THE PARIAHS
On arriving in London, Shelley could not pay the cab fare, so with Mary,
Jane, and the trunks, he drove round to his bankers, merely to learn
that Harriet had withdrawn the entire balance to his credit. At this
news the two girls were highly indignant. The only way to get out of the
scrape, and avoid the police-station, was to go and see Harriet herself.
Shelley had her address, and thither they now drove. Harriet thought at
first that her husband had come back to her, and was very indignant, in
her turn, when she knew that her rival was waiting below at the door.
However, she lent Shelley a few pounds, which enabled the three
wanderers to take furnished lodgings in a mean street.
Things looked black. Godwin absolutely refused to see them. Shelley
pleaded that he had given a practical application to the principles of
_Political Justice_, but this merely exasperated the author of the
treatise still more. _Political Justice_ was in his eyes a theoretical
work, the principles of which might be excellent in some
Utopia—although it was also very long since he had written it—but in
London in the midst of a pitiless society, in his own house, to expose
Godwin and his only daughter to the scorn of his friends, thus to
pervert his teaching . . . No, he would never forgive them.
When he mentioned the adventure it was in the most severe terms. Writing
to a Mr. John Taylor of Norwich, he said:
“I have a story to tell you of the deepest melancholy. . . . You
are already acquainted with the name of Shelley. . . . Not to
keep you longer in suspense, he, a married man, has run away
with my daughter. I cannot conceive of an event of more
accumulated horror.
“Mary, my only daughter, was absent in Scotland for her health,
and returned to me on the 30th of March last. Shelley came to
London on the 18th June and I invited him to take his meals at
my house. On Sunday, June 26th, he accompanied Mary and her
sister, Jane Clairmont, to the tomb of Mary’s mother, and there
it seems the impious idea first occurred to him of seducing
her. . . . He had the madness to disclose his plans to me and to
ask my consent. I expostulated with him with all the energy of
which I was master. . . . I seemed to have succeeded, but in the
night of the 27th July, Mary and her sister Jane escaped from my
house, and the next morning when I rose I found a letter on my
dressing table informing me what they had done.”
He begs Taylor to preserve the utmost secrecy about the affair, so that
no stigma may be attached to the names of these unfortunate girls, and
goes on: “When I use the word stigma I am sure it is wholly unnecessary
to say that I apply it in a very different sense to the two girls. Jane
has been guilty of an indiscretion only . . . Mary has been guilty of a
crime.”
Yet Shelley, in former days, had borrowed large sums to lend to Mary’s
father, and on this account the bailiffs, so soon as they heard of his
return, had begun to dun him. Godwin not only was unable to repay
Shelley, but had fresh need of money himself, and it was these financial
questions which compelled him, most reluctantly, to continue a
correspondence with a depraved and perfidious young man. His conscience
suffered greatly . . . or at least he said it did in every letter.
So much hypocrisy in a man they had so venerated, was grievous to Mary
and Shelley. “Oh, philosophy!” they said, and sighed. As to Mrs. Godwin,
she reproached them above all with corrupting her daughter, and she
forbade the gentle Fanny to visit them. She herself went to see Jane
once, but meeting Shelley on the stairs she turned away her head.
Their intercourse with Harriet was sometimes easy, sometimes difficult,
according to her changes of mood. She wanted for nothing, having still
some of Shelley’s money, besides receiving an allowance from the old
tavern-keeper, but she was with child and very unhappy. She passed her
days in telling her story to the gossips of the neighbourhood, or in
writing in pathetic phrases to her friend Catherine Nugent, the Dublin
dressmaker:
“Every age has its cares. God knows I have mine. Dear Ianthe is
quite well. She is fourteen months old and has six teeth. What I
should have done without this dear babe and my sister I know
not. This world is a scene of heavy trials to us all. I little
expected ever to go thro’ what I have. But time heals the
deepest wounds, and for the sake of that sweet infant I hope to
live many years. Write to me often. . . . Tell me how you are in
health. Do not despond, though I see nothing to hope for when
all that was virtuous becomes vicious and depraved. So it
is—nothing is certain in this world. I suppose there is
another, where those that have suffered keenly here will be
happy. Tell me what you think of this. My sister is with me. I
wish you knew her as well as I do. She is worthy of your love.
Adieu, dear friend, may you still be happy is the first wish of
your ever-faithful friend,
“H. SHELLEY.
“Ianthe is well and very engaging.”
Sometimes she was full of hope. Her friends told her that love affairs
of this sort were short-lived and that her husband would come back to
her. Then she felt gay and wrote Shelley friendly letters. She was sure
that it was Mary who had made all the mischief: that she had seduced
Percy by telling him extravagant tales: that in reality he was good,
that he would never desert her and his two children.
At other times she had fits of depression and rage. Then she did all she
knew to make the life of the hated couple more difficult still. She ran
into debt, and sent the creditors to Shelley. She declared that he was
living in promiscuity with two of Godwin’s daughters. She found out
Godwin’s creditors in order to urge them to be pitiless, and Mary, who
had never seen her, would say with a sigh: “That frightful woman!”
One day in November, Harriet was in a state of discomfort and pain, and
imagined herself very ill. Her first thought at such moments was always
to call her husband. She sent for Shelley during the night and he came
at once. Without again becoming the lover, he would have liked to remain
her most devoted friend. But, not understanding the shade of difference,
the moment he showed attention, she grew fond. Then he checked her with
gentle firmness.
At the end of November, she gave birth to a boy, an eight-months’ child.
It brought about no reconciliation. Shelley doubted if the child was
his.
With Mary, in spite of their misfortunes, he was deliciously happy. They
shared the same tastes, and both looked upon Life as an opportunity for
learning prolonged into old age. They read the same books and often
aloud. She went with him in his visits to his lawyers, or the sheriff’s
officers. When he amused himself by the Serpentine, just as he used to
do at Oxford, in launching a paper flotilla, Mary, sitting beside him,
fashioned the boats with tireless fingers.
Under his direction, she set herself to learn Latin and even Greek. More
cultured than Harriet, she did not see in these studies, as did the
first Mrs. Shelley, a rather boring game, but an extension of her
enjoyment. The greatest charm of literary culture is that it humanizes
love. Catullus, Theocritus, and Petrarch united to render more exquisite
our lovers’ kisses. Shelley, watching his new companion at work, was
filled with admiration for her strength of character, and was delighted
to consider her as much superior to himself.
The only shadow, and that a light one, was the presence of Jane, or
rather of Claire, for, having decided that her name was ugly, she had
changed it for another which was more to her taste. A brilliant and
beautiful girl, she suffered from nerves and was terribly susceptible.
Nothing was worse for her than to live in close contact with an amorous
young couple. She had a passionate admiration for Percy, and showed it a
little too plainly. Mary complained, but Shelley could not agree that
there was anything in the sentiment either disagreeable or shocking.
He hated being alone, so when Mary, who was expecting a child, had to
give up walks and late hours he took Claire with him to the lawyers, the
bailiffs, and the banks of the Serpentine, and every day he begged her
to pass the evening with him. He talked to her of Harriet, of Miss
Hitchener, and of his sisters. He had always loved confidential talks,
and long analyses of thought; sincerity appeared to him easy with Claire
because she was not his mistress. But Mary could not conceal her
impatience, and Claire, vexed by her sister’s reproaches, remained
silent and gloomy a whole day through.
In the evening when Mary had gone to bed, Shelley undertook to pacify
Claire. Cleverly and patiently he explained until midnight the somewhat
complicated sentiments of their little group. Such was his gentle
kindness that Claire ceased to sulk.
“But I’ve suffered so much!” she said.
“Imaginary sufferings, my dear Claire! You misunderstand words and
gestures to which Mary attaches no importance whatever.”
“All the same, I have really suffered, but how I like good, kind,
explaining people!”
Shelley went up to repeat the conversation to Mary. In the room overhead
they heard Claire talking and walking in her sleep. Presently she came
down, she was feeling terribly nervous, and could not remain alone. Mary
took her into her own bed, and Shelley went to sleep upstairs.
This little scene with slight variations was often repeated. Claire’s
nervousness was communicated to Shelley. Having talked of ghosts and
hobgoblins the greater part of the night, they ended by frightening each
other.
“What is the matter with you, Claire? You’re deathly pale. . . . Your
eyes . . . No! Don’t look at me like that!”
“You, too, Percy, you look strange . . . the air is heavy, full of
monsters . . . don’t let us stay here any longer!”
They said good night and went to their rooms, but almost immediately
after, Shelley and Mary heard a loud cry; somebody tumbled down the
stairs, and Claire, with disordered features, came to relate that her
pillow had been pulled from under her head by an invisible hand.
Shelley listened to the tale with terrified interest, but Mary shrugged
her shoulders. If only this crazy girl would take herself off!
* * *
The outcasts saw few friends. The Boinville-Newton set, despite their
broad-minded French philosophy, had turned a cold shoulder when they
were told by Shelley of his new life. With them, as with Godwin, actions
did not run on all fours with speech, and indulgence in theory allied
itself for some mysterious reason with inclemency in practice. On the
other hand, it was the sceptical Hogg and Peacock who came at the first
call. They believed in the innocence of Harriet, and did not approve of
Shelley’s conduct, but they were full of human interest, and looked upon
the passion of love as a somewhat comic disease.
Shelley had invited Hogg with misgivings. He was afraid such a cynic
would not please the two girls. Nor was Mary’s first impression
favourable. “He’s amusing enough when he jokes,” she said, “but the
moment he treats of a serious subject, one sees that his point of view
is altogether wrong.”
Hogg, in fact, became every day more British and conservative, singing
the praises of tradition, sport, Public Schools, and naming the best
port-wine years. But finding Mary very pretty and intelligent, he told
Shelley so, who repeated it to her. On Hogg’s next visit she thought him
much more sympathetic. No doubt he spoke of virtue as a blind man does
of colours; in this family of enthusiastic “souls” he was the “hardened
sinner”; but his charm was acknowledged. Mary thought his coldness a
cloak, and that he was better than he appeared. He was afraid to be
sincere with himself or to delve deep, which would have driven him to
forgo so many things that he liked, but he was really too intelligent
not to feel the weakness of his position.
Being both good-natured and cultivated, he was ready to give a helping
hand to Mary and Claire in translating Ovid or Anacreon, when their
usual master had mysteriously vanished. He also accompanied the ladies
to their bonnet-maker without grumbling, for they, too, visited
bonnet-shops just like poor Harriet, although they went in quite another
frame of mind. If she bought bonnets with rapture, Mary bought them with
a lofty condescension, so that Shelley did not even have to excuse in
her a concession to fashion which she herself was the first to deplore.