CHAPTER XVIII

SEPTEMBER 1822-JULY 1823

An eminent contemporary writer, speaking of Trelawny's writings, has

remarked: "So long as he dwells on Shelley, he is, like the visitants to

the _Witch of Atlas_, 'imparadised.'" This was true, in fact not as to the

writings, but the natures, of all who had friendly or intimate relations

with Shelley. His personality was like a clear, deep lake, wherein the sky

and the surrounding objects were reflected. Now and again a breeze, or

even a storm, might sweep across the "watery glass," playing strange,

grotesque pranks with the distorted reflections. But in general those who

surrounded it saw themselves, and saw each other, not as they were, but as

they appeared,--transfigured, idealised, glorified, by the impalpable,

fluid, medium. And like a tree that overhangs the water's edge, whose

branches dip and play in the clear ripples, nodding and beckoning to their

own living likeness there, so Mary had grown up by the side of this, her

own image in him,--herself indeed, but "imparadised" in the immortal

unreality of the magic mirror.

Now the eternal frost had fallen: black ice and dreary snow had

extinguished that reflection for ever, and the solitary tree was left to

weather all storms in a wintry world, where no magic mirror was to be hers

any more.

Mary Shelley's diary, now she was alone, altered its character. In her

husband's lifetime it had been a record of the passing facts of every day;

almost as concise in statement as that of her father. Now and then, in

travelling, she would stereotype an impression of beautiful scenery by an

elaborate description; sometimes, but very rarely, she had indulged (as at

Pisa) on reflections on people or things in general.

The case was now exactly reversed. Alone with her child, with no one else

to live for; having no companion-mind with which to exchange ideas, and

having never known what it was to be without one before, her diary became

her familiar,--or rather her shadow, for it took its sombre colouring from

her and could give nothing back. The thoughts too monotonously sad, too

harrowing in their eloquent self-pity to be communicated to other people,

but which filled her heart, the more that heart was thrown back on itself,

found here an outlet, inadequate enough, but still the only one they had.

In thus recording her emotions for her own benefit, she had little idea

that these melancholy self-communings would ever be gathered up and

published for the satisfaction of the "reading world"; a world that loves

nothing so well as personal details, and would rather have the object of

its interest misrepresented than not represented at all. Outwardly

uneventful as Mrs. Shelley's subsequent life was, its few occurrences are,

as a rule, not even alluded to in her journal. Such things for the most

part lost their intrinsic importance to her when Shelley disappeared; it

was only in the world of abstractions that she felt or could imagine his

companionship. Her journal, in reality, records her first essay in living

alone. It was, to an almost incredible degree, a beginning.

Her existence, from its outset, had been offered up at the shrine of one

man. To animate his solitude, to foster his genius, to help--as far as

possible--his labours, to companion him in a world that did not understand

him,--this had been her life-work, which lay now as a dream behind her,

while she awakened to find herself alone with the solitude, the work, the

cold unfriendly world, and without Shelley.

Could any woman be as lonely? All who share an abnormal lot must needs be

isolated when cut adrift from the other life which has been their _raison

d'etre_; and Mary had begun so early, that she had grown, as it were, to

this state of double solitude. She had not been unconscious of the slight

hold they had on actualities.

"Mary," observed Shelley one day at Pisa, when Trelawny was present,

"Trelawny has found out Byron already. How stupid we were; how long it

took us!"

"That," she observed, "is because he lives with the living and we with

the dead."

And as a fact, Shelley lived with the immortals; finite things were

outside his world; in his contemporaries it was what he would have

considered their immortal side that he cared for. There are conjurors who

can be tied by no knot from which they cannot escape, and so the

limitations of practical convention, those "ideas and feelings which are

but for a day," had no power to hold Shelley.

And Mary knew no world but his. Now, young,--only twenty-five,--yet with

the past experience of eight years of chequered married life, and of a

simultaneous intellectual development almost perilously rapid, she stood,

an utter novice, on the threshold of ordinary existence.

_Journal, October 2._--On the 8th of July I finished my journal. This

is a curious coincidence. The date still remains--the fatal 8th--a

monument to show that all ended then. And I begin again? Oh, never!

But several motives induce me, when the day has gone down, and all is

silent around me, steeped in sleep, to pen, as occasion wills, my

reflections and feelings. First, I have no friend. For eight years I

communicated, with unlimited freedom, with one whose genius, far

transcending mine, awakened and guided my thoughts. I conversed with

him, rectified my errors of judgment; obtained new lights from him;

and my mind was satisfied. Now I am alone--oh, how alone! The stars

may behold my tears, and the wind drink my sighs, but my thoughts are

a sealed treasure which I can confide to none. But can I express all I

feel? Can I give words to thoughts and feelings that, as a tempest,

hurry me along? Is this the sand that the ever-flowing sea of thought

would impress indelibly? Alas! I am alone. No eye answers mine; my

voice can with none assume its natural modulation. What a change! O my

beloved Shelley! how often during those happy days--happy, though

chequered--I thought how superiorly gifted I had been in being united

to one to whom I could unveil myself, and who could understand me!

Well, then, now I am reduced to these white pages, which I am to blot

with dark imagery. As I write, let me think what he would have said

if, speaking thus to him, he could have answered me. Yes, my own

heart, I would fain know what to think of my desolate state; what you

think I ought to do, what to think. I guess you would answer thus:

"Seek to know your own heart, and, learning what it best loves, try to

enjoy that." Well, I cast my eyes around, and, looking forward to the

bounded prospect in view, I ask myself what pleases me there. My

child;--so many feelings arise when I think of him, that I turn aside

to think no more. Those I most loved are gone for ever; those who held

the second rank are absent; and among those near me as yet, I trust to

the disinterested kindness of one alone. Beneath all this, my

imagination never flags. Literary labours, the improvement of my mind,

and the enlargement of my ideas, are the only occupations that elevate

me from my lethargy: all events seem to lead me to that one point, and

the courses of destiny having dragged me to that single resting-place,

have left me. Father, mother, friend, husband, children--all made, as

it were, the team which conducted me here, and now all, except you, my

poor boy (and you are necessary to the continuance of my life), all

are gone, and I am left to fulfil my task. So be it.

_October 5._--Well, they are come;[4] and it is all as I said. I awoke

as from sleep, and thought how I had vegetated these last days; for

feeling leaves little trace on the memory if it be, like mine,

unvaried. I have felt for, and with myself alone, and I awake now to

take a part in life. As far as others are concerned, my sensations

have been most painful. I must work hard amidst the vexations that I

perceive are preparing for me, to preserve my peace and tranquillity

of mind. I must preserve some, if I am to live; for, since I bear at

the bottom of my heart a fathomless well of bitter waters, the

workings of which my philosophy is ever at work to repress, what will

be my fate if the petty vexations of life are added to this sense of

eternal and infinite misery?

Oh, my child! what is your fate to be? You alone reach me; you are the

only chain that links me to time; but for you, I should be free. And

yet I cannot be destined to live long. Well, I shall commence my task,

commemorate the virtues of the only creature worth loving or living

for, and then, may be, I may join him. Moonshine may be united to her

planet, and wander no more, a sad reflection of all she loved on

earth.

_October 7._--I have received my desk to-day, and have been reading my

letters to mine own Shelley during his absences at Marlow. What a

scene to recur to! My William, Clara, Allegra, are all talked of. They

lived then, they breathed this air, and their voices struck on my

sense; their feet trod the earth beside me, and their hands were warm

with blood and life when clasped in mine, where are they all? This is

too great an agony to be written about. I may express my despair, but

my thoughts can find no words.

* * * * *

I would endeavour to consider myself a faint continuation of his

being, and, as far as possible, the revelation to the earth of what he

was, yet, to become this, I must change much, and, above all, I must

acquire that knowledge and drink at those fountains of wisdom and

virtue from which he quenched his thirst. Hitherto I have done

nothing; yet I have not been discontented with myself. I speak of the

period of my residence here. For, although unoccupied by those studies

which I have marked out for myself, my mind has been so active that

its activity, and not its indolence, has made me neglectful. But now

the society of others causes this perpetual working of my ideas

somewhat to pause; and I must take advantage of this to turn my mind

towards its immediate duties, and to determine with firmness to

commence the life I have planned. You will be with me in all my

studies, dearest love! your voice will no longer applaud me, but in

spirit you will visit and encourage me: I know you will. What were I,

if I did not believe that you still exist? It is not with you as with

another, I believe that we all live hereafter; but you, my only one,

were a spirit caged, an elemental being, enshrined in a frail image,

now shattered. Do they not all with one voice assert the same?

Trelawny, Hunt, and many others. And so at last you quitted this

painful prison, and you are free, my Shelley; while I, your poor

chosen one, am left to live as I may.

What a strange life mine has been! Love, youth, fear, and fearlessness

led me early from the regular routine of life, and I united myself to

this being, who, not one of _us_, though like to us, was pursued by

numberless miseries and annoyances, in all of which I shared. And then

I was the mother of beautiful children, but these stayed not by me.

Still he was there; and though, in truth, after my William's death

this world seemed only a quicksand, sinking beneath my feet, yet

beside me was this bank of refuge--so tempest-worn and frail, that

methought its very weakness was strength, and, since Nature had

written destruction on its brow, so the Power that rules human affairs

had determined, in spite of Nature, that it should endure. But that is

gone. His voice can no longer be heard; the earth no longer receives

the shadow of his form; annihilation has come over the earthly

appearance of the most gentle creature that ever yet breathed this

air; and I am still here--still thinking, existing, all but hoping.

Well, I close my book. To-morrow I must begin this new life of mine.

_October 19._--How painful all change becomes to one, who, entirely

and despotically engrossed by [his] own feelings leads, as it were, an

_internal_ life, quite different from the outward and apparent one!

Whilst my life continues its monotonous course within sterile banks,

an under-current disturbs the smooth face of the waters, distorts all

objects reflected in it, and the mind is no longer a mirror in which

outward events may reflect themselves, but becomes itself the painter

and creator. If this perpetual activity has power to vary with endless

change the everyday occurrences of a most monotonous life, it appears

to be animated with the spirit of tempest and hurricane when any real

occurrence diversifies the scene. Thus, to-night, a few bars of a

known air seemed to be as a wind to rouse from its depths every

deep-seated emotion of my mind. I would have given worlds to have sat,

my eyes closed, and listened to them for years. The restraint I was

under caused these feelings to vary with rapidity; but the words of

the conversation, uninteresting as they might be, seemed all to convey

two senses to me, and, touching a chord within me, to form a music of

which the speaker was little aware. I do not think that any person's

voice has the same power of awakening melancholy in me as Albe's. I

have been accustomed, when hearing it, to listen and to speak little;

another voice, not mine, ever replied--a voice whose strings are

broken. When Albe ceases to speak, I expect to hear _that other_

voice, and when I hear another instead, it jars strangely with every

association. I have seen so little of Albe since our residence in

Switzerland, and, having seen him there every day, his voice--a

peculiar one--is engraved on my memory with other sounds and objects

from which it can never disunite itself. I have heard Hunt in company

and in conversation with many, when my own one was not there.

Trelawny, perhaps, is associated in my mind with Edward more than with

Shelley. Even our older friends, Peacock and Hogg, might talk

together, or with others, and their voices suggest no change to me.

But, since incapacity and timidity always prevented my mingling in the

nightly conversations of Diodati, they were, as it were, entirely

_tete-a-tete_ between my Shelley and Albe; and thus, as I have said,

when Albe speaks and Shelley does not answer, it is as thunder without

rain,--the form of the sun without light or heat,--as any familiar

object might be shorn of its best attributes; and I listen with an

unspeakable melancholy that yet is not all pain.

The above explains that which would otherwise be an enigma--why Albe,

by his mere presence and voice, has the power of exciting such deep

and shifting emotions within me. For my feelings have no analogy

either with my opinion of him, or the subject of his conversation.

With another I might talk, and not for the moment think of Shelley--at

least not think of him with the same vividness as if I were alone;

but, when in company with Albe, I can never cease for a second to have

Shelley in my heart and brain with a clearness that mocks

reality--interfering even by its force with the functions of

life--until, if tears do not relieve me, the hysterical feeling,

analogous to that which the murmur of the sea gives me, presses

painfully upon me.

Well, for the first time for about a month, I have been in company

with Albe for two hours, and, coming home, I write this, so necessary

is it for me to express in words the force of my feelings. Shelley,

beloved! I look at the stars and at all nature, and it speaks to me of

you in the clearest accents. Why cannot you answer me, my own one? Is

the instrument so utterly destroyed? I would endure ages of pain to

hear one tone of your voice strike on my ear!

For nearly a year--not a happy one--Mary lived with the Hunts. A bruised

and bleeding heart exposed to the cuffs and blows of everyday life, a

nervous temperament--too recently strained to its utmost pitch of

endurance--liable to constant, unavoidable irritation, a nature sensitive

and reserved, accustomed to much seclusion and much independence, thrown

into the midst of a large, noisy, and disorderly family,--these conditions

could hardly result in happiness. Leigh Hunt was nervous, delicate,

overworked, and variable in mood: his wife an invalid, condemned by the

doctors on her arrival in Italy, now expecting her confinement in the

ensuing summer, an event which she was told would be, for good or evil,

the crisis of her fate. Six children they had already had, who were

allowed--on principle--to do exactly as they chose, "until such time as

they were of an age to be reasoned with."

The opening for activity and usefulness would, at another time, have been

beneficial to Mary, and, to some extent, was so now; but it was too early,

the change from her former state was too violent; she was not fit yet for

such severe bracing. She met her trials bravely; but it was another case

where buoyancy of spirits was indispensable to real success, and buoyancy

of spirits she had not, nor was likely to acquire in her present

surroundings.

There was another person to whom these surroundings were even more

supremely distasteful than to her, and this was Byron. Small sympathy had

he for domestic life or sentiment even in their best aspects, and this

virtuous, slipshod, cockney Bohemianism had no attraction for him

whatever. The poor man must have suffered many things while the Hunts were

in possession of his _pian terreno_ at Pisa; he was rid of them now, but

the very sight of them was too much for him.

LORD BYRON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_6th October 1822._

The sofa--which I regret is _not_ of your furniture--it was purchased

by me at Pisa since you left it.

It is convenient for my room, though of little value (about 12 pauls),

and I offered to send another (now sent) in its stead. I preferred

retaining the purchased furniture, but always intended that you should

have as good or better in its place. I have a particular dislike to

anything of Shelley's being within the same walls with Mrs. Hunt's

children. They are dirtier and more mischievous than Yahoos. What they

can't destroy with their filth they will with their fingers. I presume

you received ninety and odd crowns from the wreck of the _Don Juan_,

and also the price of the boat purchased by Captain R., if not, you

will have _both_. Hunt has these in hand.

With regard to any difficulties about money, I can only repeat that I

will be your banker till this state of things is cleared up, and you

can see what is to be done; so there is little to hinder you on that

score. I was confined for four days to my bed at Lerici. Poor Hunt,

with his six little blackguards, are coming slowly up; as usual he

turned back once--was there ever such a _kraal_ out of the Hottentot

country before?

N. B.

Among those of their former acquaintance who now surrounded Mary, the one

who by his presence ministered most to the needs of her fainting moral

nature was Trelawny. Leigh Hunt, when not disagreeing from her, was

affectionate, nay, gushing, and he had truly loved Shelley, but he was a

feeble, facetious, feckless creature,--a hypochondriac,--unable to do

much to help himself, still less another. Byron was by no means

ill-disposed, especially just now, but he was egotistic and indolent, and

too capricious,--as the event proved,--to be depended on.

Trelawny's fresh vigorous personality, his bright originality and rugged

independence, and his unbounded admiration for Shelley, made him

wonderfully reviving to Mary; he had the effect on her of a gust of fresh

air in a close crowded room. He was unconventional and outspoken, and by

no means always complimentary, but he had a just appreciation of Mary's

real mental and moral superiority to the people around her, and a frank

liking for herself. Their friendship was to extend over many years, during

which Mary had ample opportunity of repaying the debt of obligation she

always felt she owed him for his kindness to her and Mrs. Williams at the

time of their great misery.

The letters which follow were among the earliest of a long and varied

correspondence.

MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

_November 1822._

MY DEAR TRELAWNY--I called on you yesterday, but was too late for you.

I was much pained to see you out of spirits the other night. I can in

no way make you better, I fear, but I should be glad to see you. Will

you dine with me Monday after your ride? If Hunt rides, as he

threatens, with Lord Byron, he will also dine late and make one of

our party. Remember, you will also do Hunt good by this, who pines in

this solitude. You say that I know so little of the world that I am

afraid I may be mistaken in imagining that you have a friendship for

me, especially after what you said of Jane the other night; but

besides the many other causes I have to esteem you, I can never

remember without the liveliest gratitude all you said that night of

agony when you returned to Lerici. Your praises of my lost Shelley

were the only balm I could endure, and he always joined with me in

liking you from the first moment we saw you. Adieu.--Your attached

friend,

M. W. S.

Have you got my books on shore from the _Bolivar_? If you have, pray

let me have them, for many are odd volumes, and I wish to see if they

are too much destroyed to rank with those I have.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_November 1822._

DEAR MARY--I will gladly dine on Monday with you. As to melancholy, I

refer you to the good Antonio in Shylock. "Alas! I know now why I am

so sad. It is time, I think." You are not so learned in human dealings

as Iago, but you cannot so sadly err as to doubt the extent or truth

of my friendship. As to gain esteem, I do not think it a word

applicable to such a lawless character. Ruled by impulse, not by

reason, I am satisfied you should like me upon my own terms--impulse.

As to gratitude for uttering my thoughts of him I so loved and

admired, it was a tribute that all who knew him have paid to his

memory. "But weeping never could restore the dead," and if it could,

hope would prevent our tears. You may remember I always in preference

selected as my companion Edward, not Jane, and that I always dissented

from your general voice of her being perfection. I am still of the

same opinion; nothing more. But I have and ever shall feel deeply

interested, and would do much to serve her, and if thinking on those

trifles which diminish her lustre in my eyes makes me flag, Edward's

memory and my perfect friendship for him is sufficient excitement to

spur me on to anything. It is impossible to dislike Jane; but to have

an unqualified liking, such as I had for Edward, no--no--no! Talking

of gratitude, I really am and ought to be so to you, for bearing on,

untired, with my spleen, humours, and violence; it is a proof of real

liking, particularly as you are not of the sect who profess or

practise meekness, humility, and patience in common.

T.

Mary had not as yet been successful in getting possession of the

half-finished portrait of Shelley. Her letters had followed Miss Curran to

Paris, whence, in October, a reply at last arrived.

"I am sorry," Miss Curran wrote, "I am not at Rome to execute your

melancholy commission. I mean to return in spring, but it may be then

too late. I am sure Mr. Brunelli would be happy to oblige you or me,

but you may have left Pisa before this, so I know not what to propose.

Your picture and Clare's I left with him to give you when you should

be at Rome, as I expected, before you returned to England. The one you

now write for I thought was not to be inquired for; it was so ill

done, and I was on the point of burning it with others before I left

Italy. I luckily saved it just as the fire was scorching, and it is

packed up with my other pictures at Rome; and I have not yet decided

where they can be sent to, as there are serious difficulties in the

way I had not adverted to. I am very sorry indeed, dear Mary, but you

shall have it as soon as I possibly can."...

This was the early history of that portrait, which was recovered a year or

two later, and which has passed, and passes still, for Shelley's likeness,

and which, bad or good, is the only authentic one in existence.

Mary now began to feel it a matter of duty as well as of expediency to

resume literary work, but she found it hard at first.

"I am quite well, but very nervous," she wrote to Mrs. Gisborne; "my

excessive nervousness (how new a disorder for me--my illness in the

summer is the foundation of it) is the cause I do not write."

She made a beginning with an article for the _Liberal_. Shelley's _Defence

of Poetry_ was, also, to be published in the forthcoming number, and the

MS. of this had to be got from England. She had reason to believe, too,

that Ollier, the publisher, had in his keeping other MSS. of Shelley's,

and she was restlessly desirous to get possession of all these, feeling

convinced that among them there was nothing perfect, nothing ready for

publication exactly as it stood. In her over-anxiety she wrote to several

people on this subject, thereby incurring the censure of her father, whom

she had also consulted about her literary plans. His criticisms on his

daughter's style were not unsound; she had not been trained in a school of

terseness, and, like many young authors, she was apt to err on the side of

length, and not to see that she did so.

GODWIN TO MARY.

NO. 195 STRAND, _15th November 1822_.

MY DEAR MARY--I have devoted the last two days to the seeing everybody

an interview with whom would best enable me to write you a

satisfactory letter. Yesterday I saw Hogg and Mrs. Williams, and

to-day Peacock and Hanson junior. From Hogg I had, among other things,

to learn Mrs. Williams' address, for, owing to your neglect, she had

been a fortnight in London before I knew of her arrival. She appeared

to be in better health and better spirits than I expected; she did not

drop one tear; occasionally she smiled. She is a picturesque little

woman, and, as far as I could judge from one interview, I like her.

Peacock has got Ollier's promise to deliver all Shelley's manuscripts,

and as earnest, he has received _Peter Bell_ and _A Curse on L.E._,

which he holds at your disposal. By the way, you should never give one

commission but to one person; you commissioned me to recover these

manuscripts from Ollier, you commissioned Peacock, and, I believe,

Mrs. Gisborne. This puts us all in an awkward situation. I heard of

Peacock's applying just in time to prevent me from looking like a

fool. Peacock says he cannot make up a parcel for you till he has been

a second time to Marlow on the question, which cannot be till about

Christmas. He appears to me, not lukewarm, but assiduous. Mrs.

Williams told me she should write to you by this day's post. She had

been inquiring in vain for Miss Curran's address--you should have

referred her to me for it, but you referred her to me for nothing.

This, by the way, is another instance of your giving one commission to

more than one person. You gave the commission about Miss Curran to

Mrs. Williams and to me. I received your letter, inclosing one to Miss

Curran, 21st October, which I immediately forwarded to her by a safe

hand, through her brother. You have probably heard from her by this

time; she is in Paris.... I have a plan upon the house of Longman

respecting _Castruccio_, but that depends upon coincidences, and I

must have patience.

You ask my opinion of your literary plans. If you expect any price,

you must think of something new: _Manfred_ is a subject that nobody

interests himself about; the interest, therefore, must be made, and no

bookseller understands anything about that contingency. A book about

Italy as it is, written with any talent, would be sure to sell; but

I am afraid you know very little about the present race of Italians.

As to my own affairs, nothing is determined. I expected something

material to have happened this week, but as yet I have heard nothing.

If the subscription fills, I shall perhaps be safe; if not, I shall be

driven to sea on a plank.

Perhaps it may be of some use to you if I give you my opinion of

_Castruccio_. I think there are parts of high genius, and that your

two females are exceedingly interesting; but I am not satisfied.

_Frankenstein_ was a fine thing; it was compressed, muscular, and

firm; nothing relaxed and weak; no proud flesh. _Castruccio_ is a work

of more genius; but it appears, in reading, that the first rule you

prescribed to yourself was, I will let it be long. It contains the

quantity of four volumes of _Waverley_. No hard blow was ever hit with

a woolsack! Mamma desires me to remember her to you in the kindest

manner, and to say that she feels a deep interest in everything that

concerns you. She means to take the earliest opportunity to see Mrs.

Williams, both as she feels an earnest sympathy in her calamity, and

as she will be likely to learn a hundred particulars respecting the

dispositions and prospects of yourself and Jane, which she might in

vain desire to learn in any other quarter. You asked Mamma for some

present, a remembrance of your mother. She has reserved for you a ring

of hers, with Fanny Blood's hair set round with pearls.

You will, of course, rely on it that I will send you the letters you

ask for by Peacock's parcel. Miss Curran's address is Hotel de

Dusseldorf Rue Petits St. Augustin, a Paris.--Believe me, ever your

most affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

My last letter was dated 11th October.

_Journal, November 10._--I have made my first probation in writing,

and it has done me much good, and I get more calm; the stream begins

to take to its new channel, insomuch as to make me fear change. But

people must know little of me who think that, abstractedly, I am

content with my present mode of life. Activity of spirit is my sphere.

But we cannot be active of mind without an object; and I have none. I

am allowed to have some talent--that is sufficient, methinks, to cause

my irreparable misery; for, if one has genius, what a delight it is to

be associated with a superior! Mine own Shelley! the sun knows of none

to be likened to you--brave, wise, noble-hearted, full of learning,

tolerance, and love. Love! what a word for me to write! yet, my

miserable heart, permit me yet to love,--to see him in beauty, to feel

him in beauty, to be interpenetrated by the sense of his excellence;

and thus to love singly, eternally, ardently, and not fruitlessly; for

I am still his--still the chosen one of that blessed spirit--still

vowed to him for ever and ever!

_November 11._--It is better to grieve than not to grieve. Grief at

least tells me that I was not always what I am now. I was once

selected for happiness; let the memory of that abide by me. You pass

by an old ruined house in a desolate lane, and heed it not. But if you

hear that that house is haunted by a wild and beautiful spirit, it

acquires an interest and beauty of its own.

I shall be glad to be more alone again; one ought to see no one, or

many; and, confined to one society, I shall lose all energy except

that which I possess from my own resources; and I must be alone for

those to be put in activity.

A cold heart! Have I a cold heart? God knows! But none need envy the

icy region this heart encircles; and at least the tears are hot which

the emotions of this cold heart forces me to shed. A cold heart! yes,

it would be cold enough if all were as I wished it--cold, or burning

in the flame for whose sake I forgive this, and would forgive every

other imputation--that flame in which your heart, beloved, lay

unconsumed. My heart is very full to-night.

I shall write his life, and thus occupy myself in the only manner

from which I can derive consolation. That will be a task that may

convey some balm. What though I weep? All is better than inaction

and--not forgetfulness--that never is--but an inactivity of

remembrance.

And you, my own boy! I am about to begin a task which, if you live,

will be an invaluable treasure to you in after times. I must collect

my materials, and then, in the commemoration of the divine virtues of

your Father, I shall fulfil the only act of pleasure there remains for

me, and be ready to follow you, if you leave me, my task being

fulfilled. I have lived; rapture, exultation, content--all the varied

changes of enjoyment--have been mine. It is all gone; but still, the

airy paintings of what it has gone through float by, and distance

shall not dim them. If I were alone, I had already begun what I had

determined to do; but I must have patience, and for those events my

memory is brass, my thoughts a never-tired engraver.

France--Poverty--A few days of solitude, and some uneasiness--A

tranquil residence in a beautiful

spot--Switzerland--Bath--Marlow--Milan--the Baths of

Lucca--Este--Venice--Rome--Naples--Rome and

misery--Leghorn--Florence--Pisa--Solitude--The Williams'--The

Baths--Pisa: these are the heads of chapters, and each containing a

tale romantic beyond romance.

I no longer enjoy, but I love. Death cannot deprive me of that living

spark which feeds on all given it, and which is now triumphant in

sorrow. I love, and shall enjoy happiness again. I do not doubt that;

but when?

These fragments of journal give the course of her inward reflections; her

letters sometimes supply the clue to her outward life, _au jour le jour_.

MARY SHELLEY TO CLARE CLAIRMONT.

_20th December 1822._

MY DEAR CLARE--I have delayed writing to you so long for two reasons.

First, I have every day expected to hear from you; and secondly, I

wished to hear something decisive from England to communicate to you.

But I have waited in vain for both things. You do not write, and I

begin to despair of ever hearing from you again. A few words will tell

you all that has been done in England. When I wrote to you last, I

think that I told you that Lord Byron had written to Hanson, bidding

him call upon Whitton. Hanson wrote to Whitton desiring an interview,

which Whitton declined, requesting Hanson to make his application by

letter, which Hanson has done, and I know no more. This does not look

like an absolute refusal, but Sir Timothy is so capricious that we

cannot trust to appearances.

And now the chapter about myself is finished, for what can I say of my

present life? The weather is bitterly cold with a sharp wind, very

unlike dear, _carissima_ Pisa; but soft airs and balmy gales are not

the attributes of Genoa, which place I daily and duly join Marianne in

detesting. There is but one fireplace in the house, and although

people have been for a month putting up a stove in my room, it smokes

too much to permit of its being lighted. So I am obliged to pass the

greater part of my time in Hunt's sitting-room, which is, as you may

guess, the annihilation of study, and even of pleasure to a great

degree. For, after all, Hunt does not like me: it is both our faults,

and I do not blame him, but so it is. I rise at 9, breakfast, work,

read, and if I can at all endure the cold, copy my Shelley's MSS. in

my own room, and if possible walk before dinner. After that I work,

read Greek, etc., till 10, when Hunt and Marianne go to bed. Then I am

alone. Then the stream of thought, which has struggled against its

_argine_ all through the busy day, makes a _piena_, and sorrow and

memory and imagination, despair, and hope in despair, are the winds

and currents that impel it. I am alone, and myself; and then I begin

to say, as I ever feel, "How I hate life! What a mockery it is to

rise, to walk, to feed, and then go to rest, and in all this a statue

might do my part. One thing alone may or can awake me, and that is

study; the rest is all nothing." And so it is! I am silent and

serious. Absorbed in my own thoughts, what am I then in this world if

my spirit live not to learn and become better? That is the whole of my

destiny; I look to nothing else. For I dare not look to my little

darling other than as--not the sword of Damocles, that is a wrong

simile, or to a wrecked seaman's plank--true, he stands, and only he,

between me and the sea of eternity; but I long for that plunge! No, I

fear for him pain, disappointment,--all, all fear.

You see how it is, it is near 11, and my good friends repose. This is

the hour when I can think, unobtruded upon, and these thoughts,

_malgre moi_, will stain this paper. But then, my dear Clare, I have

nothing else except my nothingless self to talk about. You have

doubtless heard from Jane, and I have heard from no one else. I see no

one. The Guiccioli and Lord Byron once a month. Trelawny seldom, and

he is on the eve of his departure for Leghorn....

* * * * *

Marianne suffers during this dreadfully cold weather, but less than I

should have supposed. The children are all well. So also is my Percy,

poor little darling: they all scold him because he speaks loud _a

l'Italien_. People love to, nay, they seem to exist on, finding fault

with others, but I have no right to complain, and this unlucky stove

is the sole source of all my _dispiacere_; if I had that, I should not

tease any one, or any one me, or my only one; but after all, these are

trifles. I have sent for another _ingeniere_, and I hope, before many

days are elapsed, to retire as before to my hole.

I have again delayed finishing this letter, waiting for letters from

England, that I might not send you one so barren of all intelligence.

But I have had none. And nothing new has happened except Trelawny's

departure for Leghorn, so that our days are more monotonous than ever.

The weather is drearily cold, and an eternal north-east whistles

through every crevice. Percy, however, is far better in this cold than

in summer; he is warmly clothed, and gets on.

Adieu. Pray write. My love to Charles; I am ashamed that I do not

write to him, but I have only an old story to repeat, and this letter

tells that.--Affectionately yours,

MARY SHELLEY.

_Journal, December 31._--So this year comes to an end. Shelley,

beloved! the year has a new name from any thou knewest. When spring

arrives leaves you never saw will shadow the ground, and flowers you

never beheld will star it; the grass will be of another growth, and

the birds sing a new song--the aged earth dates with a new number.

Sometimes I thought that fortune had relented towards us; that your

health would have improved, and that fame and joy would have been

yours, for, when well, you extracted from Nature alone an endless

delight. The various threads of our existence seemed to be drawing to

one point, and there to assume a cheerful hue.

Again, I think that your gentle spirit was too much wounded by the

sharpness of this world; that your disease was incurable, and that in

a happy time you became the partaker of cloudless days, ceaseless

hours, and infinite love. Thy name is added to the list which makes

the earth bold in her age and proud of what has been. Time, with

unwearied but slow feet, guides her to the goal that thou hast

reached, and I, her unhappy child, am advanced still nearer the hour

when my earthly dress shall repose near thine, beneath the tomb of

Cestius.

It must have been at about this time that Mary wrote the sad,

retrospective poem entitled "The Choice."

THE CHOICE.

My Choice!--My Choice, alas! was had and gone

With the red gleam of last autumnal sun;

Lost in that deep wherein he bathed his head,

My choice, my life, my hope together fled:--

A wanderer here, no more I seek a home,

The sky a vault, and Italy a tomb.

Yet as some days a pilgrim I remain,

Linked to my orphan child by love's strong chain;

And, since I have a faith that I must earn,

By suffering and by patience, a return

Of that companionship and love, which first

Upon my young life's cloud like sunlight burst,

And now has left me, dark, as when its beams,

Quenched in the might of dreadful ocean streams,

Leave that one cloud, a gloomy speck on high,

Beside one star in the else darkened sky;--

Since I must live, how would I pass the day,

How meet with fewest tears the morning's ray,

How sleep with calmest dreams, how find delights,

As fireflies gleam through interlunar nights?

First let me call on thee! Lost as thou art,

Thy name aye fills my sense, thy love my heart.

Oh, gentle Spirit! thou hast often sung,

How fallen on evil days thy heart was wrung;

Now fierce remorse and unreplying death

Waken a chord within my heart, whose breath,

Thrilling and keen, in accents audible

A tale of unrequited love doth tell.

It was not anger,--while thy earthly dress

Encompassed still thy soul's rare loveliness,

All anger was atoned by many a kind

Caress or tear, that spoke the softened mind.--

It speaks of cold neglect, averted eyes,

That blindly crushed thy soul's fond sacrifice:--

My heart was all thine own,--but yet a shell

Closed in its core, which seemed impenetrable,

Till sharp-toothed misery tore the husk in twain,

Which gaping lies, nor may unite again.

Forgive me! let thy love descend in dew

Of soft repentance and regret most true;--

In a strange guise thou dost descend, or how

Could love soothe fell remorse,--as it does now?--

By this remorse and love, and by the years

Through which we shared our common hopes and fears,

By all our best companionship, I dare

Call on thy sacred name without a fear;--

And thus I pray to thee, my friend, my Heart!

That in thy new abode, thou'lt bear a part

In soothing thy poor Mary's lonely pain,

As link by link she weaves her heavy chain!--

And thou, strange star! ascendant at my birth,

Which rained, they said, kind influence on the earth,

So from great parents sprung, I dared to boast

Fortune my friend, till set, thy beams were lost!

And thou, Inscrutable, by whose decree

Has burst this hideous storm of misery!

Here let me cling, here to the solitudes,

These myrtle-shaded streams and chestnut woods;

Tear me not hence--here let me live and die,

In my adopted land--my country--Italy.

A happy Mother first I saw this sun,

Beneath this sky my race of joy was run.

First my sweet girl, whose face resembled _his_,

Slept on bleak Lido, near Venetian seas.

Yet still my eldest-born, my loveliest, dearest,

Clung to my side, most joyful then when nearest.

An English home had given this angel birth,

Near those royal towers, where the grass-clad earth

Is shadowed o'er by England's loftiest trees:

Then our companion o'er the swift-passed seas,

He dwelt beside the Alps, or gently slept,

Rocked by the waves, o'er which our vessel swept,

Beside his father, nurst upon my breast,

While Leman's waters shook with fierce unrest.

His fairest limbs had bathed in Serchio's stream;

His eyes had watched Italian lightnings gleam;

His childish voice had, with its loudest call,

The echoes waked of Este's castle wall;

Had paced Pompeii's Roman market-place;

Had gazed with infant wonder on the grace

Of stone-wrought deities, and pictured saints,

In Rome's high palaces--there were no taints

Of ruin on his cheek--all shadowless

Grim death approached--the boy met his caress,

And while his glowing limbs with life's warmth shone,

Around those limbs his icy arms were thrown.

His spoils were strewed beneath the soil of Rome,

Whose flowers now star the dark earth near his tomb:

Its airs and plants received the mortal part,

His spirit beats within his mother's heart.

Infant immortal! chosen for the sky!

No grief upon thy brow's young purity

Entrenched sad lines, or blotted with its might

The sunshine of thy smile's celestial light;--

The image shattered, the bright spirit fled,

Thou shin'st the evening star among the dead.

And thou, his playmate, whose deep lucid eyes,

Were a reflection of these bluest skies;

Child of our hearts, divided in ill hour,

We could not watch the bud's expanding flower,

Now thou art gone, one guileless victim more,

To the black death that rules this sunny shore.

Companion of my griefs! thy sinking frame

Had often drooped, and then erect again

With shows of health had mocked forebodings dark;--

Watching the changes of that quivering spark,

I feared and hoped, and dared to trust at length,

Thy very weakness was my tower of strength.

Methought thou wert a spirit from the sky,

Which struggled with its chains, but could not die,

And that destruction had no power to win

From out those limbs the soul that burnt within.

Tell me, ye ancient walls, and weed-grown towers,

Ye Roman airs and brightly painted flowers,

Does not his spirit visit that recess

Which built of love enshrines his earthly dress?--

No more! no more!--what though that form be fled,

My trembling hand shall never write thee--dead--

Thou liv'st in Nature, Love, my Memory,

With deathless faith for aye adoring thee,

The wife of Time no more, I wed Eternity.

'Tis thus the Past--on which my spirit leans,

Makes dearest to my soul Italian scenes.

In Tuscan fields the winds in odours steeped

From flowers and cypresses, when skies have wept,

Shall, like the notes of music once most dear,

Which brings the unstrung voice upon my ear

Of one beloved, to memory display

Past scenes, past hopes, past joys, in long array.

Pugnano's trees, beneath whose shade he stood,

The pools reflecting Pisa's old pine wood,

The fireflies beams, the aziola's cry

All breathe his spirit which can never die.

Such memories have linked these hills and caves,

These woodland paths, and streams, and knelling waves

Past to each sad pulsation of my breast,

And made their melancholy arms the haven of my rest.

Here will I live, within a little dell,

Which but a month ago I saw full well:--

A dream then pictured forth the solitude

Deep in the shelter of a lovely wood;

A voice then whispered a strange prophecy,

My dearest, widowed friend, that thou and I

Should there together pass the weary day,

As we before have done in Spezia's bay,

As though long hours we watched the sails that neared

O'er the far sea, their vessel ne'er appeared;

One pang of agony, one dying gleam

Of hope led us along, beside the ocean stream,

But keen-eyed fear, the while all hope departs,

Stabbed with a million stings our heart of hearts.

The sad revolving year has not allayed

The poison of these bleeding wounds, or made

The anguish less of that corroding thought

Which has with grief each single moment fraught.

Edward, thy voice was hushed--thy noble heart

With aspiration heaves no more--a part

Of heaven-resumed past thou art become,

Thy spirit waits with his in our far home.

Trelawny had departed for Leghorn and his favourite Maremma, _en route_

for Rome, where, by his untiring zeal for the fit interment of Shelley's

ashes, he once more earned Mary's undying gratitude. The ashes, which had

been temporarily consigned to the care of Mr. Freeborn, British Consul at

Rome, had, before Trelawny arrived, been buried in the Protestant

cemetery: the grave was amidst a cluster of others. In a niche--formed by

two buttresses--in the old Roman wall, immediately under an ancient

pyramid, said to be the tomb of Caius Cestius, Trelawny (having purchased

the recess) built two tombs. In one of these the box containing Shelley's

ashes was deposited, and all was covered over with solid stone. The

details of the transaction, which extended over several months, are

supplied in his letters.

TRELAWNY TO MARY SHELLEY.

PIOMBINO, _7th_ and _11th January 1823_.

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we marched on without impediment.

DEAR MARY SHELLEY--Pardon my tardiness in writing, which from day to

day I have postponed, having no other cause to plead than idleness. On

my arrival at Leghorn I called on Grant, and was much grieved to find

our fears well founded, to wit, that nothing definitely had been done.

Grant had not heard from his correspondent at Rome after his first

statement of the difficulties; the same letter that was enclosed me

and read by you he (Grant) had written, but not received a reply. I

then requested Grant to write and say that I would be at Rome in a

month or five weeks, and if I found the impediments insurmountable, I

would resume possession of the ashes, if on the contrary, to

personally fulfil your wishes, and in the meantime to deposit them

secure from molestation, so that, without Grant writes to me, I shall

say nothing more till I am at Rome, which will be early in February.

In the meantime Roberts and myself are sailing along the coast,

shooting, and visiting the numerous islands in our track. We have been

here some days, living at the miserable hut of a cattle dealer on the

marshes, near this wretched town, well situated for sporting.

To-morrow we cross over to Elba, thence to Corsica, and so return

along the Maremma, up the Tiber in the boat, to Rome....

... I like this Maremma, it is lonely and desolate, thinly populated,

particularly after Genoa, where human brutes are so abundant that the

air is dense with their garlic breath, and it is impossible to fly the

nuisance. Here there is solitude enough: there are less of the human

form here in midday than at Genoa midnight; besides, this vagabond

life has restored my health. Next year I will get a tent, and spend my

winter in these marshes....

... Dear Mary, of all those that I know of, or you have told me of,

as connected with you, there is not one now living has so tender a

friendship for you as I have. I have the far greater claims on you,

and I shall consider it as a breach of friendship should you employ

any one else in services that I can execute.

My purse, my person, my extremest means

Lye all unlocked to your occasion.

I hope you know my heart so well as to make all professions needless.

To serve you will ever be the greatest pleasure I can experience, and

nothing could interrupt the almost unmingled pleasure I have received

from our first meeting but you concealing your difficulties or wishes

from me. With kindest remembrances to my good friends the Hunts, to

whom I am sincerely attached, and love and salaam to Lord Byron, I am

your very sincere

EDWARD TRELAWNY.

"Indeed, I do believe, my dear Trelawny," wrote Mary in reply, on the

30th of January 1823, "that you are the best friend I have, and most

truly would I rather apply to you in any difficulty than to any one

else, for I know your heart, and rely on it. At present I am very well

off, having still a considerable residue of the money I brought with

me from Pisa, and besides, I have received L33 from the _Liberal_.

Part of this I have been obliged to send to Clare. You will be sorry

to hear that the last account she has sent of herself is that she has

been seriously ill. The cold of Vienna has doubtless contributed to

this,--as it is even a dangerous aggravation of her old complaint. I

wait anxiously to hear from her. I sent her fifteen napoleons, and

shall send more if necessary and if I can. Lord B. continues kind: he

has made frequent offers of money. I do not want it, as you see."

_Journal, February 2nd._--On the 21st of January those rites were

fulfilled. Shelley! my own beloved! you rest beneath the blue sky of

Rome; in that, at least, I am satisfied.

What matters it that they cannot find the grave of my William? That

spot is sanctified by the presence of his pure earthly vesture, and

that is sufficient--at least, it must be. I am too truly miserable to

dwell on what at another time might have made me unhappy. He is

beneath the tomb of Cestius. I see the spot.

_February 3._--A storm has come across me; a slight circumstance has

disturbed the deceitful calm of which I boasted. I thought I heard my

Shelley call me--not my Shelley in heaven, but my Shelley, my

companion in my daily tasks. I was reading; I heard a voice say,

"Mary!" "It is Shelley," I thought; the revulsion was of agony. Never

more....

Mrs. Shelley's affairs now assumed an aspect which made her foresee the

ultimate advisability, if not necessity, of returning to England. Sir

Timothy Shelley had declined giving any answer to the application made to

him for an allowance for his son's widow and child; and Lord Byron, as

Shelley's executor, had written to him directly for a decisive answer,

which he obtained.

SIR TIMOTHY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

FIELD PLACE, _6th February 1823_.

MY LORD--I have received your Lordship's letter, and my solicitor, Mr.

Whitton, has this day shown me copies of certificates of the marriage

of Mrs. Shelley and of the baptism of her little boy, and also, a

short abstract of my son's will, as the same have been handed to him

by Mr. Hanson.

The mind of my son was withdrawn from me and my immediate family by

unworthy and interested individuals, when he was about nineteen, and

after a while he was led into a new society and forsook his first

associates.

In this new society he forgot every feeling of duty and respect to me

and to Lady Shelley.

Mrs. Shelley was, I have been told, the intimate friend of my son in

the lifetime of his first wife, and to the time of her death, and in

no small degree, as I suspect, estranged my son's mind from his

family, and all his first duties in life; with that impression on my

mind, I cannot agree with your Lordship that, though my son was

unfortunate, Mrs. Shelley is innocent; on the contrary, I think that

her conduct was the very reverse of what it ought to have been, and I

must, therefore, decline all interference in matters in which Mrs.

Shelley is interested. As to the child, I am inclined to afford the

means of a suitable protection and care of him in this country, if he

shall be placed with a person I shall approve; but your Lordship will

allow me to say that the means I can furnish will be limited, as I

have important duties to perform towards others, which I cannot

forget.

I have thus plainly told your Lordship my determination, in the hope

that I may be spared from all further correspondence on a subject so

distressing to me and my family.

With respect to the will and certificates, I have no observation to

make. I have left them with Mr. Whitton, and if anything is necessary

to be done with them on my part, he will, I am sure, do it.--I have

the honour, my Lord, to be your Lordship's most obedient humble

servant,

T. SHELLEY.

Granting the point of view from which it was written, this letter, though

hard, was not unnatural. The author of _Adonais_ was, to Sir Timothy, a

common reprobate, a prodigal who, having gone into a far country, would

have devoured his father's living--could he have got it--with harlots; but

who had come there to well-deserved grief, and for whose widow even husks

were too good. To any possible colouring or modification of this view he

had resolutely shut his eyes and ears. No modification of his conclusions

was, therefore, to be looked for.

But neither could it be expected that his point of view should be

intelligible to Mary. Nor did it commend itself to Godwin. It would have

been as little for his daughter's interest as for her happiness to

surrender the custody of her child.

MARY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

MY DEAR LORD BYRON-- ... It appears to me that the mode in which Sir

Timothy Shelley expresses himself about my child plainly shows by what

mean principles he would be actuated. He does not offer him an asylum

in his own house, but a beggarly provision under the care of a

stranger.

Setting aside that, I would not part with him. Something is due to me.

I should not live ten days separated from him. If it were necessary

for me to die for his benefit the sacrifice would be easy; but his

delicate frame requires all a mother's solicitude; nor shall he be

deprived of my anxious love and assiduous attention to his happiness

while I have it in my power to bestow it on him; not to mention that

his future respect for his excellent Father and his moral wellbeing

greatly depend upon his being away from the immediate influence of his

relations.

This, perhaps, you will think nonsense, and it is inconceivably

painful to me to discuss a point which appears to me as clear as

noonday; besides I lose all--all honourable station and name--when I

admit that I am not a fitting person to take charge of my infant. The

insult is keen; the pretence of heaping it upon me too gross; the

advantage to them, if the will came to be contested, would be too

immense.

As a matter of feeling, I would never consent to it. I am said to have

a cold heart; there are feelings, however, so strongly implanted in my

nature that, to root them out, life will go with it.--Most truly

yours,

MARY SHELLEY.

GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

STRAND, _14th February 1823_.

MY DEAR MARY--I have this moment received a copy of Sir Timothy

Shelley's letter to Lord Byron, dated 6th February, and which,

therefore, you will have seen long before this reaches you. You will

easily imagine how anxious I am to hear from you, and to know the

state of your feelings under this, which seems like the last, blow of

fate.

I need not, of course, attempt to assist your judgment upon the

proposition of taking the child from you. I am sure your feelings

would never allow you to entertain such a proposition.

* * * * *

I requested you to let Lord Byron's letter to Sir Timothy Shelley pass

through my hands, and you did so; but to my great mortification, it

reached me sealed with his Lordship's arms, so that I remained wholly

ignorant of its contents. If you could send me a copy, I should be

then much better acquainted with your present situation.

Your novel is now fully printed and ready for publication. I have

taken great liberties with it, and I fear your _amour propre_ will be

proportionately shocked. I need not tell you that all the merit of the

book is exclusively your own. Beatrice is the jewel of the book; not

but that I greatly admire Euthanasia, and I think the characters of

Pepi, Binda, and the witch decisive efforts of original genius. I am

promised a character of the work in the _Morning Chronicle_ and the

_Herald_, and was in hopes to have sent you the one or the other by

this time. I also sent a copy of the book to the _Examiner_ for the

same purpose.

_Tuesday, 18th February._

Do not, I entreat you, be cast down about your worldly circumstances.

You certainly contain within yourself the means of your subsistence.

Your talents are truly extraordinary. _Frankenstein_ is universally

known, and though it can never be a book for vulgar reading, is

everywhere respected. It is the most wonderful work to have been

written at twenty years of age that I ever heard of. You are now five

and twenty, and, most fortunately, you have pursued a course of

reading, and cultivated your mind, in a manner the most admirably

adapted to make you a great and successful author. If you cannot be

independent, who should be?

Your talents, as far as I can at present discern, are turned for the

writing of fictitious adventures.

If it shall ever happen to you to be placed in sudden and urgent want

of a small sum, I entreat you to let me know immediately; we must see

what I can do. We must help one another.--Your affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

Mary felt the truth of what her father said, but, wounded and embittered

as she was, she had little heart for framing plans.

_Journal, February 24._--Evils throng around me, my beloved, and I

have indeed lost all in losing thee. Were it not for my child, this

would be rather a soothing reflection, and, if starvation were my

fate, I should fulfil that fate without a sigh. But our child demands

all my care now that you have left us. I must be all to him: the

Father, death has deprived him of; the relations, the bad world

permits him not to have. What is yet in store for me? Am I to close

the eyes of our boy, and then join you?

The last weeks have been spent in quiet. Study could not give repose

to, but somewhat regulated, my thoughts. I said: "I lead an innocent

life, and it may become a useful one. I have talent, I will improve

that talent; and if, while meditating on the wisdom of ages, and

storing my mind with all that has been recorded of it, any new light

bursts upon me, or any discovery occurs that may be useful to my

fellows, then the balm of utility may be added to innocence.

What is it that moves up and down in my soul, and makes me feel as if

my intellect could master all but my fate? I fear it is only youthful

ardour--the yet untamed spirit which, wholly withdrawn from the hopes,

and almost from the affections of life, indulges itself in the only

walk free to it, and, mental exertion being all my thought except

regret, would make me place my hopes in that. I am indeed become a

recluse in thought and act; and my mind, turned heavenward, would, but

for my only tie, lose all commune with what is around me. If I be

proud, yet it is with humility that I am so. I am not vain. My heart

shakes with its suppressed emotions, and I flag beneath the thoughts

that oppress me.

Each day, as I have taken my solitary walk, I have felt myself exalted

with the idea of occupation, improvement, knowledge, and peace.

Looking back to my life as a delicious dream, I steeled myself as well

as I could against such severe regrets as should overthrow my

calmness. Once or twice, pausing in my walk, I have exclaimed in

despair, "Is it even so?" yet, for the most part resigned, I was

occupied by reflection--on those ideas you, my beloved, planted in my

mind--and meditated on our nature, our source, and our destination.

To-day, melancholy would invade me, and I thought the peace I enjoyed

was transient. Then that letter came to place its seal on my

prognostications. Yet it was not the refusal, or the insult heaped

upon me, that stung me to tears. It was their bitter words about our

Boy. Why, I live only to keep him from their hands. How dared they

dream that I held him not far more precious than all, save the hope of

again seeing you, my lost one. But for his smiles, where should I now

be?

Stars that shine unclouded, ye cannot tell me what will be--yet I can

tell you a part. I may have misgivings, weaknesses, and momentary

lapses into unworthy despondency, but--save in devotion towards my

Boy--fortune has emptied her quiver, and to all her future shafts I

oppose courage, hopelessness of aught on this side, with a firm trust

in what is beyond the grave.

Visit me in my dreams to-night, my beloved Shelley! kind, loving,

excellent as thou wert! and the event of this day shall be forgotten.

_March 19._--As I have until now recurred to this book to discharge

into it the overflowings of a mind too full of the bitterest waters of

life, so will I to-night, now that I am calm, put down some of my

milder reveries; that, when I turn it over, I may not only find a

record of the most painful thoughts that ever filled a human heart

even to distraction.

I am beginning seriously to educate myself; and in another place I

have marked the scope of this somewhat tardy education, intellectually

considered. In a moral point of view, this education is of some years'

standing, and it only now takes the form of seeking its food in books.

I have long accustomed myself to the study of my own heart, and have

sought and found in its recesses that which cannot embody itself in

words--hardly in feelings. I have found strength in the conception of

its faculties; much native force in the understanding of them; and

what appears to me not a contemptible penetration in the subtle

divisions of good and evil. But I have found less strength of

self-support, of resistance to what is vulgarly called temptation; yet

I think also that I have found true humility (for surely no one can be

less presumptuous than I), an ardent love for the immutable laws of

right, much native goodness of emotion, and purity of thought.

Enough, if every day I gain a profounder knowledge of my defects, and

a more certain method of turning them to a good direction.

Study has become to me more necessary than the air I breathe. In the

questioning and searching turn it gives to my thoughts, I find some

relief to wild reverie; in the self-satisfaction I feel in commanding

myself, I find present solace; in the hope that thence arises, that I

may become more worthy of my Shelley, I find a consolation that even

makes me less wretched than in my most wretched moments.

_March 30._--I have now finished part of the _Odyssey_. I mark this. I

cannot write. Day after day I suffer the most tremendous agitation. I

cannot write, or read, or think. Whether it be the anxiety for letters

that shakes a frame not so strong as hitherto--whether it be my

annoyances here--whether it be my regrets, my sorrow, and despair, or

all these--I know not; but I am a wreck.

A letter from Trelawny gladdened her heart. It said--

I must confess I am to blame in not having sooner written,

particularly as I have received two letters from you here. Nothing

particular has happened to me since our parting but a desperate

assault of Maremma fever, which had nearly reunited me to my friends,

or, as Iago says, removed me. On my arrival here, my first object was

to see the grave of the noble Shelley, and I was most indignant at

finding him confusedly mingled in a heap with five or six common

vagabonds. I instantly set about removing this gross neglect, and

selecting the only interesting spot. I enclosed it apart from all

possibility of sacrilegious intrusion, and removed his ashes to it,

placed a stone over it, am now planting it, and have ordered a granite

to be prepared for myself, which I shall place in this beautiful

recess (of which the enclosed is a drawing I took), for when I am

dead, I have none to do me this service, so shall at least give one

instance in my life of proficiency.

In reply Mary wrote informing him of her change of plan, and begging for

all minute details about the tomb, which she was not likely, now, to see.

Trelawny was expecting soon to rejoin Byron at Genoa, but he wrote at

once.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

ROME, _27th April 1823_.

DEAR MARY--I should have sooner replied to your last, but that I

concluded you must have seen Roberts, who is or ought to be at Genoa.

He will tell you that the ashes are buried in the new enclosed

Protestant burying-ground, which is protected by a wall and gates from

every possible molestation, and that the ashes are so placed apart,

and yet in the centre and most conspicuous spot of the burying-ground.

I have just planted six young cypresses and four laurels, in front of

the recess you see by the drawing is formed by two projecting parts of

the old ruin. My own stone, a plain slab till I can decide on some

fitting inscription, is placed on the left hand. I have likewise dug

my grave, so that, when I die, there is only to lift up my coverlet

and roll me into it. You may lie on the other side, if you like. It is

a lovely spot. The only inscription on Shelley's stone, besides the

_Cor cordium_ of Hunt, are the lines I have added from Shakespeare--

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

This quotation, by its double meaning, alludes both to the manner of

his death and his genius, and I think the element on which his soul

took wing, and the subtle essence of his being mingled, may still

retain him in some other shape. The waters may keep the dead, as the

earth may, and fire and air. His passionate fondness might have been

from some secret sympathy in their natures. Thence the fascination

which so forcibly attracted him, without fear or caution, to trust an

element almost all others hold in superstitious dread, and venture as

cautiously on as they would in a lair of lions. I have just compiled

an epitaph for Keats and sent it to Severn, who likes it much better

than the one he had designed. He had already designed a lyre with only

two of the strings strung, as indicating the unaccomplished maturity

and ripening of his genius. He had intended a long inscription about

his death having been caused by the _neglect_ of his countrymen, and

that, as a mark of his displeasure, he said--thus and then. What I

wished to substitute is simply thus--

Here lies the spoils

of a

Young English Poet,

"Whose master-hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung,"

And by whose desire is inscribed,

That his name was writ in water.

The line quoted, you remember, is in Shelley, _Adonais_, and the last

Keats desired might be engraved on his tomb. Ask Hunt if he thinks it

will do, and to think of something to put on my ante-dated grave. I am

very anxious to hear how Marianne is getting on, and Hunt. You never

mention a word of them or the _Liberal_.

I have been delayed here longer than I had intended, from want of

money, having lent and given it away thoughtlessly. However, old Dunn

has sent me a supply, so I shall go on to Florence on Monday. I will

assuredly see you before you go, and, if my exchequer is not

exhausted, go part of the way with you. However, I will write further

on this topic at Florence. Do not go to England, to encounter poverty

and bitter retrospections. Stay in Italy. I will most gladly share my

income with you, and if, under the same circumstances, you would do

the same by me, why then you will not hesitate to accept it. I know of

nothing would give me half so much pleasure. As you say, in a few

years we shall both be better off. Commend me to Marianne and Hunt,

and believe me, yours affectionately,

E. TRELAWNY.

Poste Restante a Genes.

* * * * *

You need not tell me that all your thoughts are concentrated on the

memory of your loss, for I have observed it, with great regret and

some astonishment. You tell me nothing in your letters of how the

_Liberal_ is getting on. Why do you not send me a number? How many

have come out? Does Hunt stay at Genoa the summer, and what does Lord

Byron determine on? I am told the _Bolivar_ is lent to some one, and

at sea. Where is Jane? and is Mrs. Hunt likely to recover? I shall

certainly go on to Switzerland if I can raise the wind.

* * * * *

MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

_10th May 1823._

MY DEAR TRELAWNY--You appear to have fulfilled my entire wish in all

you have done at Rome. Do you remember the day you made that quotation

from Shakespeare in our living room at Pisa? Mine own Shelley was

delighted with it, and thus it has for me a pleasing association. Some

time hence I may visit the spot which, of all others, I desire most to

see.

* * * * *

It is not on my own account, my excellent friend, that I go to

England. I believe that my child's interests will be best consulted by

my return to that country....

Desiring solitude and my books only, together with the consciousness

that I have one or two friends who, although absent, still think of me

with affection, England of course holds out no inviting prospect to

me. But I am sure to be rewarded in doing or suffering for my little

darling, so I am resigned to this last act, which seems to snap the

sole link which bound the present to the past, and to tear aside the

veil which I have endeavoured to draw over the desolations of my

situation. Your kindness I shall treasure up to comfort me in future

ill. I shall repeat to myself, I have such a friend, and endeavour to

deserve it.

Do you go to Greece? Lord Byron continues in the same mind. The G----

is an obstacle, and certainly her situation is rather a difficult one.

But he does not seem disposed to make a mountain of her resistance,

and he is far more able to take a decided than a petty step in

contradiction to the wishes of those about him. If you do go, it may

hasten your return hither. I remain until Mrs. Hunt's confinement is

over; had it not been for that, the fear of a hot journey would have

caused me to go in this month,--but my desire to be useful to her, and

my anxiety concerning the event of so momentous a crisis has induced

me to stay. You may think with what awe and terror I look forward to

the decisive moment, but I hope for the best. She is as well, perhaps

better, than we could in any way expect.

I had no opportunity to send you a second No. of the _Liberal_; we

only received it a short time ago, and then you were on the wing: the

third number has come out, and we had a copy by post. It has little in

it we expected, but it is an amusing number, and L. B. is better

pleased with it than any other....

I trust that I shall see you soon, and then I shall hear all your

news. I shall see you--but it will be for so short a time--I fear even

that you will not go to Switzerland; but these things I must not dwell

upon,--partings and separations, when there is no circumstance to

lessen any pang. I must brace my mind, not enervate it, for I know I

shall have much to endure.

I asked Hunt's opinion about your epitaph for Keats; he said that the

line from _Adonais_, though beautiful in itself, might be applied to

any poet, in whatever circumstances or whatever age, that died; and

that to be in accord with the two-stringed lyre, you ought to select

one that alluded to his youth and immature genius. A line to this

effect you might find in _Adonais_.

Among the fragments of my lost Shelley, I found the following poetical

commentary on the words of Keats,--not that I recommend it for the

epitaph, but it may please you to see it.

Here lieth one, whose name was writ in water,

But, ere the breath that could erase it blew,

Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,

Death, the immortalising winter, flew

Athwart the stream, and time's mouthless torrent grew

A scroll of crystal, emblazoning the name

Of Adonais.

I have not heard from Jane lately; she was well when she last wrote,

but annoyed by various circumstances, and impatient of her lengthened

stay in England. How earnestly do I hope that Edward's brother will

soon arrive, and show himself worthy of his affinity to the noble and

unequalled creature she has lost, by protecting one to whom protection

is so necessary, and shielding her from some of the ills to which she

is exposed.

Adieu, my dear Trelawny. Continue to think kindly of me, and trust in

my unalterable friendship.

MARY SHELLEY.

Albaro, 10th May.

On his journey to Genoa, Trelawny stayed a night at Lerici, and paid a

last visit to the Villa Magni. There, "sleeping still on the mud floor,"

its mast and oars broken, was Shelley's little skiff, the "Boat on the

Serchio."

He mounted the "stairs, or rather ladder," into the dining-room.

As I surveyed its splotchy walls, broken floor, cracked ceiling, and

poverty-struck appearance, while I noted the loneliness of the

situation, and remembered the fury of the waves that in blowing

weather lashed its walls, I did not marvel at Mrs. Shelley's and Mrs.

Williams' groans on first entering it; nor that it had required all

Ned Williams' persuasive powers to induce them to stop there.

But these things were all far away in the past.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute.

No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruined cell,

Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

At Genoa he found the "Pilgrim" in a state of supreme indecision. He had

left him discontented when he departed in December. The new magazine was

not a success. Byron had expected that other literary and journalistic

advantages, leading to fame and power, would accrue to him from the

coalition with Leigh Hunt and Shelley, but in this he was disappointed,

and he was left to bear the responsibility of the partnership alone.

"The death of Shelley and the failure of the _Liberal_ irritated

Byron," writes Trelawny; "the cuckoo-note, 'I told you so,' sung by

his friends, and the loud crowing of enemies, by no means allayed his

ill humour. In this frame of mind he was continually planning how to

extricate himself. His plea for hoarding was that he might have a good

round tangible sum of current coin to aid him in any emergency....

"He exhausted himself in planning, projecting, beginning, wishing,

intending, postponing, regretting, and doing nothing: the unready are

fertile in excuses, and his were inexhaustible."

Since that time he had been flattered and persuaded into joining the Greek

Committee, formed in London to aid the Greeks in their war of

independence. Byron's name and great popularity would be a tower of

strength to them. Their proposals came to him at a right moment, when he

was dissatisfied with himself and his position. He hesitated for months

before committing himself, and finally summoned Trelawny, in peremptory

terms, to come to him and go with him.

_15th June 1823._

MY DEAR T.--You must have heard that I am going to Greece. Why do you

not come to me? I want your aid and am extremely anxious to see

you.... They all say I can be of use in Greece. I do not know how, nor

do they; but, at all events, let us go.--Yours, etc., truly,

N. BYRON.

And, always ready for adventure, the "Pirate" came. Before his arrival

Mary's journey had been decided on. Mrs. Hunt's confinement was over: she

and the infant had both done well, and she was now in a fair way to live,

in tolerable health, for many years longer. Want of funds was now the

chief obstacle in Mary's way, but Byron was no longer ready, as he had

been, with offers of help. Changeable as the wind, and utterly unable to

put himself in another person's place, he, without absolutely declining to

fulfil his promises, made so many words about it, and treated the matter

as so great a favour on his own part, that Mary at last declined his

assistance, although it obliged her to take advantage of Trelawny's

often-repeated offers of help, which she would not rather have accepted,

as he was poor, while Byron was rich. The whole story unfolds itself in

the three ensuing letters.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ALBARO, NEAR GENOA, _July 1823_.

I write to you in preference to my Father, because you, to a great

degree, understand the person I have to deal with, and in

communicating what I say concerning him, you can, _viva voce_, add

such comments as will render my relation more intelligible.

The day after Marianne's confinement, the 9th June, seeing all went on

so prosperously, I told Lord Byron that I was ready to go, and he

promised to provide means. When I talked of going post, it was because

he said that I should go so, at the same time declaring that he would

regulate all himself. I waited in vain for these arrangements. But,

not to make a long story, since I hope soon to be able to relate the

details--he chose to transact our negotiation through Hunt, and gave

such an air of unwillingness and sense of the obligation he conferred,

as at last provoked Hunt to say that there was no obligation, since he

owed me L1000.

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door!

Still keeping up an appearance of amity with Hunt, he has written

notes and letters so full of contempt against me and my lost Shelley

that I could stand it no longer, and have refused to receive his still

proffered aid for my journey. This, of course, delays me. I can muster

about L30 of my own. I do not know whether this is barely sufficient,

but as the delicate constitution of my child may oblige me to rest

several times on the journey, I cannot persuade myself to commence my

journey with what is barely necessary. I have written, therefore, to

Trelawny for the sum requisite, and must wait till I hear from him. I

see you, my poor girl, sigh over these mischances, but never mind, I

do not feel them. My life is a shifting scene, and my business is to

play the part allotted for each day well, and, not liking to think of

to-morrow, I never think of it at all, except in an intellectual way;

and as to money difficulties, why, having nothing, I can lose nothing.

Thus, as far as regards what are called worldly concerns, I am

perfectly tranquil, and as free or freer from care as if my signature

should be able to draw L1000 from some banker. The extravagance and

anger of Lord Byron's letters also relieve me from all pain that his

dereliction might occasion me, and that his conscience twinges him is

too visible from his impatient kicks and unmannerly curvets. You would

laugh at his last letter to Hunt, when he says concerning his

connection with Shelley "that he let himself down to the level of the

democrats."

In the meantime Hunt is all kindness, consideration, and

friendship--all feeling of alienation towards me has disappeared even

to its last dregs. He perfectly approves of what I have done. So I am

still in Italy, and I doubt not but that its sun and vivifying

geniality relieve me from those biting cares which would be mine in

England, I fear, if I were destitute there. But I feel above the mark

of Fortune, and my heart too much wounded to feel these pricks, on all

occasions that do not regard its affections, _s'arma di se, e d'intero

diamante_. Thus am I changed; too late, alas! for what ought to have

been, but not too late, I trust, to enable me, more than before, to be

some stay and consolation to my own dear Jane.

MARY.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_Saturday._

DEAR MARY--Will you tell me what sum you want, as I am settling my

affairs? You must from time to time let me know your wants, that I may

do my best to relieve them. You are sure of me, so let us use no more

words about it. I have been racking my memory to remember some person

in England that would be of service to you for my sake, but my rich

friends and relations are without hearts, and it is useless to

introduce you to the unfortunate; it would but augment your repinings

at the injustice of Fortune. My knight-errant heart has led me many a

weary journey foolishly seeking the unfortunate, the miserable, and

the outcast; and when found, I have only made myself as one of them

without redressing their grievances, so I pray you avoid, as you value

your peace of mind, the wretched. I shall see you, I hope,

to-day.--Yours very faithfully,

E. TRELAWNY.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ALBARO, _23d July 1823_.

DEAREST JANE--I have at length fixed with the _vetturino_. I depart on

the 25th, my best girl. I leave Italy; I return to the dreariest

reality after having dreamt away a year in this blessed and beloved

country.

Lord Byron, Trelawny, and Pierino Gamba sailed for Greece on the 17th

inst. I did not see the former. His unconquerable avarice prevented

his supplying me with money, and a remnant of shame caused him to

avoid me. But I have a world of things to tell you on that score when

I see you. If he were mean, Trelawny more than balanced the moral

account. His whole conduct during his last stay here has impressed us

all with an affectionate regard, and a perfect faith in the

unalterable goodness of his heart. They sailed together; Lord Byron

with L10,000, Trelawny with L50, and Lord Byron cowering before his

eye for reasons you shall hear soon. The Guiccioli is gone to

Bologna--_e poi cosa fara? Chi lo sa? Cosa vuoi che lo dico?_...

I travel without a servant. I rest first at Lyons; but do you write to

me at Paris, Hotel Nelson. It will be a friend to await me. Alas! I

have need of consolation. Hunt's kindness is now as active and warm as

it was dormant before; but just as I find a companion in him I leave

him. I leave him in all his difficulties, with his head throbbing with

overwrought thoughts, and his frame sometimes sinking under his

anxieties. Poor Marianne has found good medicine, _facendo un bimbo_,

and then nursing it, but she, with her female providence, is more bent

by care than Hunt. How much I wished, and wish, to settle near them at

Florence; but I must submit with courage, and patience may at last

come and give opiate to my irritable feelings.

Both Hunt and Trelawny say that Percy is much improved since Maria

left me. He is affectionately attached to Sylvan, and very fond of

_Bimbo nuovo_. He kisses him by the hour, and tells me, _Come il

Signore Enrico ha comprato un Baby nuovo--forse ti dara il Baby

vecchio_, as he gives away an old toy on the appearance of a new one.

I will not write longer. In conversation, nay, almost in thought, I

can, at this most painful moment, force my excited feelings to laugh

at themselves, and my spirits, raised by emotion, to seem as if they

were light, but the natural current and real hue overflows me and

penetrates me when I write, and it would be painful to you, and

overthrow all my hopes of retaining my fortitude, if I were to write

one word that truly translated the agitation I suffer into language.

I will write again from Lyons, where I suppose I shall be on the 3d of

August. Dear Jane, can I render you happier than you are? The idea of

that might console me, at least you will see one that truly loves you,

and who is for ever your affectionately attached

MARY SHELLEY.

If there is any talk of my accommodations, pray tell Mrs. Gisborne

that I cannot sleep on any but a _hard_ bed. I care not how hard, so

that it be a mattress.

And now Mary's life in Italy was at an end. Her resolution of returning to

England had been welcomed by her father in the letter which follows, and

it was to his house, and not to Mrs. Gisborne's that she finally decided

to go on first arriving.

GODWIN TO MARY.

NO. 195 STRAND, _6th May 1823_.

It certainly is, my dear Mary, with great pleasure that I anticipate

that we shall once again meet. It is a long, long time now since you

have spent one night under my roof. You are grown a woman, have been a

wife, a mother, a widow. You have realised talents which I but faintly

and doubtfully anticipated. I am grown an old man, and want a child of

my own to smile on and console me. I shall then feel less alone than

I do at present.

What William will be, I know not; he has sufficient understanding and

quickness for the ordinary concerns of life, and something more; and,

at any rate, he is no smiler, no consoler.

When you first set your foot in London, of course I and Mamma expect

that it will be in this house. But the house is smaller, one floor

less, than the house in Skinner Street. It will do well enough for you

to make shift with for a few days, but it would not do for a permanent

residence. But I hope we shall at least have you near us, within a

call. How different from your being on the shores of the

Mediterranean!

Your novel has sold five hundred copies--half the impression.

Peacock sent your box by the _Berbice_, Captain Wayth. I saw him a

fortnight ago, and he said that he had not yet received the bill of

lading himself, but he should be sure to have it in time, and would

send it. I ought to have written to you sooner. Your letter reached me

on the 18th ult., but I have been unusually surrounded with

perplexities.--Your affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

On the 25th of July she left Genoa, Hunt accompanying her for the first

twenty miles. If one thought more than any other sustained her in her

unprotected loneliness, it was that of being reunited in England to her

sister in misfortune, Jane Williams, to whom her heart turned with a

singular tenderness, and to whom on her journey she addressed one more

letter, full of grateful affection and of a touching humility, new in her

character.

MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

ST. JEAN DE LA MAURIENNE,

_30th July 1823_.

MY BEST JANE--I wrote to you from Genoa the day before I quitted it,

but I afterwards lost the letter. I asked the Hunts to look for it,

and send it if found, but ten to one you will never receive it. It

contained nothing, however, but what I can tell you in five minutes if

I see you. It told you of the departure of Lord Byron and Trelawny for

Greece, the former escaping with all his crowns, and the other

disbursing until he had hardly L10 left. It went to my heart to borrow

the sum from him necessary to make up my journey, but he behaved with

so much quiet generosity that one was almost glad to put him to that

proof, and witness the excellence of his heart. In this and in another

trial he acquitted himself so well that he gained all our hearts,

while the other--but more when we meet.

I left Genoa Thursday, 25th. Hunt and Thornton accompanied me the

first twenty miles. This was much, you will say, for Hunt. But, thank

heaven, we are now the best friends in the world. He set his heart on

my quitting Italy with as comfortable feelings as possible, and he did

so much that notwithstanding all the [bitterness] that such an event,

joined to parting with a dear friend, occasioned me, yet I have borne

up with better spirits than I could in any way have hoped. It is a

delightful thing, my dear Jane, to be able to express one's affection

upon an old and tried friend like Hunt, and one so passionately

attached to my Shelley as he was, and is. It is pleasant also to feel

myself loved by one who loves me. You know somewhat of what I suffered

during the winter, during his alienation from me. He was displeased

with me for many just reasons, but he found me willing to expiate, as

far as I could, the evil I had done, so his heart was again warmed;

and if, my dear friend, when I return, you find me more amiable and

more willing to suffer with patience than I was, it is to him that I

owe this benefit, and you may judge if I ought not to be grateful to

him. I am even so to Lord Byron, who was the cause that I stayed at

Genoa, and thus secured one who, I am sure, can never change.

The illness of one of our horses detains me here an afternoon, so I

write, and shall put the letter in the post at Chambery. I have come

without a servant or companion; but Percy is perfectly good, and no

trouble to me at all. We are both well; a little tired or so. Will you

tell my Father that you have heard from me, and that I am so far on my

journey. I expect to be at Lyons in three days, and will write to him

from that place. If there be any talk of my accommodations, pray put

in a word for a _hard_ bed, for else I am sure I cannot sleep.

So I have left Italy, and alone with my child I am travelling to

England. What a dream I have had! and is it over? Oh no! for I do

nothing but dream; realities seem to have lost all power over me,--I

mean, as it were, mere tangible realities,--for, where the affections

are concerned, calamity has only awakened greater sensitiveness.

I fear things do not go on well with you, my dearest girl! you are not

in your mother's house, and you cannot have settled your affairs in

India,--mine too! Why, I arrive poor to nothingness, and my hopes are

small, except from my own exertions; and living in England is dear. My

thoughts will all bend towards Italy; but even if Sir Timothy Shelley

should do anything, he will not, I am sure, permit me to go abroad. At

any rate we shall be together a while. We will talk of our lost ones,

and think of realising my dreams; who knows? Adieu, I shall soon see

you, and you will find how truly I am your affectionate

MARY SHELLEY.

With the following fragment, the last of her Italian journal, this chapter

may fitly close.

_Journal, May 31._--The lanes are filled with fire-flies; they dart

between the trunks of the trees, and people the land with earth-stars.

I walked among them to-night, and descended towards the sea. I passed

by the ruined church, and stood on the platform that overlooks the

beach. The black rocks were stretched out among the blue waters, which

dashed with no impetuous motion against them. The dark boats, with

their white sails, glided gently over its surface, and the

star-enlightened promontories closed in the bay: below, amid the

crags, I heard the monotonous but harmonious voices of the fishermen.

How beautiful these shores, and this sea! Such is the scene--such the

waves within which my beloved vanished from mortality.

The time is drawing near when I must quit this country. It is true

that, in the situation I now am, Italy is but the corpse of the

enchantress that she was. Besides, if I had stayed here, the state of

things would have been different. The idea of our child's advantage

alone enables me to keep fixed in my resolution to return to England.

It is best for him--and I go.

Four years ago we lost our darling William; four years ago, in

excessive agony, I called for death to free me from all I felt that I

should suffer here. I continue to live, and _thou_ art gone. I leave

Italy and the few that still remain to me. That I regret less; for our

intercourse is so much chequered with all of dross that this earth so

delights to blend with kindness and sympathy, that I long for

solitude, with the exercise of such affections as still remain to me.

Away, I shall be conscious that these friends love me, and none can

then gainsay the pure attachment which chiefly clings to them because

they knew and loved you--because I knew them when with you, and I

cannot think of them without feeling your spirit beside me.

I cannot grieve for you, beloved Shelley; I grieve for thy

friends--for the world--for thy child--most for myself, enthroned in

thy love, growing wiser and better beneath thy gentle influence,

taught by you the highest philosophy--your pupil, friend, lover,

wife, mother of your children! The glory of the dream is gone. I am a

cloud from which the light of sunset has passed. Give me patience in

the present struggle. _Meum cordium cor!_ Good-night!

I would give all that I am to be as now thou art,

But I am chained to time, and cannot thence depart.