Chapter XXIII: October 1831-October 1839 (1)

Trelawny's book was only one among many things which claimed Mrs. Shelley's attention during these three years.

In 1830 Godwin published his _Thoughts on Man_. The relative positions of father and daughter had come to be reversed, and Mary now negotiated with the publishers for the sale of his work, as he had formerly done for her. Godwin himself set a high value, even for him, on this book, and anticipated for it a future and an influence which were not to be realised.

GODWIN TO MARY.

_15th April 1830._

DEAR MARY--If you do me the favour to see Murray, I know not how far
you can utter the following things; or if you do, how far they will
have any weight with his highness; yet I cannot but wish you should
have them in your mind.

The book I offer is a collection of ten new and interesting truths,
illustrated in no unpopular style. They are the fruit of thirty years'
meditation (it being so long since I wrote the _Enquirer_), in the
full maturity of my understanding.

The book, therefore, will be very far from being merely one book more
added to the number of books already existing in English literature.
It must, as I conceive, when published make a deep impression, and
cause the thinking part of the public to perceive--There are here laid
before us ten interesting truths never before delivered.

Whether it is published during my life or after my death it is a light
that cannot be extinguished--"the precious life-blood of a discerning
spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life."

In the following amusing letter Clare gives Mary a few commissions. She was to interest her literary acquaintance in Paris in the publication and success of a French poem by a friend of Clare's at Moscow, the greatest wish of whose heart was to appear in print. She was also to find a means of preventing the French translatress of Moore's _Life of Byron_ from introducing Clare's name into her elucidatory footnotes. This was indeed all-important to Clare, as any revival of scandal about her might have robbed her of the means of subsistence, but it was also an extremely difficult and delicate task for Mary. But no one ever hesitated to make her of use. Her friends estimated her power by her goodwill, and her goodwill by their own need of her services; and they were generally right, for the will never failed, and the way was generally found.

CLARE TO MRS. SHELLEY.

NICE, _11th December 1830_.

MY DEAR MARY--Your last letter, although so melancholy, gave me much
pleasure, merely, therefore, because it came from you.

I intended to have written to all and each of you, but until now have
not been able to put my resolution into execution. It must seem to you
that I am strangely neglectful of my friends, or perhaps you think
since I am so near Trelawny that I have been taking a lesson from him
in the art of cultivating one's friendships; but neither of these is
the case, my silence is quite on another principle than this.

I am not desperately in love, nor just risen from my bed at four in
the afternoon in order to write my millionth love letter, nor am I
indifferent to those whom time and the malice of fortune have yet
spared to me, but simply I have been too busy.

Since I have been at Nice I have had to change lodgings four times;
besides this, we were a long time without a maid, and received and
paid innumerable visits. My whole day was spent in shifting my
character. In the morning I arose a waiting-maid, and, having attended
to the toilette of Natalie, sank into a house-maid, a laundry-maid,
and, after noon, I fear me, a cook, having to look to the cleaning of
the rooms, the getting up of linen, and the preparation of various
pottages fit for the patient near me. At mid-day I turned into a
governess, gave my lessons, and at four or five became a fine lady for
the rest of the day, and paid visits or received them, for at Nice it
is the custom, so soon as a stranger arrives, that everybody _comme il
faut_ in the place comes to call upon you; nor can you shut your doors
against them even if you were dying, for as Nice is the resort of the
sick, and as everybody either is sick or has been sick, nursing has
become the common business.

So we went on day after day. We had _dejeuners dansants_, _soirees
dansantes_ (_diners dansants_ are considered as _de trop_ by order of
the physicians), _bals pares_, _theatres_, _operas_, _grands diners_,
_petits soupers_, _concerts_, _visites de matin_, _promenades a ane_,
_parties de campagne_, _reunions litteraires_, _grands cercles_,
_promenades en bateau_, _coteries choisies_, _thunder-storms_ from
the sea, and _political storms_ from France; in short, if we had only
had an earthquake, or the shock of one, we should have run through the
whole series of modifications of which human existence is susceptible.
_Voila Paris, Voila Paris_, as the song says.

You may perhaps expect that the novelty of society should have
suggested to me remarks and observations as multifarious as the forms
under which I observed it. Sorry I am to say that either from its
poverty, or from my own poverty of intellect, I have not gathered from
it anything beyond the following couple of conclusions, that people of
the world, disguise themselves as they may, possess but two qualities,
a great want of understanding, and a vast pretension to sentiment.
From this duplexity arises the duplicity with which they are so often
charged, and no wonder, for with hearts so heavy, and heads so light,
how is it possible to keep anything like a straightforward course? In
alleviation of this, I must confess that wherever I went I carried
about with me my own identity (that unhappy identity which has cost me
so dear, and of which, with all my pains, I have never been able to
lose a particle), and contemplated the people I judge through the
medium of its rusty atoms.

I must speak to you of an affair that interests me deeply. M. Gambs
has informed me that he has sent to Paris a poem of his in manuscript
called _Moeise_. He gave it to the Prince Nicolas Scherbatoff at
Moscow, just upon his setting out for Paris; this is many months ago.
Whether the Prince gave any promise to endeavour to get it published I
do not know; but if he did, he is such a very indolent and selfish man
that his efforts would never get the thing done. M. Gambs has written
to me to ask if you have any literary friends in Paris who would be
kind enough to interest themselves about it. The address of the Prince
is as follows: Son Excellence Le Prince Nicolas Scherbatoff, Rue St.
Lazare, No. 17, a Paris. Can you not get some one to call upon him to
ask about the manuscript, and to propose it to some bookseller?

This some one may enter into a direct correspondence with M. Gambs by
addressing him Chez M. Lenhold, Marchand de Musique, a Moscow. I
should be highly delighted if you could settle things in this way, as
I know my friend has nothing more at heart than to appear in print,
and that I should be glad to be the means of communicating some
pleasure to an existence which I know is almost utterly without it,
and of showing my gratitude for the kindness and goodness he has
showered upon me; nor, as far as my poor judgment goes, is the work
unworthy of inspiring interest, and of being saved from oblivion. It
pleased me much when it was read to me; but then it is true I was in a
desert, and there a drop of water will often seem to us more precious
than the finest jewel.

Another subject connected with Paris also presses itself on my mind.
In Moore's _Life of Lord Byron_ only the most distant allusion was
made to Lady Caroline Lamb; yet, in the French translation, its
performer, Madame Sophie Bellay (or some such name) had the indelicacy
to unveil the mystery in a note, and to expose it in distinct and
staring characters to the public. This piece of impudence was harmless
to Lady Caroline, since her independence of others was assured beyond
a doubt; but to any one whose bread depends upon the public a printed
exposure of their conduct will infallibly bring on destitution, and
reduce them to the necessity of weighing upon their relations for
support.

I know the subject is a disagreeable one, and that you do not like
disagreeable subjects. I know nothing of business or whether there
exists any means of averting this blow; perhaps a representation to
the translator of the evils that would follow would be sufficient; but
as I have no means of trying this, I am reduced to suggest the subject
to your attention, with the firm hope that you will find some method
of warding off the threatened mischief.

What you tell me of the state of family resources has naturally
depressed my spirits. Will the future never cease unrolling new shapes
of misery? Stair above stair of wretchedness is all we know; the
present, bad as it is, is always better than what comes after. Of all
the crowd of eager inquirers at the Delphic shrine was there ever
found one who thanked, or had any reason to thank, the Pythia for what
she disclosed to him? For me, I have long abandoned hope and the
future, and am now diligently pursuing and retracing the past, going
the back way as it were to eternity in order to avoid the
disappointments and perplexities of an unknown course. But I must beg
pardon for my cowardice and disagreeableness, and leave it, or else I
shall be recollected with as much reluctance as the Pythia.

I wish I could give you any idea of the beauty of Nice. So long as I
can walk about beside the sounding sea, beneath its ambient heaven,
and gaze upon the far hills enshrined in purple light, I catch such
pleasure from their loveliness that I am happy without happiness; but
when I come home, then it seems to me as if all the phantasmagoria of
hell danced before my eyes.

Mrs. K. has arrived and in no very amiable humour. The only
conversation I hear is, first, the numberless perfections of herself,
husband, and child; this, as it is true, would be well enough, but
still upon repetition it tires; second, the infinite superiority of
Russia over all other countries, since it is an established truth that
liberty and civilisation are the most dreadful of all evils. I, to
avoid ill-temper, assent to all they say; then in company, when
opposed in their doctrines, they drag me forward, and the tacit
consent I have given, as an argument in favour of their way of
thinking, and I am at once set down by everybody either as a fawning
creature or an utter fool. However, I am glad she has come, as the
responsibility of Natalie's health was too much. For heaven's sake
excuse me to dear Jane that I have not written. My first moment shall
be given to do so.

I think of England and my friends all day long. Entreat everybody to
write to me. Do pray do so yourself. My love to my Mother and Papa,
and William and everybody. How happy was I that Percy was well.--In
haste, ever yours,

C. CLAIRMONT.

Mrs. Shelley's mind was much occupied during 1831 by the serious question of sending her son to a public school. She wished to give him the best possible education, and she wished, too, to give it him in such a form as would place him at no disadvantage among other young men when he took his place in English society.

Shelley (she mentions in one of her letters) had expressed himself in favour of a public school, but Shelley's family had also to be consulted, and she seems to have had reason to hope they would help in the matter.

They quite concurred in her views for Percy, only putting a veto on Eton, where legends of his father's school-days might still be lingering about. Nothing was better than that she should send him to a public school--_if she could_. These last words were implied, not expressed. But a public school education in England is not to be given on a very limited income. Funds had to be found; and Mrs. Shelley made, through the lawyer, a direct request to Sir Timothy for assistance.

She received the following answer--

MR. WHITTON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

STONE HALL, _6th November 1831_.

DEAR MADAM--I have been, from the time I received your last favour to
the present, in correspondence with Sir Timothy Shelley as to your
wishes of an advance upon the L300 per annum he now makes to you, and
I recommended him to consult his friend and solicitor, Mr. Steadman,
of Horsham, thereon, and which he did.

You have not perhaps well put together and estimated on the great
amount of the charges upon the estate by the late Mr. Shelley, and on
the legacies given by his will; but looking at all these, and the very
limited interest of the estate now vested in you, Sir Timothy has
paused in his consideration thereof, and in the result has brought his
mind, that, having regard to the other provisions he is bound to make
for his other children, he ought not to increase the allowance to you,
and upon that ground he declines so doing; and therefore feels the
necessity of your making such arrangements as you may find necessary
to make the L300 per annum answer the purposes for yourself and for
your son, and he has this morning stated to me his fixed determination
to abide thereby; and I lose not a moment, after I receive this
communication from him, to make it known to you, and I trust and hope
you will find it practicable to give him a good education out of the
L300 a year.--I remain, Madam, your very obedient servant,

WM. WHITTON.

The seeming brutality of the concluding sentence must in fairness be ascribed to the writer and not to those he represented.

To Mrs. Shelley, knowing the impossibility of carrying out the public school plan on her own income, the wishes and hopes must have sounded a mockery. It had to be done, however, if it was the best thing for the boy. The money must be earned, and she worked on.

One day she received from her father a new kind of petition, which, showing the effect on him of advancing years, must have struck a pang to her heart. She was accustomed to his requests for money, but now he wrote to her for _an idea_.

GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_13th April 1832._

MY DEAR MARY--You desire me to write to you, if I have anything
particular to say.

I write, then, to say that I am still in the same dismaying
predicament in which I have been for weeks past--at a loss for
materials to make up my third volume. This is by no means what I
expected.

I knew, and I know, that incidents of hair-breadth escapes and
adventures are innumerable, and that without having fixed on any one
of them, I took for granted they would come when I called for them.
Such is the mischievous effect, the anxious expectation, that is
produced by past success.

I believe that when I came to push with all my force against the
barriers that seemed to shut me in they would give way, and place all
the treasures of invention before me.

Meanwhile, it unfortunately happens that I cannot lay my present
disappointment to the charge of advancing age.

I find all my faculties and all my strength in full bloom about me. My
disappointment has put that to a sharp trial. I thought that the
severe stretch of my faculties would cause them to yield, and subside
into feebleness and torpor. No such thing. Day after day, week after
week, I apply to this one question, without remission and with
discernment. But I cannot please myself. If I make the round of all my
thoughts, and come home empty-handed, it would seem that in the flower
and vigour of my youth I should have done the same.

Meanwhile, my situation is deplorable. I am not free to choose the
thing I would do. I have written two volumes and a quarter, and have
received five-sixths of the price of my work.

I am afraid you will think I am useless, by teasing you with
"conceptions only proper to myself." But it is not altogether so. A
bystander may see a point of game which a player overlooks. Though I
cannot furnish myself with satisfactory incidents I have disciplined
my mind into a tone that would enable me to improve them, if offered
to me.

My mind is like a train of gunpowder, and a single spark, now happily
communicated, might set the whole in motion and activity.

Do not tease yourself about my calamity; but give it one serious
thought. Who knows what such a thought may produce?--Your affectionate
Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

In the spring of 1832 the cholera appeared in London. Clare, at a distance, was torn to pieces between real apprehension for the safety of her friends, and distracting fears lest the disease should select among them for its victim some one on whose life depended the realisation of Shelley's will. For Percy especially she was solicitous. Mary must take him away at once, to the seaside--anywhere: if money was an obstacle she, Clare, was ready to help to defray the cost out of her salary.

Mrs. Shelley did leave London, although, it may safely be asserted, at no one's expense but her own. She stayed for a month at Southend, and afterwards for a longer time at Sandgate.

Besides contributing tales and occasionally verses to the _Keepsake_, she was employed now and during the next two or three years in preparing and writing the Italian and Spanish Lives of Literary Men for Lardner's _Cabinet Cyclopaedia_. These included, among the Italians--Petrarch, Boccaccio, Bojardo, Macchiavelli, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, Ugo Foscolo, etc.; among the Spanish and Portuguese--Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, Camoens, and a host of others, besides notices of the Troubadours, the "Romances Moriscos," and the early poets of Portugal.

Clare, too, tried her hand at a story, to which she begged Mary to be a kind of godmother.

I have written a tale, which I think will do for the _Keepsake_. I
shall send it home for your perusal. Will you correct it? Do write and
let me know where I may send it, so as to be sure to find you. Will
you be angry with me if I beg you to write the last scene of it? I am
now so unwell I can't.

My only time for writing is after 10 at night; the rest of the tale
was composed at that hour, after having been scolding and talking and
giving lessons from 7 in the morning.

It was very near its end when I got so ill, I gave it up. If you
cannot do anything with it you can at least make curl-papers of it,
and that is always something. Do not mention it to anybody; should it
be printed one can speak of it, and if you judge it not worthy, then
it is no use mortifying my vanity.

The truth, is I should never think of writing, knowing well my
incapacity for it, but I want to gain money. What would one not do for
that, since it is the only key of freedom? One is even impudent enough
to ask a great authoress to finish one's tale for one. I think, in
your hands, it might get into the _Keepsake_, for it is about a Pole,
and that is the topic of the day.

If it should get any money, half will naturally belong to you. Should
you have the kindness to arrange it, Julia would perhaps also be so
kind as to copy it out for me, that the alterations in your hand may
not be seen. I wish it to be signed "Mont Obscur."...

Mary did what was asked of her. Trelawny, now in England again, had influence in some literary quarters, and, at her request, willingly consented to exert it on Clare's behalf.

Meanwhile he requested her to receive his eldest daughter on a visit of considerable length.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_17th July 1832._

MY DEAR MARY--I am awaiting an occasion of sending ---- to Italy, my
friend, Lady D., undertaking the charge of her.

It may be a month before she leaves England. At the end of this month
Mrs. B. leaves London, and you will do me a great service if you will
permit my daughter to reside with you till I can make the necessary
arrangements for going abroad; she has been reared in a rough school,
like her father. I wish her to live and do as you do, and that you
will not put yourself to the slightest inconvenience on her account.

As we are poor, the rich are our inheritance, and we are justified on
all and every occasion to rob and use them.

But we must be honest and just amongst ourselves, therefore ---- must
to the last fraction pay her own expenses, and neither put you to
expense nor inconvenience. For the rest, I should like ---- to learn
to lean upon herself alone--to see the practical part of life: to
learn housekeeping on trifling means, and to benefit by her
intercourse with a woman like you; but I am ill at compliments.

If you will permit ---- to come to you, I will send or bring her to
you about the 25th of this month. I should like you and ---- to know
each other before she leaves England, and thus I have selected you to
take charge of her in preference to any other person; but say if it
chimes in with your wishes.

Adieu, dear Mary.--Your attached friend,

EDWARD TRELAWNY.

By the bye, tell me where the Sandgate coach starts from, its time of
leaving London, and its time of arrival at Sandgate, and where you
are, and if they will give you another bedroom in the house you are
lodging in; and if you have any intention of leaving Sandgate soon.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_27th July 1832._

MY DEAR MARY--You told me in your letter that it would be more
convenient for you to receive ---- on the last of the month, so I made
my arrangements accordingly. I now find it will suit me better to come
to you on Wednesday, so that you may expect ---- on the evening of
that day by the coach you mention. I shall of course put up at the
inn.

As to your style of lodging or living, ---- is not such a fool as to
let that have any weight with her; if you were in a cobbler's stall
she would be satisfied; and as to the dulness of the place, why, that
must mainly depend on ourselves. Brompton is not so very gay, and the
reason of my removing ---- to Italy is that Mrs. B. was about sending
her to reside with strangers at Lincoln; besides ---- is acting
entirely by her own free choice, and she gladly preferred Sandgate to
Lincoln. At all events, come we shall; and if you, by barricading or
otherwise, oppose our entrance, why I shall do to you, not as I would
have others do unto me, but as I do unto others,--make an onslaught on
your dwelling, carry your tenement by assault, and give the place up
to plunder.

So on Wednesday evening (at 5, by your account) you must be prepared
to quietly yield up possession or take the consequences. So as you
shall deport yourself, you will find me your friend or foe,

TRELAWNY.

Mary's guest stayed with her over a month. During this time she was saddened by the sudden death of her friendly acquaintance, Lord Dillon. She was anxious, too, about her father, whose equable spirits had failed him this year. No assistance seemed to avail much to ease his circumstances; he was not far from his eightieth year, and still his hopes were anchored in a yet-to-be-written novel.

"I feel myself able and willing to do everything, and to do it well,"
so he wrote, "and nobody disposed to give me the requisite
encouragement. If I can agree with these tyrants" (his publishers)
"for L300, L400, or L500 for a novel, and to be subsisted by them
while I write it, I probably shall not starve for a twelvemonth to
come ... but this dancing attendance wears my spirits and destroys my
tranquillity. 'Hands have I, but I handle not; I have feet, but I walk
not; neither is there any breath in my nostrils.'

"Meanwhile my life wears away, and 'there is no work, nor device, nor
knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither I go.' But, indeed, I am
wrong in talking of that, for I write now, not for marble to be placed
over my remains, but for bread to put into my mouth."

Mary tried in the summer to tempt him down to Sandgate for a change. But the weather was very cold, and he declined.

_28th August 1832._

DEAR MARY--

See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
Sullen and sad, with all his rising train--
Vapours, and clouds, and storms.

I am shivering over a little fire at the bottom of my grate, and have
small inclination to tempt the sea-breezes and the waves; we must
therefore defer our meeting till it comes within the walls of London.

* * * * *

_Au revoir!_ To what am I reserved? I know not.

The wide (no not) the unbounded prospect lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

A new shadow was now to fall upon the poor old man, in the death from cholera of his only son, Mary's half-brother, William. This son in his early youth had given some trouble and caused some anxiety, but his character, as he grew up, had become steadier and more settled. He was happily married, and seemed likely to be a source of real comfort and satisfaction to his parents in their old age. By profession he was a reporter, but he had his hereditary share of literary ability and of talent "turned for the relation of fictitious adventures," and left in MS. a novel called _Transfusion_, published by his father after his death, with the motto--

Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
May yet conjecture what I might have been.

Although inevitably somewhat hardened against misfortune of the heart by his self-centred habits of mind and anxiety about money, Godwin was much saddened by this loss, and to Mrs. Godwin it was a very great and bitter grief indeed.

Clare saw at once in this the beginning of fresh troubles; the realisation of all the gloomy forebodings in which she had indulged. She wrote to Jane Hogg--

That nasty year, 1832, could not go over without imitating in some
respects 1822, and bringing death and misfortune to us. From the time
it came in till it went out I trembled, expecting at every moment to
hear the most gloomy tidings.

William's death came, and fulfilled my anticipations; misfortune as it
was, it was not such a heavy one to me as the loss of others might
have been. I, however, was fond of him, because I did not view his
faults in that desponding light which his other relations did. I have
seen more of the world, and, comparing him with other young men, his
frugality, his industry, his attachment to his wife, and his talents,
raised him, in my opinion, considerably above the common par.

But in our family, if you cannot write an epic poem or novel that by
its originality knocks all other novels on the head, you are a
despicable creature, not worth acknowledging. What would they have
done or said had their children been fond of dress, fond of cards,
drunken, profligate, as most people's children are?

To Mary she wrote in a somewhat different tone, assuming that she, Clare, was the victim on whom all misfortune really fell, and wondering at Mary's incredible temerity in allowing her boy, that all-important heir-apparent, to face the perils of a public school.

And then, losing sight for a moment of her own feverish anxiety, she gives a vivid sketch of Mrs. Mason's family.

MISS CLAIRMONT TO MRS. SHELLEY.

PISA, _26th October 1832_.

MY DEAR MARY--Though your last letter was on so melancholy a subject,
yet I am so destitute of all happiness that to receive it was one to
me.

I have not yet got over the shock of William's death; from the moment
I heard of it until now I have been in a complete state of
annihilation. How long it will last I am sure I cannot tell; I hope
not much longer, or perhaps I shall go mad.

A horrible and most inevitable future is the image that torments me,
just as it did ten years ago, in this very city. But I won't torment
you, who have a thousand enjoyments that veil it from you, and need
not feel the blow till it comes. Our fates were always different; mine
is to feel the shadow of coming misfortunes, and to sicken beneath it.
There seems to have been great imprudence on William's part: my Mother
says he went to Bartholomew Fair the day before he was taken ill; then
he did not have medical assistance so soon as ill, which they say is
of the highest importance in the cholera, so altogether I suppose his
life was thrown away--a most lucky circumstance for himself, but God
knows what it will be for the Godwins.

His death changed my plans. I had settled to go to Vienna, but as the
cholera is still there, I no longer considered myself free to offer
another of my Mother's children to be its victim. Mrs. Mason
represented the imprudence of it, considering my weak health, the
depressed state of my spirits for the last twelve years, the fatigue
of the long journey, and the chilliness of the season of the year,
which are all things that predispose excessively to the disease, and I
yielded out of regard to my Mother. I thought she would prefer
anything to my dying, or else at Vienna, Charles tells me, I could
earn more than I am likely to earn here. For the same reason Paris
was abandoned. I beg you will tell her this, and hope she will think I
have done well.

In the meantime I stay with Mrs. Mason, and have got an engagement as
day governess with an English family, which will supply me with money
for my own expenses, but nothing more. In the spring they wish to take
me entirely, but the pay is not brilliant. When I know more about them
I will tell you. Nothing can equal Mrs. Mason's kindness to me. Hers
is the only house, except my Mother's, in which all my life I have
always felt at home. With her, I am as her child; from the merest
trifle to the greatest object, she treats me as if her happiness
depended on mine. Then she understands me so completely. I have no
need to disguise my sentiments; to barricade myself up in silence, as
I do almost with everybody, for fear they should see what passes in my
mind, and hate me for it, because it does not resemble what passes in
theirs. This ought to be a great happiness to me, and would, did not
her unhappiness and her precarious state of health darken it with the
torture of fear. It is too bitter, after a long life passed in
unbroken misery, to find a good only that you may lose it.

Laurette's marriage is to take place at the end of November. Mrs.
Mason having tried every means to hinder it, and seeing that she
cannot, is now impatient it should be over. Their present state is too
painful. She cannot disguise her dislike of Galloni; he having nearly
killed her with his scenes, and Laurette cannot sympathise with her;
being on the point of marrying him, and feeling grateful for his
excessive attachment, she wishes to think as well of him as she can.
It is the first time the mother and daughter have ever divided in
opinion, and galls both in a way that seems unreasonable to those who
live in the world, and are accustomed to meet rebuffs in their dearest
feelings at every moment. But our friends live in solitude, and have
nursed themselves into a height of romance about everything. They both
think their destinies annihilated, because the union of their minds
has suffered this interruption. However, no violence mingles with
this sentiment and excites displeasure; on the contrary, I wish it
did, for it would be easier to heal than the tragic immutable sorrow
with which they take it.

While these two dissolve in quiet grief, Nerina, the Italian, agitates
herself on the question; she forgets all her own love affairs, and all
the sabre slashes and dagger stabs of her own poor heart, to fall into
fainting fits and convulsions every time she sees Laurette and her
mother fix their eyes mournfully upon each other; then she talks and
writes upon the subject incessantly, even till 3 o'clock in the
morning. She has a band of young friends of both sexes, and with them,
either by word of mouth or by letter, she _sfogares_ herself of her
hatred of Galloni, of the unparalleled cruelty of Laurette's fate, and
of the terrific grave that is yawning for her mother; her mind is
discursive, and she introduces into her lamentations observations upon
the faulty manner in which she and her sister have been educated,
strictures upon the nature of love, objurgations against the whole
race of man, and eloquent appeals to the female sex to prefer
patriotism to matrimony.

All the life that is left in the house is now concentrated in Nerina,
and I am sure she cannot complain of a dearth of sensations, for she
takes good care to feel with everything around her, for if the chair
does but knock the table, she shudders and quakes for both, and runs
into her own study to write it down in her journal. Into this small
study she always hurries me, and pours out her soul, and I am well
pleased to listen, for she is full of genius; when the tide has flowed
so long, it has spent itself, we generally pause, and then begin to
laugh at the ridiculous figures human beings cut in struggling all
their might and main against a destiny which forces millions and
millions of enormous planets on their way, and against which all
struggling is useless.

_8th November._

My letter has been lying by all this time, I not having time to write.
I am afraid this winter I shall scarcely be able to keep up a
correspondence at all. I must be out at 9 in the morning, and am not
home before 10 at night. I inhabit at Mrs. Mason's a room without a
fire, so that when I get home there is no sitting in it without
perishing with cold. I cannot sit with the Masons, because they have a
set of young men every night to see them, and I do not wish to make
their acquaintance. I walk straight into my own room on my return.
Writing either letters or articles will be a matter of great
difficulty. The season is very cold here. My health always diminishes
in proportion to the cold.

I am very glad to hear that Percy likes Harrow, but I shudder from
head to foot when I think of your boldness in sending him there. I
think in certain things you are the most daring woman I ever knew.
There are few mothers who, having suffered the misfortunes you have,
and having such advantages depending upon the life of an only son,
would venture to expose that life to the dangers of a public school.

As for me, it is not for nothing that my fate has been taken out of my
own hands and put into those of people who have wantonly torn it into
miserable shreds and remnants; having once endured to have my whole
happiness sacrificed to the gratification of some of their foolish
whims, why I can endure it again, and so my mind is made up and my
resolution taken. I confess, I could wish there were another world in
which people were to answer for what they do in this! I wish this,
because without it I am afraid it will become a law that those who
inflict must always go on inflicting, and those who have once suffered
must always go on suffering.

I hope nothing will happen to Percy; but the year, the school itself
that you have chosen, and the ashes[13] that lie near it, and the
hauntings of my own mind, all seem to announce the approach of that
consummation which I dread.

I am very glad you are delighted with Trelawny. My affections are
entirely without jealousy; the more those I love love others, and are
loved by them, the better pleased am I. I am in a vile humour for
writing a letter; you would not wonder at it if you knew how I am
plagued. I can say from experience that the wonderful variety there is
of miseries in this world is truly astonishing; if some Linnaeus would
class them as he did flowers, the number of their kinds would far
surpass the boasted infinitude of the vegetable creation. Not a day
nor hour passes but introduces me to some new pain, and each one
contains within itself swarms of smaller ones--animalculae pains which
float up and down in it, and compose its existence and their own. What
Mademoiselle de L'Espinasse was for love, I am for pain,--all my
letters are on the same subject, and yet I hope I do not repeat
myself, for truly, with such diversity of experience, I ought not.

Our friends here send their best love to you, and are interested in
your perilous destiny. I have just received a letter from my Mother,
and in obedience to her representations draw my breath as peacefully
as I can till the month of January. Will you explain to me one phrase
of her letter? Talking of the chances of their getting money, she
says: "Then Miss Northcote is not expected to live over the winter,"
and not a word beside. Who in the world is Miss Northcote? and what
influence can her death have in bettering their prospects?

Notwithstanding my writing such a beastly letter as this to you, pray
do write. I work myself into the most dreadful state of irritation
when I am long without letters from some of you. Tell Jane I entreat
her to write, and tell my Mother that the bill of lading of the parcel
for me is come, but Mrs. Mason sent it off to Leghorn without my
seeing it, and was too ill herself to look at the date, so I know not
when it was shipped, but as Mr. Routh has the bill, I suppose I shall
hear when it has arrived and performed quarantine.

Thank Trelawny for me for his kindness about the article. Pisa is very
dull yet. I am told there are seven or eight English families arrived,
but I have not seen them.

Farewell, my dear Mary. Be well and happy, and excuse my
dulness.--Yours ever affectionately,

C. CLAIRMONT.

One term's experience was enough to convince Mrs. Shelley that she could only afford to continue her son's school education by leaving London herself and settling with him at Harrow for some years.

In January 1833 she wrote an account of her affairs to her old friend, Mrs. Gisborne--

Never was poor body so worried as I have been ever since I last wrote,
I think; worries which plague and press on one, and keep one fretting.
Money, of course, is the Alpha and Omega of my tale. Harrow proves so
fearfully expensive that I have been sadly put to it to pay Percy's
bill for one quarter (L60, _soltanto_), and, to achieve it, am
hampered for the whole year. My only resource is to live at Harrow,
for in every other respect I like the school, and would not take him
from it. He will become a home boarder, and school expenses will be
very light. I shall take a house, being promised many facilities for
furnishing it by a kind friend.

To go and live at pretty Harrow, with my boy, who improves each day
and is everything I could wish, is no bad prospect, but I have much to
go through, and am so poor that I can hardly turn myself. It is hard
on my poor dear Father, and I sometimes think it hard on myself to
leave a knot of acquaintances I like; but that is a fiction, for half
the times I am asked out I cannot go because of the expense, and I am
suffering now for the times when I do go, and so incur debt.

No, Maria mine, God never intended me to do other than struggle
through life, supported by such blessings as make existence more than
tolerable, and yet surrounded by such difficulties as make fortitude a
necessary virtue, and destroy all idea of great and good luck. I might
have been much worse off, and I repeat this to myself ten thousand
times a day to console myself for not being better.

My Father's novel is printed, and, I suppose, will come out soon. Poor
dear fellow! It is hard work for him.

I am in all the tremor of fearing what I shall get for my novel, which
is nearly finished. His and my comfort depend on it. I do not know
whether you will like it. I cannot guess whether it will succeed.
There is no writhing interest; nothing wonderful nor tragic--will it
be dull? _Chi lo sa?_ We shall see. I shall, of course, be very glad
if it succeeds.

Percy went back to Harrow to-day. He likes his school much. Have I any
other news for you? Trelawny is gone to America; he is about to cross
to Charlestown directly there is a prospect of war--war in America. I
am truly sorry. Brothers should not fight for the different and
various portions of their inheritance. What is the use of republican
principles and liberty if peace is not the offspring? War is the
companion and friend of monarchy; if it be the same of freedom, the
gain is not much to mankind between a sovereign and president.

* * * * *

Not long after taking up her residence at Harrow, which she did in April 1833, Mrs. Shelley was attacked by influenza, then prevailing in a virulent form. She did not wholly recover from its effects till after the Midsummer holidays, which she spent at Putney for change of air. She found the solitude of her new abode very trying. Her boy had, of course, his school pursuits and interests to occupy him, and, though her literary work served while it lasted to ward off depression, the constant mental strain was attended with an inevitable degree of reaction for which a little genial and sympathetic human intercourse would have been the best--indeed, the only--cure.

As for her father, now she had gone he missed her sadly.

GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

_July 1833._

DEAR MARY--I shall certainly not come to you on Monday. It would do
neither of us good. I am a good deal of a spoiled child. And were I
not so, and could rouse myself, like Diogenes, to be independent of
all outward comforts, you would treat me as if I could not, so that it
would come to the same thing.

What a while it is since I saw you! The last time was the 10th of
May,--towards two months,--we who used to see each other two or three
times a week! But for the scale of miles at the bottom of the map, you
might as well be at Timbuctoo or in the deserts of Arabia.

Oh, this vile Harrow! Your illness, for its commencement or duration,
is owing to that place. At one time I was seriously alarmed for you.

And now that I hope you are better, with what tenaciousness does it
cling to you! If I ever see you again I wonder whether I shall know
you. I am much tormented by my place, by my book, and hardly suppose I
shall ever be tranquil again.

I am disposed to adopt the song of Simeon, and to say, "Lord, now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!" At seventy years of age,
what is there worth living for? I have enjoyed existence, been active,
strenuous, proud, but my eyes are dim, and my energies forsake
me.--Your affectionate Father,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

The next letter is addressed to Trelawny, now in America,

MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

HARROW, _7th May 1834_.

DEAR TRELAWNY--I confess I have been sadly remiss in not writing to
you. I have written once, however, as you have written once (but
once) to me. I wrote in answer to your letter. I am sorry you did not
get it, as it contained a great deal of gossip. It was misdirected by
a mistake of Jane's.... It was sent at the end of last September to
New York. I told you in it of the infidelity of several of your
womankind,--how Mrs. R. S. was flirting with Bulwer, to the infinite
jealousy of Mrs. Bulwer, and making themselves the talk of the
town.... Such and much tittle-tattle was in that letter, all old news
now.... The S.'s (Captain Robert and wife, I mean) went to Paris and
were ruined, and are returned under a cloud to rusticate in the
country in England.

Bulwer is making the amiable to his own wife, who is worth in beauty
all the Mrs. R. S.'s in the world....

Jane has been a good deal indisposed, and has grown very thin. Jeff
had an appointment which took him away for several months, and she
pined and grew ill on his absence; she is now reviving under the
beneficent influence of his presence.

I called on your mother a week or two ago; she always asks after you
with _empressement_, and is very civil indeed to me. She was looking
well, but ---- tells me, in her note enclosing your letter, that she
is ill of the same illness as she had two years ago, but not so bad. I
think she lives too well.

---- is expecting to be confined in a very few weeks, or even days.
She is very happy with B.... He is a thoroughly good-natured and
estimable man; it is a pity he is not younger and handsomer; however,
she is a good girl, and contented with her lot; we are very good
friends.... I should like much to see your friend, Lady Dorothea, but,
though in Europe, I am very far from her. I live on my hill,
descending to town now and then. I should go oftener if I were richer.
Percy continues quite well, and enjoys my living at Harrow, which is
more than I do, I am sorry to say, but there is no help.

My Father is in good health. Mrs. Godwin has been very ill lately, but
is now better.

I thought Fanny Kemble was to marry and settle in America: what a
singular likeness you have discovered! I never saw her, except on the
stage.

So much for news. They say it is a long lane that has no turning. I
have travelled the same road for nearly twelve years; adversity,
poverty, and loneliness being my companions. I suppose it will change
at last, but I have nothing to tell of myself except that Percy is
well, which is the beginning and end of my existence.

I am glad you are beginning to respect women's feelings.... You have
heard of Sir H.'s death. Mrs. B. (who is great friends with S., now
Sir William, an M.P.) says that it is believed that he has left all he
could to the Catholic members of his family. Why not come over and
marry Letitia, who in consequence will be rich? and, I daresay, still
beautiful in your eyes, though thirty-four.

We have had a mild, fine winter, and the weather now is as warm,
sunny, and cheering as an Italian May. We have thousands of birds and
flowers innumerable, and the trees of spring in the fields.

Jane's children are well. The time will come, I suppose, when we may
meet again more (richly) provided by fortune, but youth will have
flown, and that in a woman is something....

I have always felt certain that I should never again change my name,
and that is a comfort, it is a pretty and a dear one. Adieu, write to
me often, and I will behave better, and as soon as I have accumulated
a little news, write again.--Ever yours,

M. W. S.

MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

_17th July 1834._

I am satisfied with my plan as regards him (Percy). I like the school,
and the affection thus cultivated for me will, I trust, be the
blessing of my life.

Still there are many drawbacks; this is a dull, inhospitable place. I
came counting on the kindness of a friend who lived here, but she
died of the influenza, and I live in a silence and loneliness not
possible anywhere except in England, where people are so _islanded_
individually in habits; I often languish for sympathy, and pine for
social festivity.

Percy is much, but I think of you and Henry, and shrink from binding
up my life in a child who may hereafter divide his fate from mine. But
I have no resource; everything earthly fails me but him; except on his
account I live but to suffer. Those I loved are false or dead; those I
love, absent and suffering; and I, absent and poor, can be of no use
to them. Of course, in this picture, I subtract the enjoyment of good
health and usually good spirits,--these are blessings; but when driven
to think, I feel so desolate, so unprotected, so oppressed and
injured, that my heart is ready to break with despair. I came here, as
I said, in April 1833, and 9th June was attacked by the influenza, so
as to be confined to my bed; nor did I recover the effects for several
months.

In September, during Percy's holidays, I went to Putney, and recovered
youth and health; Julia Robinson was with me, and we spent days in
Richmond Park and on Putney Heath, often walking twelve or fourteen
miles, which I did without any sense of fatigue. I sorely regretted
returning here. I am too poor to furnish. I have lodgings in the
town,--disagreeable ones,--yet often, in spite of care and sorrow, I
feel wholly compensated by my boy.... God help me if anything was to
happen to him--I should not survive it a week. Besides his society I
have also a good deal of occupation.

I have finished a novel, which, if you meet with, read, as I think
there are parts which will please you. I am engaged writing the lives
of some of the Italian _literati_ for Dr. Lardner's _Cyclopaedia_. I
have written those of Petrarch, Boccaccio, etc., and am now engaged on
Macchiavelli; this takes up my time, and is a source of interest and
pleasure.

My Father, I suppose you know, has a tiny, shabby place under
Government. The retrenchments of Parliament endanger and render us
anxious. He is quite well, but old age takes from his enjoyments. Mrs.
Godwin, after influenza, has been suffering from the tic-doloreux in
her arm most dreadfully; they are trying all sorts of poisons on her
with little effect. Their discomfort and low spirits will force me to
spend Percy's holidays in town, to be near them. Jane and Jeff are
well; he was sent last autumn and winter by Lord Brougham as one of
the Corporation Commissioners; he was away for months, and Jane took
the opportunity to fall desperately in love with him--she pined and
grew ill, and wasted away for him. The children are quite well. Dina
spent a week here lately; she is a sweet girl. Edward improves daily
under the excellent care taken of his education. I leave Jane to
inform you of their progress in Greek. Dina plays wonderfully well,
and has shown great taste for drawing, but this last is not
cultivated.