My own Mary, would it not be better for you to come to London at once?
I think we could quite as easily do something with the house if you
were in London--that is to say, all of you--as in the country."
The next two letters were written in much depression. She could not get up
her strength; she dared not indulge in the hope of going abroad, for she
realised, as Shelley could not do, how little money they would have and
how much they already owed. Their income, and more, went in supporting and
paying for other people, and left them nothing to live on! Clare was
unsettled, unhappy, and petulant. Godwin, ignorant like the rest of the
world of her story and her present situation, unaware of Shelley's
proposed move, and certain to oppose it with the energy of despair when he
heard of it, was an impending visitor.
_16th October 1817._
So you do not come to-night love, nor any night; you are always away,
and this absence is long and becomes each day more dreary. Poor
Curran! so he is dead, and a sod on his breast, as four years ago I
heard him prophesy would be the case within that year.
Nothing is done, you say in your letter, and indeed I do not expect
anything will be done these many months. This, if you continued well,
would not give me so much pain, except on Alba's account. If she were
with her father, I could wait patiently, but the thought of what may
come "between the cup and the lip"--between now and her arrival at
Venice--is a heavy burthen on my soul. He may change his mind, or go
to Greece, or to the devil; and then what happens?
My dearest Shelley, be not, I entreat you, too self-negligent; yet
what can you do? If you were here, you might retort that question upon
me; but when I write to you I indulge false hopes of some miraculous
answer springing up in the interval. Does not Longdill[30] treat you
ill? he makes out long bills and does nothing. You say nothing of the
late arrest, and what may be the consequences, and may they not detain
you? and may you not be detained many months? for Godwin must not be
left unprovided. All these things make me run over the months, and
know not where to put my finger and say--during this year your Italian
journey shall commence. Yet when I say that it is on Alba's account
that I am anxious, this is only when you are away, and with too much
faith I believe you to be well. When I see you, drooping and languid,
in pain, and unable to enjoy life, then on your account I ardently
wish for bright skies and Italian sun.
You will have received, I hope, the manuscript that I sent yesterday
in a parcel to Hookham. I am glad to hear that the printing goes on
well; bring down all that you can with you.
If we were free and had no anxiety, what delight would Godwin's visit
give me; as it is, I fear that it will make me dreadfully miserable.
Cannot you come with him? By the way you write I hardly expect you
this week, but is it really so?
I think Alba's remaining here exceedingly dangerous, yet I do not see
what is to be done. Your babes are well. Clara already replies to her
nurse's caresses by smiles, and Willy kisses her with great
tenderness.--Your affectionate
MARY.
_P.S._--I wish you would purchase a gown for Milly,[31] with a little
note with it from Marianne,[32] that it may appear to come from her.
You can get one, I should think, for 12s. or 14s.; but it must be
_stout_; such a kind of one as we gave to the servant at Bath.
Willy has just said good-night to me; he kisses the paper and says
good-night to you. Clara is asleep.
MARLOW, _Saturday, 18th October 1817_.
Mr. Wright has called here to-day, my dearest Shelley, and wished to
see you. I can hardly have any doubt that his business is of the same
nature as that which made him call last week. You will judge, but it
appears to me that an arrest on Monday will follow your arrival on
Sunday.
My love, you ought not to come down. A long, long week has passed, and
when at length I am allowed to expect you, I am obliged to tell you
not to come. This is very cruel. You may easily judge that I am not
happy; my spirits sink during this continued absence. Godwin, too,
will come down; he will talk as if we meant to stay here; and I
must--must I?--tell fifty prevarications or direct _lies_. When I
thought that you would be here also, I knew that your presence would
lead to general conversation; but Clare will absent herself. We shall
be alone, and he will talk of your private affairs. I am sure that I
shall never be able to support it.
And when is this to end? Italy appears to me farther off than ever,
and the idea of it never enters my mind but Godwin enters also, and
makes it lie heavy at my heart. Had you not better speak? you might
relieve me from a heavy burden. Surely he cannot be blind to the many
heavy reasons that urge us. Your health, the indispensable one, if
every other were away. I assure you that if my Father said, "Yes, you
must go; do what you can for me; I know that you will do all you can;"
I should, far from writing so melancholy a letter, prepare everything
with a light heart; arrange our affairs here; and come up to town, to
await patiently the effect of your efforts. I know not whether it is
early habit or affection, but the idea of his silent quiet
disapprobation makes me weep as it did in the days of my childhood.
I shall not see you to-morrow. God knows when I shall see you! Clare
is for ever wearying with her idle and childish complaints. Can you
not send me some consolation?--Ever your affectionate
MARY.
The fears of an arrest were not realised. Early in November Shelley came
for three days to Marlow, after which Mary went up to stay with him in
London.
During this fortnight's visit the question of renewed intercourse with
Isabel Booth was practically decided, and decided against Mary. She had
written on the 4th of November to Mr. Baxter inviting Christy to come on a
visit. Subsequently a plan was started for Isabel Booth's accompanying
the Shelleys in their Italian trip,--they little dreaming that when they
left England it would be for the last time.
Apparently Mr. Baxter made some effort to bring Mr. Booth round to his way
of thinking. The two passed an evening with the Shelleys at their
lodgings. But it availed nothing, and in the end poor Mr. Baxter was
driven himself to write to Shelley, breaking off the acquaintance. The
letter was written much against the grain, and contrary to the convictions
of the writer, who seems to have been much put to it to account for his
action, the true grounds for which he could not bring himself to give.
Shelley, however, was not slow to divine the real instigator in the
affair, and wrote back a letter which, by its temperance, simplicity, and
dignity, must have pricked Baxter to the heart. Mary added a playful
postscript, showing that she still clung to hope--
MY DEAR SIR--You see I prophesied well three months ago, when you were
here. I then said that I was sure Mr. Booth was averse to our
intercourse, and would find some means to break it off. I wish I had
you by the fire here in my little study, and it might be "double,
double, toil and trouble," but I could quickly convince you that your
girls are not below me in station, and that, in fact, I am the fittest
companion for them in the world, but I postpone the argument until I
see you, for I know (pardon me) that _viva voce_ is all in all with
you.
Two or three times more Mary wrote to Isabel, but the correspondence
dropped and the friends met no more for many years.
The preparations for their migration extended over two or three months
more. During January Shelley suffered much from the renewal of an attack
of ophthalmia, originally caught while visiting the poor people at Marlow.
The house there was finally sold, and on the 10th of February they quitted
it and went up to London. Their final departure from England did not take
place until March. They made the most of their time of waiting, seeing as
much of their friends and of objects of interest as circumstances allowed.
_Journal, Thursday, February 12_ (Mary).--Go to the Indian Library and
the Panorama of Rome. On Friday, 13th, spend the morning at the
British Museum looking at the Elgin marbles. On Saturday, 14th, go to
Hunt's. Clare and Shelley go to the opera. On Sunday, 15th, Mr.
Bransen, Peacock, and Hogg dine with us.
_Wednesday, February 18._--Spend the day at Hunt's. On Thursday, 19th,
dine at Horace Smith's, and copy Shelley's Eclogue. On Friday, 20th,
copy Shelley's critique on _Rhododaphne_. Go to the Apollonicon with
Shelley. On Saturday, 21st, copy Shelley's critique, and go to the
opera in the evening. Spend Sunday at Hunt's. On Monday, 23d February,
finish copying Shelley's critique, and go to the play in the
evening--_The Bride of Abydos_. On Tuesday go to the opera--_Figaro_.
On Wednesday Hunt dines with us. Shelley is not well.
_Sunday, March 1._--Read Montaigne. Spend the evening at Hunt's. On
Monday, 2d, Shelley calls on Mr. Baxter. Isabel Booth is arrived, but
neither comes nor sends. Go to the play in the evening with Hunt and
Marianne, and see a new comedy damned. On Thursday, 5th, Papa calls,
and Clare visits Mrs. Godwin. On Sunday, 8th, we dine at Hunt's, and
meet Mr. Novello. Music.
_Monday, March 9._--Christening the children.
This was doubtless a measure of precaution, lest the omission of any such
ceremony might in some future time operate as a civil disadvantage towards
the children. They received the names of William, Clara Everina, and Clara
Allegra.
_Tuesday, March 10._--Packing. Hunt and Marianne spend the day with
us. Mary Lamb calls. Papa in the evening. Our adieus.
_Wednesday, March 11._--Travel to Dover.
_Thursday, March 12._--France. Discussion of whether we should cross.
Our passage is rough; a sick lady is frightened and says the Lord's
Prayer. We arrive at Calais for the third time.
Mary little thought how long it would be before she saw the English shores
again, nor that, when she returned, it would be alone.