NOVEMBER 1821-APRIL 1822
_Journal, Thursday, November 1._--Go to Florence. Copy. Ride with the
Guiccioli. Albe arrives.
_Sunday, November 4._--The Williams' arrive. Copy. Call on the
Guiccioli.
_Thursday, November 15._--Copy. Read _Caleb Williams_ to Jane. Ride
with the Guiccioli. Shelley goes on translating Spinoza with Edward.
Medwin arrives. Taafe calls. Argyropulo calls. Good news from the
Greeks.
_Tuesday, November 28._--Ride with the Guiccioli. Suffer much with
rheumatism in my head.
_Wednesday, November 29._--I mark this day because I begin my Greek
again, and that is a study that ever delights me. I do not feel the
bore of it, as in learning another language, although it be so
difficult, it so richly repays one; yet I read little, for I am not
well. Shelley and the Williams go to Leghorn; they dine with us
afterwards with Medwin. Write to Clare.
_Thursday, November 30._--Correct the novel. Read a little Greek. Not
well. Ride with the Guiccioli. The Count Pietro (Gamba) in the
evening.
MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.
PISA, _30th November 1821_.
MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Although having much to do be a bad excuse for
not writing to you, yet you must in some sort admit this plea on my
part. Here we are in Pisa, having furnished very nice apartments for
ourselves, and what is more, paid for the furniture out of the fruits
of two years' economy, we are at the top of the Tre Palazzi di Chiesa.
I daresay you know the house, next door to La Scoto's house on the
north side of Lung' Arno; but the rooms we inhabit are south, and look
over the whole country towards the sea, so that we are entirely out of
the bustle and disagreeable _puzzi_, etc., of the town, and hardly
know that we are so enveloped until we descend into the street. The
Williams' have been less lucky, though they have followed our example
in furnishing their own house, but, renting it of Mr. Webb, they have
been treated scurvily. So here we live, Lord Byron just opposite to us
in Casa Lanfranchi (the late Signora Felichi's house). So Pisa, you
see, has become a little nest of singing birds. You will be both
surprised and delighted at the work just about to be published by him;
his _Cain_, which is in the highest style of imaginative poetry. It
made a great impression upon me, and appears almost a revelation, from
its power and beauty. Shelley rides with him; I, of course, see little
of him. The lady _whom he serves_ is a nice pretty girl without
pretensions, good hearted and amiable; her relations were banished
Romagna for Carbonarism.
What do you know of Hunt? About two months ago he wrote to say that on
21st October he should quit England, and we have heard nothing more of
him in any way; I expect some day he and six children will drop in
from the clouds, trusting that God will temper the wind to the shorn
lamb. Pray when you write, tell us everything you know concerning him.
Do you get any intelligence of the Greeks? Our worthy countrymen take
part against them in every possible way, yet such is the spirit of
freedom, and such the hatred of these poor people for their
oppressors, that I have the warmest hopes--[Greek: mantis eim' esthlon
agonon]. Mavrocordato is there, justly revered for the sacrifice he
has made of his whole fortune to the cause, and besides for his
firmness and talents. If Greece be free, Shelley and I have vowed to
go, perhaps to settle there, in one of those beautiful islands where
earth, ocean, and sky form the paradise. You will, I hope, tell us all
the news of our friends when you write. I see no one that you know. We
live in our usual retired way, with few friends and no acquaintances.
Clare is returned to her usual residence, and our tranquillity is
unbroken in upon, except by those winds, sirocco or tramontana, which
now and then will sweep over the ocean of one's mind and disturb or
cloud its surface. Since this must be a double letter, I save myself
the trouble of copying the enclosed, which was a part of a letter
written to you a month ago, but which I did not send. Will you attend
to my requests? Every day increases my anxiety concerning the desk. Do
have the goodness to pack it off as soon as you can.
Shelley was at your hive yesterday; it is as dirty and busy as ever,
so people live in the same narrow circle of space and thought, while
time goes on, not as a racehorse, but a "six inside dilly," and puts
them down softly at their journey's end; while they have slept and
ate, and _ecco tutto_. With this piece of morality, dear Mrs.
Gisborne, I end. Shelley begs every remembrance of his to be joined
with mine to Mr. Gisborne and Henry.--Ever yours,
MARY W. S.
And now, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, I have a great favour to ask of you.
Ollier writes to say that he has placed our two desks in the hands of
a merchant of the city, and that they are to come--God knows when!
Now, as we sent for them two years ago, and are tired of waiting, will
you do us the favour to get them out of his hands, and to send them
without delay? If they can be sent without being opened, send them _in
statu quo_; if they must be opened, do not send the smallest but get a
key (being a patent lock a key will cost half a guinea) made for the
largest and send it, and return the other to Peacock. If you send the
desk, will you send with it the following things?--A few copies of all
Shelley's works, particularly of the second edition of the _Cenci_, my
mother's posthumous works, and _Letters from Norway_ from Peacock, if
you can, but do not delay the box for them.
_Journal, Sunday, December 2._--Read the _History of Shipwrecks_. Read
Herodotus with Shelley. Ride with La Guiccioli. Pietro and her in the
evening.
_Monday, December 3._--Write letters. Read Herodotus with Shelley.
Finish _Caleb Williams_ to Jane. Taafe calls. He says that his Turk is
a very moral man, for that when he began a scandalous story he
interrupted him immediately, saying, "Ah! we must never speak thus of
our neighbours!" Taafe would do well to take the hint.
_Thursday, December 6._--Read Homer. Walk with Williams. Spend the
evening with them. Call on T. Guiccioli with Jane, while Taafe amuses
Shelley and Edward. Read Tacitus. A dismal day.
_Friday, December 7._--Letter from Hunt and Bessy. Walk with Shelley.
Buy furniture for them, etc. Walk with Edward and Jane to the garden,
and return with T. Guiccioli in the carriage. Edward reads the
_Shipwreck of the Wager_ to us in the evening.
_Saturday, December 8._--Get up late and talk with Shelley. The
Williams and Medwin to dinner. Walk with Edward and Jane in the
garden. Return with T. Guiccioli. T. G. and Pietro in the evening.
Write to Clare. Read Tacitus.
_Sunday, December 9._--Go to church at Dr. Nott's. Walk with Edward
and Jane in the garden. In the evening first Pietro and Teresa,
afterwards go to the Williams'.
_Monday, December 10._--Out shopping. Walk with the Williams and T.
Guiccioli to the garden. Medwin at tea. Afterwards we are alone, and
after reading a little Herodotus, Shelley reads Chaucer's _Flower and
the Leaf_, and then Chaucer's _Dream_ to me. A divine, cold,
tramontana day.
_Monday, January 14._--Read _Emile_. Call on T. Guiccioli and see Lord
Byron. Trelawny arrives.
Edward John Trelawny, whose subsequent history was to be closely bound up
with that of Shelley and of Mrs. Shelley, was of good Cornish family, and
had led a wandering life, full of romantic adventure. He had become
acquainted with Williams and Medwin in Switzerland a year before, since
which he had been in Paris and London. Tired of a town life and of
society, and in order to "maintain the just equilibrium between the body
and the brain," he had determined to pass the next winter hunting and
shooting in the wilds of the Maremma, with a Captain Roberts and
Lieutenant Williams. For the exercise of his brain, he proposed passing
the summer with Shelley and Byron, boating in the Mediterranean, as he had
heard that they proposed doing. Neither of the poets were as yet
personally known to him, but he had lost no time in seeking their
acquaintance. On the very evening of his arrival in Pisa he repaired to
the Tre Palazzi, where, in the Williams' room, he first saw Shelley, and
was struck speechless with astonishment.
Was it possible this mild-looking beardless boy could be the veritable
monster at war with all the world? Excommunicated by the Fathers of
the Church, deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord
Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by
the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school?
I could not believe it; it must be a hoax.
But presently, when Shelley was led to talk on a theme that interested
him--the works of Calderon,--his marvellous powers of mind and command of
language held Trelawny spell-bound: "After this touch of his quality," he
says, "I no longer doubted his identity."
Mrs. Shelley appeared soon after, and the visitor looked with lively
curiosity at the daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft.
Such a rare pedigree of genius was enough to interest me in her,
irrespective of her own merits as an authoress. The most striking
feature in her face was her calm, gray eyes; she was rather under the
English standard of woman's height, very fair and light-haired; witty,
social, and animated in the society of friends, though mournful in
solitude; like Shelley, though in a minor degree, she had the power of
expressing her thoughts in varied and appropriate words, derived from
familiarity with the works of our vigorous old writers. Neither of
them used obsolete or foreign words. This command of our language
struck me the more as contrasted with the scanty vocabulary used by
ladies in society, in which a score of poor hackneyed phrases suffice
to express all that is felt or considered proper to reveal.[45]
Mary's impressions of the new-comer may be gathered from her journal and
her subsequent letter to Mrs. Gisborne.
_Journal, Saturday, January 19._--Copy. Walk with Jane. The Opera in
the evening. Trelawny is extravagant--_un giovane
stravagante_,--partly natural, and partly, perhaps, put on, but it
suits him well, and if his abrupt but not unpolished manners be
assumed, they are nevertheless in unison with his Moorish face (for he
looks Oriental yet not Asiatic), his dark hair, his Herculean form;
and then there is an air of extreme good nature which pervades his
whole countenance, especially when he smiles, which assures me that
his heart is good. He tells strange stories of himself, horrific ones,
so that they harrow one up, while with his emphatic but unmodulated
voice, his simple yet strong language, he pourtrays the most
frightful situations; then all these adventures took place between the
ages of thirteen and twenty.
I believe them now I see the man, and, tired with the everyday
sleepiness of human intercourse, I am glad to meet with one who, among
other valuable qualities, has the rare merit of interesting my
imagination. The _crew_ and Medwin dine with us.
_Sunday, January 27._--Read Homer. Walk. Dine at the Williams'. The
Opera in the evening. Ride with T. Guiccioli.
_Monday, January 28._--The Williams breakfast with us. Go down Bocca
d'Arno in the boat with Shelley and Jane. Edward and E. Trelawny meet
us there; return in the gig; they dine with us; very tired.
_Tuesday, January 29._--Read Homer and Tacitus. Ride with T.
Guiccioli. E. Trelawny and Medwin to dinner. The Baron Lutzerode in
the evening.
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
Read the first volume of the _Pirate_.
_Sunday, February 3._--Read Homer. Walk to the garden with Jane.
Return with Medwin to dinner. Trelawny in the evening. A wild day and
night, some clouds in the sky in the morning, but they clear away. A
north wind.
_Monday, February 4._--Breakfast with the Williams'. Edward, Jane, and
Trelawny go to Leghorn. Walk with Jane. Southey's letter concerning
Lord Byron. Write to Clare. In the evening the Gambas and Taafe.
_Thursday, February 7._--Read Homer, Tacitus, and _Emile_. Shelley and
Edward depart for La Spezzia. Walk with Jane, and to the Opera with
her in the evening. With E. Trelawny afterwards to Mrs. Beauclerc's
ball. During a long, long evening in mixed society how often do one's
sensations change, and, swiftly as the west wind drives the shadows of
clouds across the sunny hill or the waving corn, so swift do
sensations pass, painting--yet, oh! not disfiguring--the serenity of
the mind. It is then that life seems to weigh itself, and hosts of
memories and imaginations, thrown into one scale, make the other kick
the beam. You remember what you have felt, what you have dreamt; yet
you dwell on the shadowy side, and lost hopes and death, such as you
have seen it, seem to cover all things with a funeral pall.
The time that was, is, and will be, presses upon you, and, standing
the centre of a moving circle, you "slide giddily as the world reels."
You look to heaven, and would demand of the everlasting stars that the
thoughts and passions which are your life may be as ever-living as
they. You would demand of the blue empyrean that your mind might be as
clear as it, and that the tears which gather in your eyes might be the
shower that would drain from its profoundest depths the springs of
weakness and sorrow. But where are the stars? Where the blue empyrean?
A ceiling clouds that, and a thousand swift consuming lights supply
the place of the eternal ones of heaven. The enthusiast suppresses her
tears, crushes her opening thoughts, and.... But all is changed; some
word, some look excite the lagging blood, laughter dances in the eyes,
and the spirits rise proportionably high.
The Queen is all for revels, her light heart,
Unladen from the heaviness of state,
Bestows itself upon delightfulness.
_Friday, February 8._--Sometimes I awaken from my visionary monotony,
and my thoughts flow until, as it is exquisite pain to stop the
flowing of the blood, so is it painful to check expression and make
the overflowing mind return to its usual channel. I feel a kind of
tenderness to those, whoever they may be (even though strangers), who
awaken the train and touch a chord so full of harmony and thrilling
music, when I would tear the veil from this strange world, and pierce
with eagle eyes beyond the sun; when every idea, strange and
changeful, is another step in the ladder by which I would climb....
Read _Emile_. Jane dines with me, walk with her. E. Trelawny and Jane
in the evening. Trelawny tells us a number of amusing stories of his
early life. Read third canto of _L'Inferno_.
They say that Providence is shown by the extraction that may be ever
made of good from evil, that we draw our virtues from our faults. So I
am to thank God for making me weak. I might say, "Thy will be done,"
but I cannot applaud the permitter of self-degradation, though dignity
and superior wisdom arise from its bitter and burning ashes.
_Saturday, February 9._--Read _Emile_. Walk with Jane, and ride with
T. Guiccioli. Dine with Jane. Taafe and T. Medwin call. I retire with
E. Trelawny, who amuses me as usual by the endless variety of his
adventures and conversation.
MARY TO MRS. GISBORNE.
PISA, _9th February 1822_.
MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Not having heard from you, I am anxious about
my desk. It would have been a great convenience to me if I could have
received it at the beginning of the winter, but now I should like it
as soon as possible. I hope that it is out of Ollier's hands. I have
before said what I would have done with it. If both desks can be sent
without being opened, let them be sent; if not, give the small one
back to Peacock. Get a key made for the larger, and send it, I entreat
you, by the very next vessel. This key will cost half a guinea, and
Ollier will not give you the money, but give me credit for it, I
entreat you. I pray now let me have the desk as soon as possible.
Shelley is now gone to Spezzia to get houses for our colony for the
summer.
It will be a large one, too large, I am afraid, for unity; yet I hope
not. There will be Lord Byron, who will have a large and beautiful
boat built on purpose by some English navy officers at Genoa. There
will be the Countess Guiccioli and her brother; the Williams', whom
you know; Trelawny, a kind of half-Arab Englishman, whose life has
been as changeful as that of Anastasius, and who recounts the
adventures as eloquently and as well as the imagined Greek. He is
clever; for his moral qualities I am yet in the dark; he is a strange
web which I am endeavouring to unravel. I would fain learn if
generosity is united to impetuousness, probity of spirit to his
assumption of singularity and independence. He is 6 feet high, raven
black hair, which curls thickly and shortly, like a Moor's, dark gray
expressive eyes, overhanging brows, upturned lips, and a smile which
expresses good nature and kindheartedness. His shoulders are high,
like an Oriental's, his voice is monotonous, yet emphatic, and his
language, as he relates the events of his life, energetic and simple,
whether the tale be one of blood and horror, or of irresistible
comedy. His company is delightful, for he excites me to think, and if
any evil shade the intercourse, that time will unveil--the sun will
rise or night darken all. There will be, besides, a Captain Roberts,
whom I do not know, a very rough subject, I fancy,--a famous angler,
etc. We are to have a small boat, and now that those first divine
spring days are come (you know them well), the sky clear, the sun hot,
the hedges budding, we sitting without a fire and the windows open, I
begin to long for the sparkling waves, the olive-coloured hills and
vine-shaded pergolas of Spezzia. However, it would be madness to go
yet. Yet as _ceppo_ was bad, we hope for a good _pasqua_, and if April
prove fine, we shall fly with the swallows. The Opera here has been
detestable. The English Sinclair is the _primo tenore_, and acquits
himself excellently, but the Italians, after the first, have enviously
selected such operas as give him little or nothing to do. We have
English here, and some English balls and parties, to which I
(_mirabile dictu_) go sometimes. We have Taafe, who bores us out of
our senses when he comes, telling a young lady that her eyes shed
flowers--why therefore should he send her any? I have sent my novel to
Papa. I long to hear some news of it, as, with an author's vanity, I
want to see it in print, and hear the praises of my friends. I should
like, as I said when you went away, a copy of _Matilda_. It might come
out with the desk. I hope as the town fills to hear better news of
your plans, we long to hear from you. What does Henry do? How many
times has he been in love?--Ever yours,
M. W. S.
Shelley would like to see the review of the _Prometheus_ in the
_Quarterly_.
_Thursday, February 14._--Read Homer and _Anastasius_. Walk with the
Williams' in the evening.... "Nothing of us but what must suffer a
sea-change."
This entry marks the day to which Mary referred in a letter written more
than a year later, where she says--
A year ago Trelawny came one afternoon in high spirits with news
concerning the building of the boat, saying, "Oh! we must all embark,
all live aboard; we will all 'suffer a sea-change.'" And dearest
Shelley was delighted with the quotation, saying that he would have it
for the motto for his boat.
Little did they think, in their lightness of spirit, that in another year
the motto of the boat would serve for the inscription on Shelley's tomb.
_Journal, Monday, February 18._--Read Homer. Walk with the Williams'.
Jane, Trelawny, and Medwin in the evening.[46]
_Monday, February 25._--What a mart this world is? Feelings,
sentiments,--more invaluable than gold or precious stones is the coin,
and what is bought? Contempt, discontent, and disappointment, unless,
indeed, the mind be loaded with drearier memories. And what say the
worldly to this? Use Spartan coin, pay away iron and lead alone, and
store up your precious metal. But alas! from nothing, nothing comes,
or, as all things seem to degenerate, give lead and you will receive
clay,--the most contemptible of all lives is where you live in the
world, and none of your passions or affections are brought into
action. I am convinced I could not live thus, and as Sterne says that
in solitude he would worship a tree, so in the world I should attach
myself to those who bore the semblance of those qualities which I
admire. But it is not this that I want; let me love the trees, the
skies, and the ocean, and that all-encompassing spirit of which I may
soon become a part,--let me in my fellow-creature love that which is,
and not fix my affection on a fair form endued with imaginary
attributes; where goodness, kindness, and talent are, let me love and
admire them at their just rate, neither adorning nor diminishing, and
above all, let me fearlessly descend into the remotest caverns of my
own mind; carry the torch of self-knowledge into its dimmest recesses;
but too happy if I dislodge any evil spirit, or enshrine a new deity
in some hitherto uninhabited nook.
Read _Wrongs of Women_ and Homer. Clare departs. Walk with Jane and
ride with T. Guiccioli. T. G. dines with us.
_Thursday, February 28._--Take leave of the Argyropolis. Walk with
Shelley. Ride with T. Guiccioli. Read letters. Spend the evening at
the Williams'. Trelawny there.
_Friday, March 1._--An embassy. Walk. My first Greek lesson. Walk with
Edward. In the evening work.
_Sunday, March 3._--A note to, and a visit from, Dr. Nott. Go to
church. Walk. The Williams' and Trelawny to dinner.
Mary's experiments in the way of church-going, so new a thing in her
experience, and so little in accordance with Shelley's habits of thought
and action, excited some surprise and comment. Hogg, Shelley's early
friend, who heard of it from Mrs. Gisborne, now in England, was
especially shocked. In a letter to Mary, Mrs. Gisborne remarked, "Your
friend Hogg is _molto scandalizzato_ to hear of your weekly visits to the
_piano di sotto_" (the services were held on the ground floor of the Tre
Palazzi).
The same letter asks for news of Emilia Viviani. Mrs. Gisborne had heard
that she was married, and feared she had been sacrificed to a man whom she
describes as "that insipid, sickening Italian mortal, Danieli the lawyer."
She proceeds to say--
We invited Varley one evening to meet Hogg, who was curious to see a
man really believing in astrology in the nineteenth century. Varley,
as usual, was not sparing of his predictions. We talked of Shelley
without mentioning his name; Varley was curious, and being informed by
Hogg of his exact age, but describing his person as short and
corpulent, and himself as a _bon vivant_, Varley amused us with the
following remarks: "Your friend suffered from ill-fortune in May or
June 1815. Vexatious affairs on the 2d and 14th of June, or perhaps
latter end of May 1820. The following year, disturbance about a lady.
Again, last April, at 10 at night, or at noon, disturbance about a
bouncing stout lady, and others. At six years of age, noticed by
ladies and gentlemen for learning. In July 1799, beginning of charges
made against him. In September 1800, at noon, or dusk, very violent
charges. Scrape at fourteen years of age. Eternal warfare against
parents and public opinion, and a great blow-up every seven years till
death," etc. etc. _Is all this true?_
Not a little amused, Mary answered her friend as follows--
PISA, _7th March 1822_.
MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--I am very sorry that you have so much trouble
with my commissions, and vainly, too! _ma che vuole?_ Ollier will not
give you the money, and we are, to tell you the truth, too poor at
present to send you a cheque upon our banker; two or three
circumstances having caused
That climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of our weekly bills.
But far more than that, we have not touched a quattrino of our
Christmas quarter, since debts in England and other calls swallowed it
entirely up. For the present, therefore, we must dispense with those
things I asked you for. As for the desk, we received last post from
Ollier (without a line) the bill of lading that he talks of, and, _si
Dio vuole_, we shall receive it safe; the vessel in which they were
shipped is not yet arrived. The worst of keeping on with Ollier
(though it is the best, I believe, after all) is that you will never
be able to make anything of his accounts, until you can compare the
number of copies in hand with his account of their sale. As for my
novel, I shipped it off long ago to my father, telling him to make the
best of it; and by the way in which he answered my letter, I fancy he
thinks he can make something of it. This is much better than Ollier,
for I should never have got a penny from him; and, moreover, he is a
very bad bookseller to publish with--_ma basta poi_, with all these
_seccaturas_.
Poor dear Hunt, you will have heard by this time of the disastrous
conclusion of his third embarkment; he is to try a third time in
April, and if he does not succeed then, we must say that the sea is
_un vero precipizio_, and let him try land. By the bye, why not
consult Varley on the result? I have tried the _Sors Homeri_ and the
_Sors Virgilii_; the first says (I will write this Greek better, but I
thought that Mr. Gisborne could read the Romaic writing, and I now
quite forget what it was)--
[Greek: Elomen, teios moi adelpheon allos epephnen.
hos d'opot' Iasioni euplokamos Demeter.
Dourateon megan hippon, hoth' heiato pantes aristoi.]
Which first seems to say that he will come, though his brother may be
prosecuted for a libel. Of the second, I can make neither head nor
tail; and the third is as oracularly obscure as one could wish, for
who these great people are who sat in a wooden horse, _chi lo sa_?
Virgil, except the first line, which is unfavourable, is as
enigmatical as Homer--
Fulgores nunc horrificos, sonitumque, metumque
Tum leves calamos, et rasae hastilia virgae
Connexosque angues, ipsamque in pectore divae.
But to speak of predictions or anteductions, some of Varley's are
curious enough: "Ill-fortune in May or June 1815." No; it was then
that he arranged his income; there was no ill except health, _al
solito_, at that time. The particular days of the 2d and 14th of June
1820 were not ill, but the whole time was disastrous. It was then we
were alarmed by Paolo's attack and disturbance. About a lady in the
winter of last year, enough, God knows! Nothing particular about a fat
bouncing lady at 10 at night: and indeed things got more quiet in
April. In July 1799 Shelley was only seven years of age. "A great
blow-up every seven years." Shelley is not at home; when he returns I
will ask him what happened when he was fourteen. In his twenty-second
year we made our _scappatura_; at twenty-eight and twenty-nine, a good
deal of discomfort on a certain point, but it hardly amounted to a
blow-up. Pray ask Varley also about me.
So Hogg is shocked that, for good neighbourhood's sake, I visited the
_piano di sotto_; let him reassure himself, since instead of a weekly,
it was only a monthly visit; in fact, after going three times I stayed
away until I heard he was going away. He preached against atheism,
and, they said, against Shelley. As he invited me himself to come,
this appeared to me very impertinent; so I wrote to him, to ask him
whether he intended any personal allusion, but he denied the charge
most entirely. This affair, as you may guess, among the English at
Pisa made a great noise; the gossip here is of course out of all
bounds, and some people have given them something to talk about. I
have seen little of it all; but that which I have seen makes me long
most eagerly for some sea-girt isle, where with Shelley, my babe, and
books and horses, we may give the rest to the winds; this we shall not
have for the present. Shelley is entangled with Lord Byron, who is in
a terrible fright lest he should desert him. We shall have boats, and
go somewhere on the sea-coast, where, I daresay, we shall spend our
time agreeably enough, for I like the Williams' exceedingly, though
there my list begins and ends.
Emilia married Biondi; we hear that she leads him and his mother (to
use a vulgarism) a devil of a life. The conclusion of our friendship
(_a la Italiana_) puts me in mind of a nursery rhyme, which runs
thus--
As I was going down Cranbourne lane,
Cranbourne lane was dirty,
And there I met a pretty maid,
Who dropt to me a curtsey;
I gave her cakes, I gave her wine,
I gave her sugar-candy,
But oh! the little naughty girl,
She asked me for some brandy.
Now turn "Cranbourne Lane" into Pisan acquaintances, which I am sure
are dirty enough, and "brandy" into that wherewithal to buy brandy
(and that no small sum _pero_), and you have the whole story of
Shelley's Italian Platonics. We now know, indeed, few of those whom we
knew last year. Pacchiani is at Prato; Mavrocordato in Greece; the
Argyropolis in Florence; and so the world slides. Taafe is still
here--the butt of Lord Byron's quizzing, and the poet laureate of
Pisa. On the occasion of a young lady's birthday he wrote--
Eyes that shed a thousand flowers!
Why should flowers be sent to you?
Sweetest flowers of heavenly bowers,
Love and friendship, are what are due.
* * * * *
After some divine _Italian_ weather, we are now enjoying some fine
English weather; _cioe_, it does not rain, but not a ray can pierce
the web aloft.--Most truly yours,
MARY W. S.
MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. HUNT.
_5th March 1822._
MY DEAREST MARIANNE--I hope that this letter will find you quite well,
recovering from your severe attack, and looking towards your haven
Italy with best hopes. I do indeed believe that you will find a relief
here from your many English cares, and that the winds which waft you
will sing the requiem to all your ills. It was indeed unfortunate that
you encountered such weather on the very threshold of your journey,
and as the wind howled through the long night, how often did I think
of you! At length it seemed as if we should never, never meet; but I
will not give way to such a presentiment. We enjoy here divine
weather. The sun hot, too hot, with a freshness and clearness in the
breeze that bears with it all the delights of spring. The hedges are
budding, and you should see me and my friend Mrs. Williams poking
about for violets by the sides of dry ditches; she being herself--
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye.
Yesterday a countryman seeing our dilemma, since the ditch was not
quite dry, insisted on gathering them for us, and when we resisted,
saying that we had no _quattrini_ (_i.e._ farthings, being the generic
name for all money), he indignantly exclaimed, _Oh! se lo faccio per
interesse!_ How I wish you were with us in our rambles! Our good
cavaliers flock together, and as they do not like _fetching a walk
with the absurd womankind_, Jane (_i.e._ Mrs. Williams) and I are off
together, and talk morality and pluck violets by the way. I look
forward to many duets with this lady and Hunt. She has a very pretty
voice, and a taste and ear for music which is almost miraculous. The
harp is her favourite instrument; but we have none, and a very bad
piano; however, as it is, we pass very pleasant evenings, though I can
hardly bear to hear her sing "Donne l'amore"; it transports me so
entirely back to your little parlour at Hampstead--and I see the
piano, the bookcase, the prints, the casts--and hear Mary's
_far-ha-ha-a_!
We are in great uncertainty as to where we shall spend the summer.
There is a beautiful bay about fifty miles off, and as we have
resolved on the sea, Shelley bought a boat. We wished very much to go
there; perhaps we shall still, but as yet we can find but one house;
but as we are a colony "which moves altogether or not at all," we have
not yet made up our minds. The apartments which we have prepared for
you in Lord Byron's house will be very warm for the summer; and indeed
for the two hottest months I should think that you had better go into
the country. Villas about here are tolerably cheap, and they are
perfect paradises. Perhaps, as it was with me, Italy will not strike
you as so divine at first; but each day it becomes dearer and more
delightful; the sun, the flowers, the air, all is more sweet and more
balmy than in the _Ultima Thule_ that you inhabit.
M. W. S.
The journal for the next few weeks has nothing eventful to record. The
preceding letter to Mrs. Hunt gives a simple and pleasing picture of their
daily life. Perhaps Mary had never been quite so happy before; she wrote
to the Hunts that she thought she grew younger. Both she and Shelley were
occasionally ailing, and Shelley's letters show that his spirits suffered
depression at times, still, in this respect as well as in health, he was
better than he had been in any former spring. The proximity of Byron and
his circle was not, however, favourable to inspiration or to literary
composition. Byron's temperament acted as a damper to enthusiasm in
others, and Shelley, though his estimate of Byron's genius was very high,
was perpetually jarred and crossed by his worldliness and his moral
shallowness and vulgarity. He invariably, acted, however, as Byron's true
and disinterested friend; and Byron was fully aware of the value of his
friendship and of his literary help and criticism.
Trelawny, to whom Byron had taken kindly enough, estimated the difference
in the moral worth of the two poets with singular justice.
"I believed in many things then, and believe in some now," he wrote,
more than five and thirty years afterwards: "I could not sympathise
with Byron, who believed in nothing."
His friendship for Byron, nevertheless, was to be loyal and lasting. But
his favourite resort in these Pisan days was the "hospitable and cheerful
abode of the Shelleys."
"There," he says, "I found those sympathies and sentiments which the
Pilgrim denounced as illusions, believed in as the only realities."
At Byron's social gatherings--riding-parties or dinner-parties--he made a
point of getting Shelley if he could; and Shelley was very compliant,
although the society of which Byron was the nucleus was neither congenial
nor interesting to him, and he always took the first good opportunity of
escaping. Daily intercourse of this kind tended gradually to estrange
rather than unite the two poets: by accentuating differences it brought
into evidence that gulf between their natures which, in spite of the one
touch of kinship that certainly existed, was equally impassable by one and
by the other. Besides, the subject of Clare and Allegra, never far below
the surface, would occasionally come up, and this was a sore point on both
sides. As has already been said, Byron appreciated Shelley, though he did
not sympathise with him. In after days he bore public testimony to the
purity and unselfishness of Shelley's character and to the upright and
disinterested motives which actuated him in all he did. But his respect
for Shelley was not so strong as his antipathy to Clare, and Shelley's
feeling towards her was regarded by him with a cynical sneer which he had
no care to hide, and of which its object could not always be unconscious.
It is not wonderful that at times there swept across Shelley's mind, like
a black cloud, the conviction that neither a sense of honour nor justice
restrained Byron from the basest insinuations. And then again this
suspicion would pass away as too dreadful to be entertained.
Meanwhile Clare, in the pursuit of her newly-adopted profession, was
thinking of going to Vienna, and she longed for a sight of her child
first. She had been unusually long, or she fancied so, without news of
Allegra, and she was growing desperately anxious,--with only too good
cause, as the event showed. She wrote to Byron, entreating him to arrange
for a visit or an interview. Byron took no notice of her letters. The
Shelleys dared not annoy him unnecessarily on the subject, as he had been
heard to threaten if they did so to immure Allegra in some secret convent
where no one could get at her or even hear of her. Clare, working herself
up into a state of half-frenzied excitement, sent them letter after
letter, suggesting and urging wild plans (which Shelley was to realise)
for carrying off the child by armed force; indeed, one of her schemes
seems to have been to take advantage of the projected interview, if
granted, for putting this design into execution. Some such proposed breach
of faith must have been the occasion of Shelley's answering her--
I know not what to think of the state of your mind, or what to fear
for you. Your late plan about Allegra seems to me in its present form
pregnant with irremediable infamy to all the actors in it except
yourself.
He did not think that in her present excited mental condition she was fit
to go to Vienna, and he entreated her to postpone the idea. His advice,
often repeated in different words, was, that she should not lose herself
in distant and uncertain plans, but "systematise and simplify" her
motions, at least for the present, and, if she felt in the least disposed,
that she should come and stay with them--
If you like, come and look for houses with me in our boat; it might
distract your mind.
He and Mary had resolved to quit Pisa as soon as the weather made it
desirable to do so; but their plans and their anxieties were alike
suspended by a temporary excitement of which Mary's account is given in
the following letter--
MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.
PISA, _6th April 1822_.
MY DEAR MRS. GISBORNE--Not many days after I had written to you
concerning the fate which ever pursues us at spring-tide, a
circumstance happened which showed that we were not forgotten this
year. Although, indeed, now that it is all over, I begin to fear that
the King of Gods and men will not consider it a sufficiently heavy
visitation, although for a time it threatened to be frightful enough.
Two Sundays ago, Lord Byron, Shelley, Trelawny, Captain Hay, Count
Gamba, and Taafe were returning from their usual evening ride, when,
near the Porta della Piazza, they were passed by a soldier who
galloped through the midst of them knocking up against Taafe. This
nice little gentleman exclaimed, "Shall we endure this man's
insolence?" Lord Byron replied, "No! we will bring him to an account,"
and Shelley (whose blood always boils at any insolence offered by a
soldier) added, "As you please!" so they put spurs to their horses
(_i.e._ all but Taafe, who remained quietly behind), followed and
stopped the man, and, fancying that he was an officer, demanded his
name and address, and gave their cards. The man who, I believe, was
half drunk, replied only by all the oaths and abuse in which the
Italian language is so rich. He ended by saying, "If I liked I could
draw my sabre and cut you all to pieces, but as it is, I only arrest
you," and he called out to the guards at the gate _arrestategli_. Lord
Byron laughed at this, and saying _arrestateci pure_, gave spurs to
his horse and rode towards the gate, followed by the rest. Lord Byron
and Gamba passed, but before the others could, the soldier got under
the gateway, called on the guard to stop them, and drawing his sabre,
began to cut at them. It happened that I and the Countess Guiccioli
were in a carriage close behind and saw it all, and you may guess how
frightened we were when we saw our cavaliers cut at, they being
totally unarmed. Their only safety was, that the field of battle being
so confined, they got close under the man, and were able to arrest his
arm. Captain Hay was, however, wounded in his face, and Shelley thrown
from his horse. I cannot tell you how it all ended, but after cutting
and slashing a little, the man sheathed his sword and rode on, while
the others got from their horses to assist poor Hay, who was faint
from loss of blood. Lord Byron, when he had passed the gate, rode to
his own house, got a sword-stick from one of his servants, and was
returning to the gate, Lung' Arno, when he met this man, who held out
his hand saying, _Siete contento?_ Lord Byron replied, "No! I must
know your name, that I may require satisfaction of you." The soldier
said, _Il mio nome e Masi, sono sargente maggiore_, etc. etc. While
they were talking, a servant of Lord Byron's came and took hold of the
bridle of the sergeant's horse. Lord Byron ordered him to let it go,
and immediately the man put his horse to a gallop, but, passing Casa
Lanfranchi, one of Lord Byron's servants thought that he had killed
his master and was running away; determining that he should not go
scot-free, he ran at him with a pitchfork and wounded him. The man
rode on a few paces, cried out, _Sono ammazzato_, and fell, was
carried to the hospital, the Misericordia bell ringing. We were all
assembled at Casa Lanfranchi, nursing our wounded man, and poor
Teresa, from the excess of her fright, was worse than any, when what
was our consternation when we heard that the man's wound was
considered mortal! Luckily none but ourselves knew who had given the
wound; it was said by the wise Pisani, to have been one of Lord
Byron's servants, set on by his padrone, and they pitched upon a poor
fellow merely because _aveva lo sguardo fiero, quanto un assassino_.
For some days Masi continued in great danger, but he is now
recovering. As long as it was thought he would die, the Government did
nothing; but now that he is nearly well, they have imprisoned two
men, one of Lord Byron's servants (the one with the _sguardo fiero_),
and the other a servant of Teresa's, who was behind our carriage, both
perfectly innocent, but they have been kept _in segreto_ these ten
days, and God knows when they will be let out. What think you of this?
Will it serve for our spring adventure? It is blown over now, it is
true, but our fate has, in general, been in common with Dame Nature,
and March winds and April showers have brought forth May flowers.
You have no notion what a ridiculous figure Taafe cut in all this--he
kept far behind during the danger, but the next day he wished to take
all the honour to himself, vowed that all Pisa talked of him alone,
and coming to Lord Byron said, "My Lord, if you do not dare ride out
to-day, I will alone." But the next day he again changed, he was
afraid of being turned out of Tuscany, or of being obliged to fight
with one of the officers of the sergeant's regiment, of neither of
which things there was the slightest danger, so he wrote a declaration
to the Governor to say that he had nothing to do with it; so
embroiling himself with Lord Byron, he got between Scylla and
Charybdis, from which he has not yet extricated himself; for
ourselves, we do not fear any ulterior consequences.
_10th April._
We received _Hellas_ to-day, and the bill of lading. Shelley is well
pleased with the former, though there are some mistakes. The only
danger would arise from the vengeance of Masi, but the moment he is
able to move, he is to be removed to another town; he is a _pessimo
soggetto_, being the crony of Soldaini, Rosselmini, and Augustini,
Pisan names of evil fame, which, perhaps, you may remember. There is
only one consolation in all this, that if it be our fate to suffer, it
is more agreeable, and more safe to suffer in company with five or six
than alone. Well! after telling you this long story, I must relate our
other news. And first, the Greek Ali Pashaw is dead, and his head sent
to Constantinople; the reception of it was celebrated there by the
massacre of four thousand Greeks. The latter, however, get on. The
Turkish fleet of 25 sail of the line-of-war vessels, and 40
transports, endeavoured to surprise the Greek fleet in its winter
quarters; finding them prepared, they bore away for Lante, and pursued
by the Greeks, took refuge in the bay of Naupacto. Here they first
blockaded them, and obtained a complete victory. All the soldiers on
board the transports, in endeavouring to land, were cut to pieces, and
the fleet taken or destroyed. I heard something about Hellenists which
greatly pleased me. When any one asks of the peasants of the Morea
what news there is, and if they have had any victory, they reply: "I
do not know, but for us it is [Greek: e tan, e epi tas]," being their
Doric pronunciation of [Greek: e tan, e epi tes], the speech of the
Spartan mother, on presenting his shield to her son; "With this or on
this."
I wish, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, that you would send the first part of
this letter, addressed to Mr. W. Godwin at Nash's, Esq., Dover Street.
I wish him to have an account of the fray, and you will thus save me
the trouble of writing it over again, for what with writing and
talking about it, I am quite tired. In a late letter of mine to my
father, I requested him to send you _Matilda_. I hope that he has
complied with my desire, and, in that case, that you will get it
copied and send it to me by the first opportunity, perhaps by Hunt, if
he comes at all. I do not mention commissions to you, for although
wishing much for the things about which I wrote [we have], for the
present, no money to spare. We wish very much to hear from you again,
and to hear if there are any hopes of your getting on in your plans,
what Henry is doing, and how you continue to like England. The months
of February and March were with us as hot as an English June. In the
first days of April we have had some very cold weather; so that we are
obliged to light fires again. Shelley has been much better in health
this winter than any other since I have known him, Pisa certainly
agrees with him exceedingly well, which is its only merit, in my eyes.
I wish fate had bound us to Naples instead. Percy is quite well; he
begins to talk, Italian only now, and to call things _bello_ and
_buono_, but the droll thing is, that he is right about the genders.
A silk _vestito_ is _bello_, but a new _frusta_ is _bella_. He is a
fine boy, full of life, and very pretty. Williams is very well, and
they are getting on very well. Mrs. Williams is a miracle of economy,
and, as Mrs. Godwin used to call it, makes both ends meet with great
comfort to herself and others. Medwin is gone to Rome; we have heaps
of the gossip of a petty town this winter, being just in the _coterie_
where it was all carried on; but now _Grazie a Messer Domenedio_, the
English are almost all gone, and we, being left alone, all subjects of
discord and clacking cease. You may conceive what a _bisbiglio_ our
adventure made. The Pisans were all enraged because the _maledetti
inglesi_ were not punished; yet when the gentlemen returned from their
ride the following day (busy fate) an immense crowd was assembled
before Casa Lanfranchi, and they all took off their hats to them.
Adieu. _State bene e felice._ Best remembrances to Mr. Gisborne, and
compliments to Henry, who will remember Hay as one of the Maremma
hunters; he is a friend of Lord Byron's.--Yours ever truly,
MARY W. S.
This affair, and the consequent inquiry and examination of witnesses in
connection with it took up several days, on one of which Mary and Countess
Guiccioli were under examination for five hours.
In the meantime Byron decided to go to Leghorn for his summer boating;
whereupon Shelley wrote and definitively proposed to Clare that she should
accompany his party to Spezzia, promising her quiet and privacy, and
immunity from annoyance, while she bided her time with regard to Allegra.
Clare accepted the offer, and joined them at Pisa on the 15th of April in
the expectation of starting very shortly. It turned out, however, that no
suitable houses were, after all, to be had on the coast. This was an
unexpected disappointment, and on the 23d she and the Williams' went off
to Spezzia for another search. They were hardly on their way when letters
were received by Shelley and Mary with the grievous news that Allegra had
died of typhus fever in the convent of Bagnacavallo.