MARCH 1818-JUNE 1819
The external events of the four Italian years have been repeatedly told
and profusely commented on by Shelley's various biographers. Summed up,
they are the history of a long strife between the intellectual and
creative stimulus of lovely scenes and immortal works of art on the one
hand, and the wearing friction of vexatious outward events and crushing
afflictions on the other. For Shelley they were a period of rapid, of
exotic, mental growth and development, interspersed with intervals of
exhaustion and depression, of restlessness, or unnatural calm. For Mary
they were years of courageous effort, of heroic resistance to overpowering
odds. She endured, and she overcame; but some victories are obtained at
such cost as to be at the time scarcely distinguishable from defeats, and
the story of hers survives in no one act or work of her own, but in the
_Cenci_, _Prometheus Unbound_, _Epipsychidion_, and _Adonais_.
The travellers proceeded, _via_ Lyons and Chambery, to Milan, whence
Shelley and Mary made an expedition to Como in search of a house. After
looking at several,--one "beautifully situated, but too small," another
"out of repair, with an excellent garden, but full of serpents," a third
which seemed promising, but which they failed to get,--they appear to have
given up the scheme altogether, and to have returned to Milan. For the
next week they were in frequent correspondence with Byron on the subject
of Allegra. This had to be carried on entirely by Shelley, as Byron
refused all communication with Clare, and undertook to provide for his
child on the sole condition that, from the day it left her, its mother
entirely relinquished it, and never saw it again.
This appeared to Shelley cruelly and needlessly harsh. His own paternal
heart was still bleeding from fresh wounds, and although, as he again
pointed out, his interest in the matter was entirely on the opposite side
to Clare's, he pleaded her cause with earnestness. He did not touch on the
question of Byron's attitude towards Clare herself, he contended only for
the mother and child, in letters as remarkable for their simple good sense
as for their perfect delicacy and courtesy of expression, and every line
of which is inspired with the unselfish ardour of a heart full of love.
Poor Clare herself was dreadfully unhappy. Any illusion she may ever have
had about Byron had long been over, but she had possibly not realised
before coming to Italy the perfect horror he had of seeing her; an event,
as he told his friends the Hoppners, which would make it necessary for him
instantly to quit Venice. The reports about his present mode of life,
which, even at Milan did not fail to reach them, were, to say the least,
not encouraging; and from a later letter of Shelley's it would seem that
he warned Clare now, at the last minute, to pause and reflect before she
sent Allegra away to such a father. She, however, was determined that till
seven years old, at least, the child should be with one or other of its
parents, and Byron would only consent to be that one on condition that it
grew up in ignorance of its mother. It appears to have been assumed by all
parties that, in refusing to hand Allegra altogether over to her father,
they would be sacrificing for her the prospect of a brilliant position and
fortune. Even supposing that this had been so, it is impossible to think
that such a consideration would have weighed, at any rate with the
Shelleys, but for the impossibility of keeping Clare's secret if Allegra
remained with them, and the constant danger of worse scandal to which her
unexplained presence must expose them. Clare, distracted with grief as she
was, yet dreaded discovery acutely, and firmly believed she was acting for
Allegra's best interests in parting from her.
It ended in the little girl's being sent to Venice on the 28th of April in
the care of Elise, the Swiss nurse, with whom Mary Shelley, for Allegra's
sake, consented to part, though she valued her very much, but who, not
long afterwards, returned to her.
As soon as they had gone, the Shelleys and Clare left Milan; and
travelling leisurely through Parma, Modena, Bologna, and Pisa (where a
letter from Elise reached them), they arrived on the 9th of May at
Leghorn. Here they made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne. The
lady, formerly Mrs. Reveley, had been an intimate friend of Mary
Wollstonecraft's (when Mary Godwin), and had been so warmly admired by
Godwin before his first marriage as to arouse some jealousy in Mr.
Reveley. Indeed, his admiration had been returned by so warm a feeling of
friendship on her part that Godwin was frankly surprised when on his
pressing her, shortly after her widowhood, to become his second wife, she
refused him point blank, nor, by all his eloquence, was to be persuaded to
change her mind. A beautiful girl, and highly accomplished, she had
married very young, and had one son of her first marriage, Henry Reveley,
a young civil engineer, who was now living in Italy with her and her
second husband.
This Mr. Gisborne struck Mary as being the reverse of intelligent, and is
described in Shelley's letters in most uncomplimentary terms. His
appearance cannot certainly have been in his favour, but that there must
have been more in him than met the eye seems also beyond a doubt, as, at a
later time, Shelley addressed to him some of his most interesting and most
intimate letters.
To Mrs. Gisborne they bore a letter of introduction from Godwin, and it
was not long before her acquaintance with Mrs. Shelley ripened into
friendship. "Reserved, yet with easy manners;" so Mary described her at
their first meeting. On the next day the two had a long conversation about
Mary's father and mother. Of her mother, indeed, Mary learned more from
Mrs. Gisborne than from any one else. She wrote her father an immediate
account of these first interviews, and his answer is unusually
demonstrative in expression.
I received last Friday a delightful letter from you. I was extremely
gratified by your account of Mrs. Gisborne. I have not seen her, I
believe, these twenty years; I think not since she was Mrs. Gisborne;
and yet by your description she is still a delightful woman. How
inexpressibly pleasing it is to call back the recollection of years
long past, and especially when the recollection belongs to a person in
whom one deeply interested oneself, as I did in Mrs. Reveley. I can
hardly hope for so great a pleasure as it would be to me to see her
again.
At the Bagni di Lucca, where they settled themselves for a time, Mary
heard from her father of the review of _Frankenstein_ in the _Quarterly_.
Peacock had reported it to be unfavourable, so it was probably a relief
to find that the reviewers "did not pretend to find anything blasphemous
in the story."
They say that the _gentleman_ who has written the book is a _man of
talents_, but that he employs his powers in a way disagreeable to
them.
All this, however, tended to keep Mary's old ardour alive. She never was
more strongly impelled to write than at this time; she felt her powers
fresh and strong within her; all she wanted was some motive, some
suggestion to guide her in the choice of a subject. While at Leghorn
Shelley had come upon a manuscript account, which Mary transcribed, of
that terrible story of the _Cenci_ afterwards dramatised by himself. His
first idea was that Mary should take it for the subject of a play. He was
convinced that she had dramatic talent as a writer, and that he had none;
two erroneous conclusions, as the sequel showed. But such an assurance
from such a source could not but be flattering to Mary's ambition, and
stimulating to her innate love of literary work. During all the early part
of their time in Italy their thoughts were busy with some subject for
Mary's tragedy. One proposed and strongly urged by Shelley was _Charles
the First_. It was partially carried out by himself before his death, and
perhaps occurred to him now in connection with a suggestion of Godwin's
for a book very different in scope and character, and far better suited to
Mary's genius than the drama. It would have been a series of _Lives of the
Commonwealth's Men_; "our calumniated Republicans," as Shelley calls them.
She was immensely attracted by the idea, but was forced to abandon it at
the time, for lack of the necessary books of reference. But Shelley, who
believed her powers to be of the highest order, was as eager as she
herself could be for her to undertake original work of some kind, and was
constantly inciting her to effort in this direction.
More than two months were spent at the Bagni di Lucca--reading, writing,
riding, and enjoying to the full the balmy Italian skies. Shelley, in whom
the creative mood was more or less dormant, and who "despaired of
providing anything original," translated the _Symposium_ of Plato, partly
as an exercise, partly to "give Mary some idea of the manners and feelings
of the Athenians, so different on many subjects from that of any other
community that ever existed." Together they studied Italian, and Shelley
reported Mary's progress to her father.
Mary has just finished Ariosto with me, and indeed has attained a very
competent knowledge of Italian. She is now reading Livy.
She also transcribed his translation of the _Symposium_, and his Eclogue
_Rosalind and Helen_, which, begun at Marlow, had been thrown aside till
she found it and persuaded him to complete it.
Meanwhile Clare hungered and thirsted for a sight of Allegra, of whom she
heard occasionally from Elise, and who was not now under Byron's roof, but
living, by his permission, with Mrs. Hoppner, wife of the British Consul
at Venice, who had volunteered to take temporary charge of her. Her
distress moved Shelley to so much commiseration that he resolved or
consented to do what must have been supremely disagreeable to him. He went
himself to Venice, hoping by a personal interview to modify in some degree
Byron's inexorable resolution. Clare accompanied him, unknown, of course,
to Byron. They started on the 17th of August. On that day Mary wrote the
following letter to Miss Gisborne--
MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.
BAGNI DI LUCCA, _17th August 1818_.
MY DEAR MADAM--It gave me great pleasure to receive your letter after
so long a silence, when I had begun to conjecture a thousand reasons
for it, and among others illness, in which I was half right. Indeed, I
am much concerned to hear of Mr. R.'s attacks, and sincerely hope that
nothing will retard his speedy recovery. His illness gives me a slight
hope that you might now be induced to come to the baths, if it were
even to try the effect of the hot baths. You would find the weather
cool; for we already feel in this part of the world that the year is
declining, by the cold mornings and evenings. I have another selfish
reason to wish that you would come, which I have a great mind not to
mention, yet I will not omit it, as it might induce you. Shelley and
Clare are gone; they went to-day to Venice on important business; and
I am left to take care of the house. Now, if all of you, or any of
you, would come and cheer my solitude, it would be exceedingly kind. I
daresay you would find many of your friends here; among the rest there
is the Signora Felichi, whom I believe you knew at Pisa. Shelley and I
have ridden almost every evening. Clare did the same at first, but she
has been unlucky, and once fell from her horse, and hurt her knee so
as to knock her up for some time. It is the fashion here for all the
English to ride, and it is very pleasant on these fine evenings, when
we set out at sunset and are lighted home by Venus, Jupiter, and
Diana, who kindly lend us their light after the sleepy Apollo is gone
to bed. The road which we frequent is raised somewhat above, and
overlooks the river, affording some very fine points of view amongst
these woody mountains.
Still, we know no one; we speak to one or two people at the Casino,
and that is all; we live in our studious way, going on with Tasso,
whom I like, but who, now I have read more than half his poem, I do
not know that I like half so well as Ariosto. Shelley translated the
_Symposium_ in ten days. It is a most beautiful piece of writing. I
think you will be delighted with it. It is true that in many
particulars it shocks our present manners; but no one can be a reader
of the works of antiquity unless they can transport themselves from
these to other times, and judge, not by our, but their morality.
Shelley is tolerably well in health; the hot weather has done him
good. We have been in high debate--nor have we come to any
conclusion--concerning the land or sea journey to Naples. We have been
thinking that when we want to go, although the equinox will be past,
yet the equinoctial winds will hardly have spent themselves; and I
cannot express to you how I fear a storm at sea with two such young
children as William and Clara. Do you know the periods when the
Mediterranean is troubled, and when the wintry halcyon days come?
However, it may be we shall see you before we proceed southward.
We have been reading Eustace's _Tour through Italy_; I do not wonder
the Italians reprinted it. Among other select specimens of his way of
thinking, he says that the Romans did not derive their arts and
learning from the Greeks; that Italian ladies are chaste, and the
lazzaroni honest and industrious; and that, as to assassination and
highway robbery in Italy, it is all a calumny--no such things were
ever heard of. Italy was the garden of Eden, and all the Italians
Adams and Eves, until the blasts of hell (_i.e._ the French--for by
that polite name he designates them) came. By the bye, an Italian
servant stabbed an English one here--it was thought dangerously at
first, but the man is doing better.
I have scribbled a long letter, and I daresay you have long wished to
be at the end of it. Well, now you are; so my dear Mrs. Gisborne, with
best remembrances, yours, obliged and affectionately,
MARY W. SHELLEY.
From Florence, where he arrived on the 20th, Shelley wrote to Mary,
telling her that Clare had changed her intention of going in person to
Venice, and had decided on the more politic course of remaining herself at
Fusina or Padua, while Shelley went on to see Byron.
"Well, my dearest Mary," he went on, "are you very lonely? Tell me
truth, my sweetest, do you ever cry? I shall hear from you once at
Venice and once on my return here. If you love me, you will keep up
your spirits; and at all events tell me truth about it, for I assure
you I am not of a disposition to be flattered by your sorrow, though I
should be by your cheerfulness, and above all by seeing such fruits of
my absence as was produced when I was at Geneva."
It was during Shelley's absence with Byron on their voyage round the lake
of Geneva that Mary had begun to write _Frankenstein_. But on the day when
she received this letter she was very uneasy about her little girl, who
was seriously unwell from the heat. On writing to Shelley she told him of
this; and, from his answer, one may infer that she had suggested the
advisability of taking the child to Venice for medical advice.
PADUA, MEZZOGIORNO.
MY BEST MARY--I found at Mount Selica a favourable opportunity for
going to Venice, when I shall try to make some arrangement for you and
little Ca to come for some days, and shall meet you, if I do not write
anything in the meantime, at Padua on Thursday morning. Clare says she
is obliged to come to see the Medico, whom we missed this morning, and
who has appointed as the only hour at which he can be at leisure, 8
o'clock in the morning. You must, therefore, arrange matters so that
you should come to the Stella d'Oro a little before that hour, a thing
only to be accomplished by setting out at half-past 3 in the morning.
You will by this means arrive at Venice very early in the day, and
avoid the heat, which might be bad for the babe, and take the time
when she would at least sleep great part of the time. Clare will
return with the return carriage, and I shall meet you, or send to you,
at Padua. Meanwhile, remember _Charles the First_, and do you be
prepared to bring at least some of _Mirra_ translated; bring the book
also with you, and the sheets of _Prometheus Unbound_, which you will
find numbered from 1 to 26 on the table of the Pavilion. My poor
little Clara; how is she to-day? Indeed, I am somewhat uneasy about
her; and though I feel secure there is no danger, it would be very
comfortable to have some reasonable person's opinion about her. The
Medico at Padua is certainly a man in great practice; but I confess he
does not satisfy me. Am I not like a wild swan, to be gone so
suddenly? But, in fact, to set off alone to Venice required an
exertion. I felt myself capable of making it, and I knew that you
desired it.... Adieu, my dearest love. Remember, remember _Charles the
First_ and _Mirra_. I have been already imagining how you will conduct
some scenes. The second volume of _St. Leon_ begins with this proud
and true sentiment--
"There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not
execute." Shakespeare was only a human being. Adieu till
Thursday.--Your ever affectionate,
P. B. S.
His next letter, however, announced yet another revolution in Clare's
plans. Her heart failed her at the idea of remaining to endure her
suspense all alone in a strange place; and so, braving the possible
consequences of Byron's discovering her move before he was informed of it,
she went on with Shelley to Venice, and, the morning after their arrival,
proceeded to Mr. Hoppner's house. Here she was kindly welcomed by him and
his wife, a pretty Swiss woman, with a sympathetic motherly heart, who
knew all about her and Allegra. They insisted, too, on Shelley's staying
with them, and he was nothing loth to accept the offer, for Byron's circle
would not have suited him at all.
He was pleased with his hostess, something in whose appearance reminded
him of Mary. "She has hazel eyes and sweet looks, rather Maryish," he
wrote. And in another letter he described her as
So good, so beautiful, so angelically mild that, were she wise too,
she would be quite a Mary. But she is not very accomplished. Her eyes
are like a reflection of yours; her manners are like yours when you
know and like a person.
He could enjoy no pleasure without longing for Mary to share it, and from
the moment he reached Venice he was planning impatiently for her to follow
him, to experience with him the strange emotions aroused by the first
sight of the wonderful city, and to make acquaintance with his new
friends.
He lost no time in calling on Byron, who gave him a very friendly
reception. Shelley's intention on leaving Lucca was to go with his family
to Florence, and the plan he urged on Byron was that Allegra should come
to spend some time there with her mother. To this Byron objected, as
likely to raise comment, and as a reopening of the whole question. He was,
however, in an affable mood, and not indisposed to meet Shelley halfway.
He had heard of Clare's being at Padua, but nothing of her subsequent
change of plan; and, assuming that the whole party were staying there, he
offered to send Allegra as far as that, on a week's visit. Finding that
things were not as he supposed, and that Mrs. Shelley was likely to come
presently to Venice, he proposed to lend them for some time a villa which
he rented at Este, and to let Allegra stay with them. The offer was
promptly and gratefully accepted by Shelley. The fact of Clare's presence
in Venice had, perforce, to be kept dark; for that there was no help; the
great thing was to get her and Allegra away as soon as possible. He sent
directions to Mary to pack up at once and travel with the least possible
delay to Este. There he would meet her with Clare, Allegra, and Elise, who
were to be established, with Mary's little ones, at Byron's villa, Casa
Cappucini, while she and he proceeded to Venice.
When the letter came, Mary had the Gisbornes staying with her on a visit.
For that reason, and on account of little Clara's indisposition, the
summons to depart so suddenly can hardly have been welcome; she obeyed it,
however, and left the Bagni di Lucca on the 31st of August. Owing to
delays about the passport, her journey took rather longer than they had
expected. The intense heat of the weather, added to the fatigue of
travelling and probably change of diet, seriously affected the poor baby,
who, by the time they got to Este on 5th September, was dangerously ill.
Shelley, who had been waiting for them impatiently, was also far from
well, and their visit to Venice had to be deferred for more than a
fortnight, during which Mary had time to hear enough of Venetian society
to horrify and disgust her.
_Journal, Saturday, September 5._--Arrive at Este. Poor Clara is
dangerously ill. Shelley is very unwell, from taking poison in Italian
cakes. He writes his drama of _Prometheus_. Read seven cantos of
Dante. Begin to translate _A Cajo Graccho_ of Monti, and _Measure for
Measure_.
_Wednesday, September 16._--Read the _Filippo_ of Alfieri. Shelley and
Clare go to Padua. He is very ill from the effects of his poison.
To Mrs. Gisborne she wrote as follows--
_September 1818._
MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--I hasten to write to you to say that we have
arrived safe, and yet I can hardly call it safe, since the fatigue has
given my poor _Ca_ an attack of dysentery; and although she is now
somewhat recovered from that disorder, she is still in a frightful
state of weakness and fever, and is reduced to be so thin in this
short time that you would hardly know her again.
The physician of Este is a stupid fellow; but there is one come from
Padua, and who appears clever; so I hope under his care she will soon
get well, although we are still in great anxiety concerning her. I
found Mr. Shelley very anxious for our non-arrival, for, besides other
delays, we were detained a whole day at Florence for a signature to
our passport. The house at Este is exceedingly pleasant, with a large
garden and quantities of excellent fruit. I have not yet been to
Venice, and know not when I shall, since it depends upon the state of
Clara's health. I hope Mr. Reveley is quite recovered from his
illness, and I am sure the baths did him a great deal of good. So now
I suppose all your talk is how you will get to England. Shelley agrees
with me that you could live very well for your L200 per annum in
Marlow or some such town; and I am sure you would be much happier than
in Italy. How all the English dislike it! The Hoppners speak with the
greatest acrimony of the Italians, and Mr. Hoppner says that he was
actually driven from Italian society by the young men continually
asking him for money. Everything is saleable in Venice, even the wives
of the gentry, if you pay well. It appears indeed a most frightful
system of society. Well! when shall we see you again? Soon, I daresay.
I am so much hurried that you will be kind enough to excuse the
abruptness of this letter. I will write soon again, and in the
meantime write to me. Shelley and Clare desire the kindest
remembrances.--My dear Mrs. Gisborne, affectionately yours,
MARY W. S.
Casa Capuccini, Este.
Send our letters to this direction.
No more of the journal was written till the 24th, and in the meantime
great trouble had fallen on the writers. Shelley was impatient for Clara
to be within reach of better medical advice, and anxious to get Mary to
Venice. He went forward himself on the 22d, returning next day as far as
Padua to meet Mary and Clara, with Clare, who, however, only came over to
Padua to see the Medico. The baby was very ill, and was getting worse
every hour, but they judged it best to press on. In their hurry they had
forgotten their passport, and had some difficulty in getting past the
_dogana_ in consequence. Shelley's impetuosity carried all obstacles
before it, and the soldiers on duty had to give way. On reaching Venice
Mary went straight with her sick child to the inn, while Shelley hurried
for the doctor. It was too late. When he got back (without the medical
man) he found Mary well-nigh beside herself with distress. Another doctor
had already been summoned, but little Clara was dying, and in an hour all
was over.
This blow reduced Mary to "a kind of despair";--the expression is
Shelley's. Mr. Hoppner, on hearing what had happened, insisted on taking
them away at once from the inn to his house. Four days she spent in Venice
after that, the first of which was a blank; of the second she merely
records--
An idle day. Go to the Lido and see Albe there.
After that she roused herself. There was Shelley to be comforted and
supported, there was Byron to be interviewed. One of her objects in coming
had been to try and persuade him after all to let Allegra stay. So she
nerved herself to pay this visit, and to go about and see something of
Venice with Shelley.
_Sunday, September 27._--Read fourth canto of _Childe Harold_. It
rains. Go to the Doge's Palace, Ponte dei Sospiri, etc. Go to the
Academy with Mr. and Mrs. Hoppner, and see some fine pictures. Call at
Lord Byron's and see the _Farmaretta_.
_Monday, September 28._--Go with Mrs. Hoppner and Cavaliere Mengaldo
to the Library. Shopping. In the evening Lord Byron calls.
_Tuesday, September 29._--Leave Venice, and arrive at Este at night.
Clare is gone with the children to Padua.
_Wednesday, September 30._--The chicks return. Transcribe _Mazeppa_.
Go to the opera in the evening.
A quiet, sad fortnight at Este followed. An idle one it was not, for
Shelley not only wrote _Julian and Maddalo_, but worked on portions of
his drama of _Prometheus Unbound_, the idea of which had haunted him ever
since he came to Italy. Clare, for the time, was happy with her child.
Mary read several plays of Shakespeare and the lives of Alfieri and Tasso
in Italian.
On the 12th of October she arrived once more at Venice with Shelley. She
passed the greater part of her time there with the Hoppners, who were
exceedingly friendly. Shelley visited Byron several times, probably trying
to get an extension of leave for Allegra. In this, however, he must have
failed, as on the 24th he went to Este to fetch her, returning with her on
the 29th. Having restored the poor little girl to the Hoppners' care, he
and Mary went once more to Este, but this time only to prepare for
departure. On the 5th of November the whole party, including Elise (who
was not retained for Allegra's service), left the Villa Capuccini and
travelled by slow stages to Rome.
No further allusion to her recent bereavement is to be found in Mary's
journal. She attempted to behave like the Stoic her father had wished her
to be.[33] She had written to him of her affliction, and received the
following answer from the philosopher--
SKINNER STREET, _27th October 1818_.
MY DEAR MARY--I sincerely sympathise with you in the affliction which
forms the subject of your letter, and which I may consider as the
first severe trial of your constancy and the firmness of your temper
that has occurred to you in the course of your life; you should,
however, recollect that it is only persons of a very ordinary sort,
and of a pusillanimous disposition, that sink long under a calamity of
this nature. I assure you such a recollection will be of great use to
you. We seldom indulge long in depression and mourning except when we
think secretly that there is something very refined in it, and that it
does us honour.
Such a homily, at such a time, must have made Mary feel like a person of a
very ordinary sort indeed. But she strove, only too hard, to carry out her
father's principles; for, by doing violence to her sensitive nature, she
might crush but could not kill it. The passionate impulses of her mother
were curiously mated in her with her father's reflective temperament; and
the noble courage which she inherited from Mary Wollstonecraft went hand
in hand with somewhat of Godwin's constitutional shrinking from any
manifestation of emotion. And the effect of determinate, excessive
self-restraint on a heart like hers was to render the crushed feelings
morbid in their acuteness, and to throw on her spirits a load of endurance
which was borne, indeed, but at ruinous cost, and operated largely, among
other causes, to make her seem cold when she was really suffering.
At such times it was not altogether well for her that she was Shelley's
companion. For, when his health and spirits were good, he craved and
demanded companionship,--personal, intellectual, playful,--companionship
of all sorts; but when they ebbed, when his vitality was low, when the
simultaneous exaltation of conception and labour of realisation--a
tremendous expenditure of force--was over, and left him shattered, shaken,
surprised at himself like one who in a dream falls from a height and
awakens with the shock,--tired, and yet dull,--then the one panacea for
him was animal spirits in some congenial acquaintance; whether a friend or
a previous stranger mattered little, provided the personality was
congenial and the spirits buoyant. Mary did her best, bravely and nobly.
But the loss of a child was one thing to Shelley, another thing to her.
She strove to overcome the low spirits from which she suffered. But
endurance, though more heroic than spontaneous cheerfulness, is not to be
compared with it in its benign effect on other people; nay, it may even
have a depressing effect when a yielding to emotion "of the ordinary sort"
may not. All these truths, however, do not become evident at once; like
other life-experience they have to be spelled out by slow and painful
degrees.
To seek for respite from grief or care in intellectual culture and the
acquisition of knowledge was instinctive and habitual both in Shelley and
in Mary. They visited Ferrara and Bologna, then travelled by a winding
road among the Apennines to Terni, where they saw the celebrated
waterfall--
It put me in mind of Sappho leaping from a rock, and her form
vanishing as in the shape of a swan in the distance.
_Friday, November 20._--We travel all day the Campagna di Roma--a
perfect solitude, yet picturesque, and relieved by shady dells. We see
an immense hawk sailing in the air for prey. Enter Rome. A rainy
evening. Doganas and cheating innkeepers. We at length get settled in
a comfortable hotel.
After one week in Rome, during which they visited as many of the wonders
of the Eternal City as the time allowed, they journeyed on to Naples,
reading Montaigne by the way.
At Naples they remained for three months. Of their life there Mary's
journal gives no account; she confines herself almost entirely to noting
down the books they read, and one or two excursions. They lived in very
great seclusion, greater than was good for them, but Shelley suffered much
from ill-health, and not a little from its treatment by an unskilful
physician. They read incessantly,--Livy, Dante, Sismondi, Winkelmann, the
Georgics and Plutarch's _Lives_, _Gil Blas_, and _Corinne_. They left no
beautiful or interesting scene unvisited; they ascended Vesuvius, and
made excursions to Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Paestum.
On the 8th of December Mary records--
Go on the sea with Shelley. Visit Capo Miseno, the Elysian Fields,
Avernus, Solfatara. The Bay of Baiae is beautiful, but we are
disappointed by the various places we visit.
The impression of the scene, however, remained after the temporary
disappointment had been forgotten, and she sketched it from memory many
years later in the fanciful introduction to her romance of _The Last Man_,
the story of which purports to be a tale deciphered from sibylline leaves,
picked up in the caverns.
Shelley, however, suffered from extreme depression, which, out of
solicitous consideration for Mary, he disguised as much as possible under
a mask of cheerfulness, insomuch that she never fully realised what he
endured at this time until she read the mournful poems written at Naples,
after he who wrote them had passed for ever out of sight.
She blamed herself then for what seemed to her her blindness,--for having
perhaps let slip opportunities of cheering him which she would have sold
her soul to recall when it was too late. That _he_, at the time, felt in
her no such want of sympathy or help is shown by his concluding words in
the advertisement of _Rosalind and Helen_, and _Lines written among the
Euganean Hills_, dated Naples, 20th December, where he says of certain
lines "which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency
by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise
in autumn on the highest peak of those delightful mountains," that, if
they were not erased, it was "at the request of a dear friend, with whom
added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and
who would have had more right than any one to complain that she has not
been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness."
Much of this sadness was due to physical suffering, but external causes of
anxiety and vexation were not wanting. One was the discovery of grave
misconduct on the part of their Italian servant, Paolo. An engagement had
been talked of between him and the Swiss nurse Elise, but the Shelleys,
who thought highly of Elise and by no means highly of Paolo, tried to
dissuade her from the idea. An illness of Elise's revealed the fact that
an illicit connection had been formed. The Shelleys, greatly distressed,
took the view that it would not do to throw Elise on the world without in
some degree binding Paolo to do his duty towards her, and they had them
married. How far this step was well-judged may be a matter of opinion.
Elise was already a mother when she entered the Shelleys service. Whether
a woman already a mother was likely to do better for being bound for life
to a man whom they "knew to be a rascal" may reasonably be doubted even by
those who hold the marriage-tie, as such, in higher honour than the
Shelleys did. But whether the action was mistaken or not, it was prompted
by the sincerest solicitude for Elise's welfare, a solicitude to be
repaid, at no distant date, by the basest ingratitude. Meanwhile Mary lost
her nurse, and, it may be assumed, a valuable one; for any one who studies
the history of this and the preceding years must see all three of the poor
doomed children throve as long as Elise was in charge of them.
Clare was ailing, and anxious too; how could it be otherwise? Just before
Allegra's third birthday, Mary received a letter from Mrs. Hoppner which
was anything but reassuring. It gave an unsatisfactory account of the
child, who did not thrive in the climate of Venice, and a still more
unsatisfactory account of Byron.
Il faut esperer qu'elle se changera pour son mieux quand il ne sera
plus si froid; mais je crois toujours que c'est tres malheureux que
Miss Clairmont oblige cette enfant de vivre a Venise, dont le climat
est nuisible en tout au physique de la petite, et vraiment, pour ce
que fera son pere, je le trouve un peu triste d'y sacrifier l'enfant.
My Lord continue de vivre dans une debauche affreuse qui tot ou tard
le menera a sa ruine....
Quant a moi, je voudrois faire tout ce qui est en mon pouvoir pour
cette enfant, que je voudrois bien volontiers rendre aussi heureuse
que possible le temps qu'elle restera avec nous; car je crains
qu'apres elle devra toujours vivre avec des etrangers, indifferents a
son sort. My Lord bien certainement ne la rendra jamais plus a sa
mere; ainsi il n'y a rien de bon a esperer pour cette chere petite.
This letter, if she saw it, may well have made Clare curse the day when
she let Allegra go.
Still, after they returned to Rome at the beginning of March, a brighter
time set in.
_Journal, Friday, March 5._--After passing over the beautiful hills of
Albano, and traversing the Campagna, we arrive at the Holy City again,
and see the Coliseum again.
All that Athens ever brought forth wise,
All that Afric ever brought forth strange,
All that which Asia ever had of prize,
Was here to see. Oh, marvellous great change!
Rome living was the world's sole ornament;
And dead, is now the world's sole monument.
_Sunday, March 7._--Move to our lodgings. A rainy day. Visit the
Coliseum. Read the Bible.
_Monday, March 8._--Visit the Museum of the Vatican. Read the Bible.
_Tuesday, March 9._--Shelley and I go to the Villa Borghese. Drive
about Rome. Visit the Pantheon. Visit it again by moonlight, and see
the yellow rays fall through the roof upon the floor of the temple.
Visit the Coliseum.
_Wednesday, March 10._--Visit the Capitol, and see the most divine
statues.
Not one of the party but was revived and invigorated by the beauty and
overpowering interest of the surrounding scenes, and the delight of a
lovely Italian spring. To Shelley it was life itself.
"The charm of the Roman climate," says Mrs. Shelley, "helped to clothe
his thoughts in greater beauty than they had ever worn before. And as
he wandered among the ruins, made one with nature in their decay, or
gazed on the Praxitelean shapes that throng the Vatican, the Capitol,
and the palaces of Rome, his soul imbibed forms of loveliness which
became a portion of itself."
The visionary drama of _Prometheus Unbound_, which had haunted, yet eluded
him so long, suddenly took life and shape, and stood before him, a vivid
reality. During his first month at Rome he completed it in its original
three-act form. The fourth act was an afterthought, and was added at a
later date.
For a short, enchanted time--his health renewed, the deadening years
forgotten, his susceptibilities sharpened, not paralysed, by recent
grief--he gave himself up to the vision of the realisation of his
life-dream; the disappearance of evil from the earth.
"He believed," wrote Mary Shelley, "that mankind had only to will that
there should be no evil, and there would be none.... That man should
be so perfectionised as to be able to expel evil from his own nature,
and from the greater part of the creation was the cardinal point of
his system. And the subject he loved best to dwell on, was the image
of one warring with the Evil Principle, oppressed not only by it, but
by all, even the good, who were deluded into considering evil a
necessary portion of humanity. A victim full of fortitude and hope,
and the spirit of triumph emanating from a reliance in the ultimate
omnipotence of good."
"This poem," he himself says, "was chiefly written upon the
mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowers,
glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees, which are
extended in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense platforms and
dizzy arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and
the effect of the vigorous awakening of spring in that divinest
climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirits even to
intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama."[34]
And while he wrought and wove the radiant web of his poem, Mary, excited
to greatest enthusiasm by the treasures of sculpture at Rome, and infected
by the atmosphere of art around her, took up again her favourite pursuit
of drawing, which she had discontinued since going to Marlow, and worked
at it many hours a day, sometimes all day. She was writing, too; a
thoroughly congenial occupation, at once soothing and stimulating to her.
She studied the Bible, with the keen fresh interest of one who comes new
to it, and she read Livy and Montaigne.
Little William was thriving, and growing more interesting every day. His
beauty and promise and angelic sweetness made him the pet and darling of
all who knew him, while to his parents he was a perpetual source of ever
fresh and increasing delight. And his mother looked forward to the birth
in autumn of another little one who might, in some measure, fill the place
of her lost Clara.
Clare, who, also, was in better health, was not behindhand in energy or
industry. Music was her favourite pursuit; she took singing-lessons from a
good master and worked hard.
They led a somewhat less secluded life than at Naples, and at the house of
Signora Dionizi, a Roman painter and authoress (described by Mary Shelley
as "very old, very miserly, and very mean"), Mary and Clare, at any rate,
saw a little of Italian society. For this, however, Shelley did not care,
nor was he attracted by any of the few English with whom he came in
contact. Yet he felt his solitude. In April, when the strain of his work
was over, his spirits drooped, as usual; and he longed then for some
_congenial distraction_, some human help to bear the burden of life till
the moment of weakness should have passed. But the fount of inspiration,
the source of temporary elation and strength, had not been exhausted by
_Prometheus_.
On the 22d of April Mary notes--
Visit the Palazzo Corunna, and see the picture of Beatrice Cenci.
The interest in the old idea was revived in him; he became engrossed in
the subject, and soon after his "lyrical drama" was done, he transferred
himself to this other, completely different work. There was no talk, now,
of passing it on to Mary, and indeed she may well have recoiled from the
unmitigated horrors of the tale. But, though he dealt with it himself,
Shelley still felt on unfamiliar ground, and, as he proceeded, he
submitted what he wrote to Mary for her judgment and criticism; the only
occasion on which he consulted her about any work of his during its
progress towards completion.
Late in April they made the acquaintance of one English (or rather, Irish)
lady, who will always be gratefully remembered in connection with the
Shelleys.
This was Miss Curran, a daughter of the late Irish orator, who had been a
friend of Godwin's, and to whose death Mary refers in one of her letters
from Marlow.[35]
Mary may, perhaps, have met her in Skinner Street; in any case, the old
association was one link between them, and another was afforded by
similarity in their present interests and occupations. Mary was very keen
about her drawing and painting. Miss Curran had taste, and some skill,
and was vigorously prosecuting her art-studies in Rome. Portrait painting
was her especial line, and each of the Shelley party, at different times,
sat to her; so that during the month of May they met almost daily, and
became well acquainted.
This new interest, together with the unwillingness to bring to an end a
time at once so peaceful and so fruitful, caused them once and again to
postpone their departure, originally fixed for the beginning of May. They
stayed on longer than it is safe for English people to remain in Rome. Ah!
why could no presentiment warn them of impending calamity? Could they,
like the Scottish witch in the ballad, have seen the fatal winding-sheet
creeping and clinging ever higher and higher round the wraith of their
doomed child, they would have fled from the face of Death. But they had no
such foreboding.
Not a fortnight after his portrait had been taken by Miss Curran, William
showed signs of illness. How it was that, knowing him to be so
delicate,--having learned by bitterest experience the danger of southern
heat to an English-born infant,--having, as early as April, suspected the
Roman air of causing "weakness and depression, and even fever" to Shelley
himself, how, after all this, they risked staying in Rome through May is
hard to imagine.
They were to pay for their delay with the best part of their lives.
William sickened on the 25th, but had so far recovered by the 30th that
his parents, though they saw they ought to leave Rome as soon as he was
fit to travel, were in no immediate anxiety about him, and were making
their summer plans quite in a leisurely way; Mary writing to ask Mrs.
Gisborne to help them with some domestic arrangements, begging her to
inquire about houses at Lucca or the Baths of Pisa, and to engage a
servant for her.
The journal for this and the following days runs--
_Sunday, May 30._--Read Livy, and _Persiles and Sigismunda_. Draw.
Spend the evening at Miss Curran's.
_Monday, May 31._--Read Livy, and _Persiles and Sigismunda_. Draw.
Walk in the evening.
_Tuesday, June 1._--Drawing lesson. Read Livy. Walk by the Tiber.
Spend the evening with Miss Curran.
_Wednesday, June 2._--See Mr. Vogel's pictures. William becomes very
ill in the evening.
_Thursday, June 3._--William is very ill, but gets better towards the
evening. Miss Curran calls.
Mary took this opportunity of begging her friend to write for her to Mrs.
Gisborne, telling her of the inevitable delay in their journey.
ROME, _Thursday, 3d June 1819_.
DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Mary tells me to write for her, for she is very
unwell, and also afflicted. Our poor little William is at present
very ill, and it will be impossible to quit Rome so soon as we
intended. She begs you, therefore, to forward the letters here, and
still to look for a servant for her, as she certainly intends coming
to Pisa. She will write to you a day or two before we set out.
William has a complaint of the stomach; but fortunately he is attended
by Mr. Bell, who is reckoned even in London one of the first English
surgeons.
I know you will be glad to hear that both Mary and Mr. Shelley would
be well in health were it not for the dreadful anxiety they now
suffer.
EMELIA CURRAN.
Two days after, Mary herself wrote a few lines to Mrs. Gisborne.
_5th June 1819._
William is in the greatest danger. We do not quite despair, yet we
have the least possible reason to hope.
I will write as soon as any change takes place. The misery of these
hours is beyond calculation. The hopes of my life are bound up in
him.--Ever yours affectionately,
M. W. S.
I am well, and so is Shelley, although he is more exhausted by
watching than I am. William is in a high fever.
Sixty death-like hours did Shelley watch, without closing his eyes. Clare,
her own troubles forgotten in this moment of mortal suspense, was a
devoted nurse.
As for Mary, her very life ebbed with William's, but as yet she bore up.
There was no real hope from the first moment of the attack, but the poor
child made a hard struggle for life. Two more days and nights of anguish
and terror and deadly sinking of heart,--and then, in the blank page
following _June 4_, the last date entered in the diary, are the words--
The journal ends here.--P. B. S.
On Monday, the 7th of June, at noonday, William died.