Chapter XXIII: October 1831-October 1839 (2)

I did not go to the Abbey, nor the Opera, nor hear Grisi; I am shut
out from all things--like you--by poverty and loneliness. Percy's
pleasures are not mine; I have no other companion.

What effect Paganini would have had on you, I cannot tell; he threw me
into hysterics. I delight in him more than I can express. His wild,
ethereal figure, rapt look, and the sounds he draws from his violin
are all superhuman--of human expression. It is interesting to see the
astonishment and admiration of Spagnoletti and Nervi as they watch his
evolutions.

Bulwer is a man of extraordinary and delightful talent. He went to
Italy and Sicily last winter, and, I hear, disliked the inhabitants.
Yet, notwithstanding, I am sure he will spread inexpressible and
graceful interest over the _Last Days of Pompeii_, the subject of his
new novel. Trelawny is in America, and not likely to return. Hunt
lives at Chelsea, and thrives, I hear, by his London pursuit. I have
not seen him for more than a year, for reasons I will not here
detail--they concern his family, not him.

Clare is in a situation in Pisa, near Mrs. Mason. Laurette and Nerina
are married; the elder badly, to one who won her at the dagger's
point--a sad unintelligible story; Nerina, to the best and most
delightful Pistoiese, by name Bartolomeo Cini--both to Italians.
Laurette lives at Genoa, Nerina at Livorno; the latter is only newly a
bride, and happier than words can express. My Italian maid, Maria,
says to Clare, _Non vedro ora mai la mia Padrona ed il mio Bimbo?_ her
Bimbo--as tall as I am and large in proportion--has good health
withal....

Pray write one word of information concerning your health before I
attribute your silence to forgetfulness; but you must not trifle now
with the anxiety you have awakened. I will write again soon. With
kindest regards to your poor, good husband, the fondest hopes that
your health is improved, and anxious expectation of a letter, believe
me, ever affectionately yours,

M. W. SHELLEY.

MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

HARROW, _30th October 1834_.

MY DEAREST MARIA--Thank you many times for your kind dear letter. God
grant that your constitution may yet bear up a long time, and that you
may continue impressed with the idea of your happiness. To be loved is
indeed necessary. Sympathy and companionship are the only sweets to
make the nauseous draught of life go down; and I, who feel this, live
in a solitude such as, since the days of hermits in the desert, no one
was ever before condemned to! I see no one, speak to no one--except
perhaps for a chance half-hour in the course of a fortnight. I never
walk beyond my garden, because I cannot walk alone. You will say I
ought to force myself; so I thought once, and tried, but it would not
do. The sense of desolation was too oppressive. I only find relief
from the sadness of my position by living a dreamy existence from
which realities are excluded; but going out disturbed this; I wept; my
heart beat with a sense of injury and wrong; I was better shut up.
Poverty prevents me from visiting town; I am too far for visitors to
reach me; I must bear to the end. Twelve years have I spent, the
currents of life benumbed by poverty; life and hope are over for me,
but I think of Percy!

Yet for the present something more is needed--something not so
_unnatural_ as my present life. Not that I often feel _ennui_--I am
too much employed--but it hurts me, it destroys the spring of my mind,
and makes me at once over-sensitive with my fellow-creatures, and yet
their victim and their dupe. It takes all strength from my character,
and makes me--who by nature am too much so--timid. I used to have one
resource, a belief in my _good fortune_; this is exchanged after
twelve years--one adversity, blotted and sprinkled with many
adversities; a dark ground, with sad figures painted on it--to a
belief in my ill fortune.

Percy is spared to me, because I am to live. He is a blessing; my
heart acknowledges that perhaps he is as great an one as any human
being possesses; and indeed, my dear friend, while I suffer, I do not
repine while he remains. He is not all you say; he has no ambition,
and his talents are not so transcendent as you appear to imagine; but
he is a fine, spirited, clever boy, and I think promises good things;
if hereafter I have reason to be proud of him, these melancholy days
and weeks at Harrow will brighten in my imagination--and they are not
melancholy. I am seldom so, but they are not right, and it will be a
good thing if they terminate happily soon.

At the same time, I cannot in the least regret having come here: it
was the only way I had of educating Percy at a public school, of which
institution, at least here at Harrow, the more I see the more I like;
besides that, it was Shelley's wish that his son should be brought up
at one. It is, indeed, peculiarly suited to Percy; and whatever he may
be, he will be twice as much as if he had been brought up in the
narrow confinement of a private school.

The boys here have liberty to the verge of licence; yet of the latter,
save the breaking of a few windows now and then, there is none. His
life is not quite what it would be if he did not live with me, but
the greater scope given to the cultivation of the affections is surely
an advantage.

* * * * *

You heard of the dreadful fire at the Houses of Parliament. We saw it
here from the commencement, raging like a volcano; it was dreadful to
see, but, fortunately, I was not aware of the site. Papa lives close
to the Speaker's, so you may imagine my alarm when the news reached
me, fortunately without foundation, as the fire did not gain that part
of the Speaker's house near them, so they were not even
inconvenienced. The poor dear Speaker has lost dreadfully; what was
not burnt is broken, soaked, and drenched--all their pretty things;
and imagine the furniture and princely chambers--the house was a
palace. For the sake of convenience to the Commons, they are to take
up their abode in the ruins. With kindest wishes for you and S. G.,
ever dearest friend, your affectionate

MARY W. SHELLEY.

THE SAME TO THE SAME.

_February 1835._

... I must tell you that I have had the offer of L600 for an edition
of Shelley's works, with _Life and Notes_. I am afraid it cannot be
arranged, yet at least, and the _Life_ is out of the question; but in
talking over it the question of letters comes up. You know how I
shrink from all private detail for the public; but Shelley's letters
are beautifully written, and everything private might be omitted.

Would you allow the publisher to treat with you for their being added
to my edition? If I could arrange all as I wish, they might be an
acquisition to the books, and being transacted through me, you could
not see any inconvenience in receiving the price they would be worth
to the bookseller. This is all _in aria_ as yet, but I should like to
know what you think about it. I write all this, yet am very anxious to
hear from you; never mind postage, but do write.

Percy is reading the _Antigone_; he has begun mathematics. Mrs.
Cleveland[14] and Jane dined with me the other day. Mrs. Cleveland
thought Percy wonderfully improved.

The volume of Lardner's _Cyclopaedia_, with my _Lives_, was published
on the first of this month; it is called _Lives of Eminent Literary
Men_, vol. i. The lives of Dante and Ariosto are by Mr. Montgomery,
the rest are mine.

Do write, my dearest Maria, and believe me ever and ever,
affectionately yours,

M. W. SHELLEY.

_Lodore_, Mrs. Shelley's fifth novel, came out in 1835. It differs from the others in being a novel of society, and has been stigmatised, rather unjustly, as weak and colourless, although at the time of its publication it had a great success. It is written in a style which is now out of date, and undoubtedly fails to fulfil the promise of power held out by _Frankenstein_ and to some extent by _Valperga_, but it bears on every page the impress of the refinement and sensibility of the author, and has, moreover, a special interest of its own, due to the fact that some of the incidents are taken from actual occurrences in her early life, and some of the characters sketched from people she had known.

Thus, in the description of Clorinda, it is impossible not to recognise Emilia Viviani. The whole episode of Edward Villier's arrest and imprisonment for debt, and his young wife's anxieties, is an echo of her own experience at the time when Shelley was hiding from the bailiffs and meeting her by stealth in St. Paul's or Holborn. Lodore himself has some affinity to Byron, and possibly the account of his separation from his wife and of their daughter's girlhood is a fanciful train of thought suggested by Byron's domestic history. Most of Mary's novels present the contrast of the Shelleyan and Byronic types. In this instance the latter was recognised by Clare, and drew from her one of those bitter tirades against Byron, which, natural enough in her at the outset, became in the course of years quite morbidly venomous. Not content with laying Allegra's death to his charge, she, in her later letters, accuses him of treacherously plotting and conspiring, out of hatred to herself, to do away with the child, an allegation unjust and false. In the present instance, however, she only entered an excited protest against his continual reappearance as the hero of a novel.

Mrs. Hare admired _Lodore_ amazingly; so do I, or should I, if it were
not for that modification of the beastly character of Lord Byron of
which you have composed Lodore. I stick to _Frankenstein_, merely
because that vile spirit does not haunt its pages as it does in all
your other novels, now as Castruccio, now as Raymond,[15] now as
Lodore. Good God! to think a person of your genius, whose moral tact
ought to be proportionately exalted, should think it a task befitting
its powers to gild and embellish and pass off as beautiful what was
the merest compound of vanity, folly, and every miserable weakness
that ever met together in one human being! As I do not want to be
severe on the poor man, because he is dead and cannot defend himself,
I have only taken the lighter defects of his character, or else I
might say that never was a nature more profoundly corrupted than his
became, or was more radically vulgar than his was from the very
outset. Never was there an individual less adapted, except perhaps
Alcibiades, for being held up as anything but an object of
commiseration, or as an example of how contemptible is even
intellectual greatness when not joined with moral greatness. I shall
be anxious to see if the hero of your new novel will be another
beautified Byron. Thank heaven! you have not taken to drawing your
women upon the same model. Cornelia I like the least of them; she is
the most like him, because she is so heartlessly proud and selfish,
but all the others are angels of light.

Euthanasia[16] is Shelley in female attire, and what a glorious being
she is! No author, much less the ones--French, English, or German--of
our day, can bring a woman that matches her. Shakespeare has not a
specimen so perfect of what a woman ought to be; his, for amiability,
deep feeling, wit, are as high as possible, but they want her
commanding wisdom, her profound benevolence.

I am glad to hear you are writing again; I am always in a fright lest
you should take it into your head to do what the warriors do after
they have acquired great fame,--retire and rest upon your laurels.
That would be very comfortable for you, but very vexing to me, who am
always wanting to see women distinguishing themselves in literature,
and who believe there has not been or ever will be one so calculated
as yourself to raise our sex upon that point. If you would but know
your own value and exert your powers you could give the men a most
immense drubbing! You could write upon metaphysics, politics,
jurisprudence, astronomy, mathematics--all those highest subjects
which they taunt us with being incapable of treating, and surpass
them; and what a consolation it would be, when they begin some of
their prosy, lying, but plausible attacks upon female inferiority, to
stop their mouths in a moment with your name, and then to add, "and if
women, whilst suffering the heaviest slavery, could out-do you, what
would they not achieve were they free?"

With this manifesto on the subject of women's genius in general and of Mary's in particular--perhaps just redeemed by its tinge of irony from the last degree of absurdity--it is curious to contrast Mrs. Shelley's own conclusions, drawn from weary personal experience, and expressed, towards the end of the following letter, in a mood which permitted her no illusions and few hopes.

MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

HARROW, _11th June 1835_.

MY DEAREST FRIEND--It is so inexpressibly warm that were not a frank
lying before me ready for you, I do not think I should have courage to
write. Do not be surprised, therefore, at stupidity and want of
connection. I cannot collect my ideas, and this is a goodwill offering
rather than a letter.

Still I am anxious to thank S. G. for the pleasure I have received
from his tale of Italy--a tale all Italy, breathing of the land I
love. The descriptions are beautiful, and he has shed a charm round
the concentrated and undemonstrative person of his gentle heroine. I
suppose she is the reality of the story; did you know her?

It is difficult, however, to judge how to procure for it the
publication it deserves. I have no personal acquaintance with the
editors of any of the annuals--I had with that of the _Keepsake_, but
that is now in Mrs. Norton's hands, and she has not asked me to write,
so I know nothing about it; but there arises a stronger objection from
the length of the story. As the merit lies in the beauty of the
details, I do not see how it could be cut down to _one quarter_ of its
present length, which is as long as any tale printed in an annual.
When I write for them, I am worried to death to make my things shorter
and shorter, till I fancy people think ideas can be conveyed by
intuition, and that it is a superstition to consider words necessary
for their expression.

I was so very delighted to get your last letter, to be sure the
"Wisest of Men" said no news was good news, but I am not apt to think
so, and was uneasy. I hope this weather does not oppress you. What an
odd climate! A week ago I had a fire, and now it is warmer than Italy;
warmer at least in a box pervious to the sun than in the stone palaces
where one can breathe freely. My Father is well. He had a cough in the
winter, but after we had persuaded him to see a doctor it was easily
got rid of. He writes to me himself, "I am now well, now nervous, now
old, now young." One sign of age is, that his horror is so great of
change of place that I cannot persuade him ever to visit me here. One
would think that the sight of the fields would refresh him, but he
likes his own nest better than all, though he greatly feels the
annoyance of so seldom seeing me.

Indeed, my kind Maria, you made me smile when you asked me to be civil
to the brother of your kind doctor. I thought I had explained my
situation to you. You must consider me as one buried alive. I hardly
ever go to town; less often I see any one here. My kind and dear young
friends, the Misses Robinson, are at Brussels. I am cut off from my
kind. What I suffer! What I have suffered! I, to whom sympathy,
companionship, the interchange of thought is more necessary than the
air I breathe, I will not say. Tears are in my eyes when I think of
days, weeks, months, even years spent alone--eternally alone. It does
me great harm, but no more of so odious a subject. Let me speak rather
of my Percy; to see him bright and good is an unspeakable blessing;
but no child can be a companion. He is very fond of me, and would be
wretched if he saw me unhappy; but he is with his boys all day long,
and I am alone, so I can weep unseen. He gets on very well, and is a
fine boy, very stout; this hot weather, though he exposes himself to
the sun, instead of making him languid, heightens the colour in his
cheeks and brightens his eyes. He is always gay and in good humour,
which is a great blessing.

You talk about my poetry and about the encouragement I am to find from
Jane and my Father. When they read all the fine things you said they
thought it right to attack me about it, but I answered them simply,
"She exaggerates; you read the best thing I ever wrote in the
_Keepsake_ and thought nothing of it." I do not know whether you
remember the verses I mean. I will copy it in another part; it was
written for music. Poor dear Lord Dillon spoke of it as you do of the
rest; but "one swallow does not make a summer." I can never write
verses except under the influence of strong sentiment, and seldom even
then. As to a tragedy, Shelley used to urge me, which produced his
own. When I returned first to England and saw Kean, I was in a fit of
enthusiasm, and wished much to write for the stage, but my Father very
earnestly dissuaded me. I think that he was in the wrong. I think
myself that I could have written a good tragedy, but not now. My good
friend, every feeling I have is blighted, I have no ambition, no care
for fame. Loneliness has made a wreck of me. I was always a dependent
thing, wanting fosterage and support. I am left to myself, crushed by
fortune, and I am nothing.

You speak of woman's intellect. We can scarcely do more than judge by
ourselves. I know that, however clever I may be, there is in me a
vacillation, a weakness, a want of eagle-winged resolution that
appertains to my intellect as well as to my moral character, and
renders me what I am, one of broken purposes, failing thoughts, and a
heart all wounds. My mother had more energy of character, still she
had not sufficient fire of imagination. In short, my belief is,
whether there be sex in souls or not, that the sex of our material
mechanism makes us quite different creatures, better, though weaker,
but wanting in the higher grades of intellect.

I am almost sorry to send you this letter, it is so querulous and sad;
yet, if I write with any effusion, the truth will creep out, and my
life since you left has been so stained by sorrow and disappointments.
I have been so barbarously handled both by fortune and my
fellow-creatures, that I am no longer the same as when you knew me. I
have no hope. In a few years, when I get over my present feelings and
live wholly in Percy, I shall be happier. I have devoted myself to him
as no mother ever did, and idolise him; and the reward will come when
I can forget a thousand memories and griefs that are as yet alive and
burning, and I have nothing to do but brood.

Percy is gone two miles off to bathe; he can swim, and I am obliged to
leave the rest to fate. It is no use coddling, yet it costs me many
pangs; but he is singularly trustworthy and careful. Do write, and
believe me ever your truly attached friend,

M. W. S.

A DIRGE

I

This morn thy gallant bark, love,
Sailed on a stormy sea;
'Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! ah woe! ah woe!
By spirits of the deep
He's cradled on the billow
To his unwaking sleep.

II

Thou liest upon the shore, love,
Beside the knelling surge,
But sea-nymphs ever more, love,
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
Oh come! oh come! oh come!
Ye spirits of the deep;
While near his seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.

III

From far across the sea, love,
I hear a wild lament,
By Echo's voice for thee, love,
From ocean's caverns sent.
Oh list! oh list! oh list!
Ye spirits of the deep,
Loud sounds their wail of sorrow,
While I for ever weep.

_P.S._--Do you not guess why neither these nor those I sent you could
please those you mention? Papa loves not the memory of Shelley,
because he feels that he injured him; and Jane--do you not understand
enough of her to be convinced of the thoughts that make it distasteful
to her that I should feel, and above all be thought by others to feel,
and to have a right to feel? Oh! the human heart! It is a strange
puzzle.

The weary, baffled tone of this letter was partly due to a low state of health, which resulted in a severe attack of illness. During her boy's Midsummer holidays she went to Dover in search of strength, and, while there, received a letter from Trelawny, who had returned from America, as vivacious and irrepressible as ever.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

BEDFORD HOTEL, BRIGHTON,
_12th September 1835_.

MARY, DEAR--Six days I rest, and do all that I have to do on the
seventh, because it is forbidden. If they would make it felony to
obey the Commandments (without benefit of clergy), don't you think the
pleasures of breaking the law would make me keep them?

* * * * *

I cannot surmise _one_ of the "thousand reasons" which you say are to
prevent my seeing you. On the contrary, your being "chained to your
rock" enables me to play the vulture at discretion. It is well for
you, therefore, that I am "the most prudent of men." What a host of
virtues I am gifted with! When I am dead, lady mine, build a temple
over me and make pilgrimages. Talking of tombs, let it be agreed
between you and me that whichever _first_ has _five hundred pounds_ at
his disposal shall dedicate it to the placing a fitting monument over
the ashes of Shelley.

We will go to Rome together. The time, too, cannot be far distant,
considering all things. Remember me to Percy. I shall direct this to
Jane's, not that I think you are there. Adieu, Mary!--Your

E. TRELAWNY.

During the latter part of Mary's residence in London she had seen a great deal of Mrs. Norton, who was much attracted by her and very fond of her society, finding in her a most sympathetic friend and confidant at the time of those domestic troubles, culminating in the separation from her children, which afterwards obtained a melancholy publicity. Mrs. Shelley never became wholly intimate with her brilliant contemporary. Reserve, and a certain pride of poverty, forbade it, but she greatly admired her, and they constantly corresponded.

_1835._

... "I do not wonder," Mary wrote to Trelawny, "at your not being able
to deny yourself the pleasure of Mrs. Norton's society. I never saw a
woman I thought so fascinating. Had I been a man I should certainly
have fallen in love with her; as a woman, ten years ago, I should have
been spellbound, and, had she taken the trouble, she might have wound
me round her finger. Ten years ago I was so ready to give myself away,
and being afraid of men, I was apt to get _tousy-mousy_ for women;
experience and suffering have altered all that. I am more wrapt up in
myself, my own feelings, disasters, and prospects for Percy. I am now
proof, as Hamlet says, both against man and woman.

"There is something in the pretty way in which Mrs. Norton's
witticisms glide, as it were, from her lips, that is very charming;
and then her colour, which is so variable, the eloquent blood which
ebbs and flows, mounting, as she speaks, to her neck and temples, and
then receding as fast; it reminds me of the frequent quotation of
'eloquent blood,' and gives a peculiar attraction to her
conversation--not to speak of fine eyes and open brow.

"Now do not in your usual silly way show her what I say. She is,
despite all her talents and sweetness, a London lady. She would quiz
me--not, perhaps, to you--well do I know the London _ton_--but to
every one else--in her prettiest manner."

The day after this she was writing again to Mrs. Gisborne.

_13th October 1835._

Of myself, my dearest Maria, I can give but a bad account. Solitude,
many cares, and many deep sorrows brought on this summer an illness,
from which I am only now recovering. I can never forget, nor cease to
be grateful to Jane for her excessive kindness to me, when I needed it
most, confined, as I was, to my sofa, unable to move. I went to Dover
during Percy's holidays, and change of air and bathing made me so much
better that I thought myself well, but on my return here I had a
relapse, from which now this last week I am, I trust, fast
recovering. Bark and port wine seem the chief means of my getting
well. But in the midst of all this I had to write to meet my expenses.
I have published a second volume of Italian Lives in Lardner's
_Encyclopaedia_. All in that volume, except Galileo and Tasso, are
mine. The last is chief, I allow, and I grieve that it had been
engaged to Mr. M. before I began to write. I am now about to write a
volume of Spanish and Portuguese Lives. This is an arduous task, from
my own ignorance, and the difficulty of getting books and information.
The booksellers want me to write another novel, _Lodore_ having
succeeded so well, but I have not as yet strength for such an
undertaking.

Then there is no Spanish circulating library. I cannot, while here,
read in the Museum if I would, and I would not if I could. I do not
like finding myself a stray bird alone among men, even if I knew
them.[17] One hears how happy people will be to lend me their books,
but when it comes to the point it is very difficult to get at them.
However, as I am rather persevering, I hope to conquer these obstacles
after all. Percy grows; he is taller than I am, and very stout. If he
does not turn out an honour to his parents, it will be through no
deficiency in virtue or in talents, but from a dislike of mingling
with his fellow-creatures, except the two or three friends he cannot
do without. He may be the happier for it; he has a good understanding,
and great integrity of character. Adieu, my dear friend.-Ever
affectionately yours,

MARY W. SHELLEY.

In April 1836 poor old Godwin died, and with him passed away a large part of Mary's life. Of those in whose existence her own was summed up only her son now remained, and even he was not more dependent on her than her father had been. Godwin had been to his daughter one of those lifelong cares which, when they disappear, leave a blank that nothing seems to fill, too often because the survivor has borne the burden so long as to exhaust the power and energy indispensable to recovery. But she had also been attached to him all her life with an "excessive and romantic attachment," only overcome in one instance by a stronger devotion still--a defection she never could and never did repent of, but for which her whole subsequent life had been passed in attempting to make up. If she confided any of her feelings to her diary, no fragment has survived.

She busied herself in trying to obtain from Government some assistance--an annuity if possible--for Mrs. Godwin. It was very seldom in her life that Mary asked anybody for anything, and the present exception was made in favour of one whom she did not love, and who had never been a good friend to her. But had Mrs. Godwin been her own mother instead of a disagreeable, jealous, old stepmother, she could not have made greater exertions in her behalf. Mrs. Norton was ready and willing to help by bringing influence to bear in powerful quarters, and gave Mary some shrewd advice as to the wording of her letter to Lord Melbourne. She wrote--

... Press _not_ on the politics of Mr. Godwin (for God knows how much
gratitude for that ever survives), but on his _celebrity_, the widow's
_age_ and _ill health_, and (if your proud little spirit will bear it)
on your own _toils_; for, after all, the truth is that you, being
generous, will, rather than see the old creature starve, work your
brains and your pen; and you have your son and delicate health to
hinder you from having _means_ to help her.

As to petitioning, no one dislikes begging more than I do, especially
when one begs for what seems mere justice; but I have long observed
that though people will resist _claims_ (however just), they like to
do _favours_. Therefore, when _I_ beg, I am a crawling lizard, a
humble toad, a brown snake in cold weather, or any other simile most
feebly _rampante_--the reverse of _rampant_, which would be the
natural attitude for petitioning,--but which must never be assumed
except in the poodle style, standing with one's paws bent to catch the
bits of bread on one's nose.

Forgive my jesting; upon my honour I feel sincerely anxious for your
anxiety, and sad enough on my own affairs, but Irish blood _will_
dance. My meaning is, that if one asks _at all_, one should rather
think of the person written to than one's own feelings. He is an
indolent man--talk of your literary labours; a kind man--speak of her
age and infirmities; a patron of all _genius_--talk of your father's
_and your own_; a prudent man--speak of the likelihood of the pension
being a short grant (as you have done); lastly, he is a _great_
man--take it all as a personal favour. As to not apologising for the
intrusion, we ought always to kneel down and beg pardon for daring to
remind people we are not so well off as they are.

What was asked was that Godwin's small salary, or a part of it, should be continued to Mrs. Godwin for her life. As the nominal office Godwin had held was abolished at his death, this could not be; but Lord Melbourne pledged himself to do what he could to obtain assistance for the widow in some form or other, so it is probable that Mary effected her purpose.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

HASTINGS, _25th September 1836_.

MARY, DEAR--Your letter was exceedingly welcome; it was honoured
accordingly. You divine truly; I am leading a vegetable sort of a
life. They say the place is pretty, the air is good, the sea is fine.
I would willingly exchange a pretty place for a pretty girl. The air
is keen and shrewish, and as to the sea, I am satisfied with a bath of
less dimensions. Notwithstanding the want of sun, and the abundance of
cold winds, I lave my sides daily in the brine, and thus I am
gradually cooling down to the temperature--of the things round about
me--so that the thinnest skinned feminine may handle me without fear
of consequences. Possibly you may think that I am like the torpid
snake that the forester warmed by his hearth. No, I am not. I am
steeling myself with Plato and Platonics; so now farewell to love and
womankind. "Othello's occupation's gone."

* * * * *

From an allusion in one of Mrs. Norton's letters to Mary, it appears likely that what follows refers to Fanny Kemble (Mrs. Butler).

You say, "Had I seen those eyes you saw the other day." Yes, the darts
shot from those eyes are still rankling in my body; yet it is a
pleasing pain. The wound of the scorpion is healed by applying the
scorpion to the wound. Is she not a glorious being? Have you ever seen
such a presence? Is she not dazzling? There is enchantment in all her
ways. Talk of the divine power of music, why, she is all melody, and
poetry, and beauty, and harmony. How envious and malignant must the
English be not to do her homage universal. They never had, or will
have again, such a woman as that. I would rather be her slave than
king of such an island of Calibans. You have a soul, and sense, and a
deep feeling for your sex, and revere such "cunning patterns of
excelling nature," therefore--besides, I owe it you--I will transcribe
what she says of you: "I was nervous, it was my first visit to any
one, and there is a gentle frankness in her manner, and a vague
remembrance of the thought and feeling in her books which prevents my
being as with a 'visiting acquaintance.'"

* * * * *

Zella is doing wondrous well, and chance has placed her with a
womankind that even I (setting beauty aside) am satisfied with. By the
bye, I wish most earnestly you could get me some good _morality_ in
the shape of Italian and French. It is indispensable to the keeping
alive her remembrance of those languages, and not a book is to be had
here, nor do I know exactly how to get them by any other means, so
pray think of it.

* * * * *

I am inundated with letters from America, and am answering them by
Mrs. Jameson; she sailing immediately is a very heavy loss to me. She
is the friendliest-hearted woman in the world. I would rather lose
anything than her....

I don't think I shall stay here much longer; it is a bad holding
ground; my cable is chafing. I shall drift somewhere or other. It is
well for Mamma Percy has so much of her temperate blood. When us three
meet, we shall be able to ice the wine by placing it between us; that
will be nice, as the girls say.

A glance from Mrs. Nesbitt has shaken my firm nerves a little. There
is a mystery--a deep well of feeling in those star-like eyes of hers.
It is strange that actresses are the only true and natural people;
they only act in the proper season and place, whilst all the rest seem
eternally playing a part, and like dilettanti acting, damn'd absurdly.

J. TRELAWNY.

From Brighton, at New Year, Mrs. Shelley sent Trelawny a cheery greeting.

FROM MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

BRIGHTON, _3d January 1837_.

MY DEAR TRELAWNY--This day will please you; it is a thaw; what snow we
had! Hundreds of people have been employed to remove it during the
last week; at first they cut down deep several feet as if it had been
clay, and piled it up in glittering pyramids and masses; then they
began to cart it on to the beach; it was a new sort of Augean stable,
a never-ending labour. Yesterday, when I was out, it was only got rid
of in a very few and very circumscribed spots. Nature is more of a
Hercules; she puts out a little finger in the shape of gentle thaw,
and it recedes and disappears.

* * * * *

Percy arrived yesterday, having rather whetted than satisfied his
appetite by going seven times to the play. He plays like Apollo on the
flageolet, and like Apollo is self-taught. Jane thinks him a miracle!
it is very odd. He got a frock-coat at Mettes, and, if you had not
disappointed us with your handkerchief, he would have been complete;
he is a good deal grown, though not tall enough to satisfy me;
however, there is time yet. He is quite a child still, full of
theatres and balloons and music, yet I think there is a gentleness
about him which shows the advent of the reign of petticoats--how I
dread it!

* * * * *

Poor Jane writes dismally. She is so weak that she has frequent
fainting fits; she went to a physician, who ordered her to wean the
child, and now she takes three glasses of wine a day, and every other
strengthening medicament, but she is very feeble, and has a cough and
tendency to inflammation on the chest. I implored her to come down
here to change the air, and Jeff gave leave, and would have given the
money; but fear lest his dinner should be overdone while she was
away, and lest the children should get a finger scratched, makes her
resolve not to come; what bad bogie is this? If she got stronger how
much better they would be in consequence! I think her in a critical
state, but she will not allow of a remedy.

* * * * *

Poor dear little Zella. I hope she is well and happy.... Thank you for
your offer about money. I have plenty at present, and hope to do well
hereafter. You are very thoughtful, which is a great virtue. I have
not heard from your mother or Charlotte since you left; a day or two
afterwards I saw Betsy Freeman; she was to go to her place the next
day. I paid her for her work; she looked so radiantly happy that you
would have thought she was going to be married rather than to a place
of hardship. I never saw any one look so happy. I told her to let me
know how she got on, and to apply to me if she wanted assistance.... I
am glad you are amused at your brother's. I really imagined that Fanny
Butler had been the attraction, till, sending to the Gloucester, I
found you were gone by the Southampton coach, and then I suspected
another magnet--till I find that you are in all peace, or rather war,
at Sherfield House--much better so.

I am better a great deal; quite well, I believe I ought to call
myself, only I feel a little odd at times. I have seen nothing of the
S.'s. I have met with scarce an acquaintance here, which is odd; but
then I do not look for them. I am too lazy. I hope this letter will
catch you before you leave your present perch.--Believe me always,
yours truly,

M. W. SHELLEY.

Will this be a happy New Year? Tell me; the last I can't say much for,
but I always fear worse to come. Nobody's mare is dead,--if this frost
does not kill,--my own (such as it will be) is far enough off still.

The next letter is dated only three weeks later. What happened in that short time to account for its complete change of tone does not appear, except that from one allusion it may be inferred that Mrs. Shelley was overtaken by unexpected money difficulties at a moment when she had fancied herself tolerably at ease on that score. Nothing more likely, for in the matter of helping others she never learnt prudence or the art of self-defence.[18] Probably, however, there was a deeper cause for her sombre mood. She was being pressed on all sides to write the biography of her father. The task would have been well suited to her powers; she looked on it, moreover, in the light of a duty which she wished and intended to perform. Fragments and sketches of hers for this book have been published, and are among the best specimens of her writing. But circumstances--scruples--similar to those which had hindered her from writing Shelley's life stood between her and the present fulfilment of the task. There were few people to whom she could bring herself to explain her reasons, and those few need not have required, still less insisted on any such explanation. But Trelawny, hot and vehement, could and would not see why Mary did not rush into the field at once, to immortalise the man whose system of philosophy, more than any other writer's, had moulded Shelley's. He never spared words, and he probably taxed her with cowardice or indolence, time-serving and "worldliness."

Shaken by her father's loss, and saddened by that of her friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne, who had died within a short time of each other shortly before this, exhausted by work, her feelings warped by solitude, struggle, and disappointment, this challenge to explain her conduct evoked the most mournful of all her letters, as explicit as any one could wish; true in its bitterness, and most bitter in its truth.

MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

BRIGHTON, _Thursday, 27th January 1837_.

DEAR TRELAWNY--I am very glad to hear that you are amused and happy;
fate seems to have turned her sunny side to you, and I hope you will
long enjoy yourself. I know of but one pleasure in the world--sympathy
with another, or others, rather; leaving out of the question the
affections, the society of agreeable, gifted, congenial-minded beings
is the only pleasure worth having in the world. My fate has debarred
me from this enjoyment, but you seem in the midst of it.

With regard to my Father's life I certainly could not answer it to my
conscience to give it up. I shall therefore do it, but I must wait.
This year I have to fight my poor Percy's battle, to try and get him
sent to College without further dilapidation of his ruined prospects,
and he has now to enter life at College. That this should be
undertaken at a moment when a cry was raised against his mother, and
that not on the question of _politics_ but _religion_, would mar all.
I must see him fairly launched before I commit myself to the fury of
the waves.

A sense of duty towards my Father, whose passion was posthumous fame,
makes me ready, as far as I am concerned, to meet the misery that must
be mine if I become an object of scurrility and attack; for the rest,
for my own private satisfaction, all I ask is obscurity. What can I
care for the parties that divide the world, or the opinions that
possess it? What has my life been? What is it? Since I lost Shelley I
have been alone, and worse. I had my Father's fate for many a year
pressing me to the earth; I had Percy's education and welfare to guard
over, and in all this I had no one friendly hand stretched out to
support me. Shut out from even the possibility of making such an
impression as my personal merits might occasion, without a human being
to aid or encourage, or even to advise me, I toiled on my weary
solitary way. The only persons who deigned to share those melancholy
hours, and to afford me the balm of affection, were those dear
girls[19] whom you chose so long to abuse. Do you think that I have
not felt, that I do not feel all this? If I have been able to stand up
against the breakers which have dashed against my stranded, wrecked
bark, it has been by a sort of passive, dogged resistance, which has
broken my heart, while it a little supported my spirit. My happiness,
my health, my fortunes, all are wrecked. Percy alone remains to me,
and to do him good is the sole aim of my life. One thing I will add;
if I have ever found kindness, it has not been from liberals; to
disengage myself from them was the first act of my freedom. The
consequence was that I gained peace and civil usage, which they denied
me; more I do not ask; of fate I only ask a grave. I know not what my
future life is, and shudder, but it must be borne, and for Percy's
sake I must battle on.

If you wish for a copy of my novel[20] you shall have one, but I did
not order it to be sent to you, because, being a rover, all luggage
burthens. I have told them to send it to your mother, at which you
will scoff, but it was the only way I had to show my sense of her
kindness. You may pick and choose those from whom you deign to receive
kindness; you are a man at a feast, champagne and comfits your diet,
and you naturally scoff at me and my dry crust in a corner. Often have
you scoffed and sneered at all the aliment of kindness or society that
fate has afforded me. I have been silent, for the hungry cannot be
dainty, but it is useless to tell a pampered man this. Remember in all
this, except in one or two instances, my complaint is not against
_persons_, but _fate_. Fate has been my enemy throughout. I have no
wish to increase her animosity or her power by exposing [myself] more
than I possibly can to her venomous attacks.

You have sent me no address, so I direct this to your Mother; give her
and Charlotte my love, and tell them I think I shall be in town at the
beginning of next month; my time in this house is up on the 3d, and I
ought to be in town with Percy to take him to Sir Tim's solicitors,
and so begin my attack. I should advise you, by the bye, not to read
my novel; you will not like it. I cannot _teach_; I can only
paint--such as my paintings are,--and you will not approve of much of
what I deem natural feeling, because it is not founded on the new
light.

I had a long letter from Mrs. N[orton]. I admire her excessively, and
I _think_ I could love her infinitely, but I shall not be asked nor
tried, and shall take very good care not to press myself. I know what
her relations think.

If you are still so rich, and can lend me L20 till my quarter, I shall
be glad. I do not know that I absolutely [need] it here now, but may
run short at last, so, if not inconvenient, will you send it next
week?

I shall soon be in town, I suppose; _where_, I do not yet know. I
dread my return, for I shall have a thousand worries.

Despite unfavourable weather, quiet and ease have much restored my
health, but mental annoyance will soon make me as ill as ever. Only
writing this letter makes me feel half dead. Still, to be thus at
peace is an expensive luxury, and I must forego it for other duties,
which I have been allowed to forget for a time, but my holiday is
past.

Happy is Fanny Butler if she can shed tears and not be destroyed by
them; this luxury is denied me. I am obliged to guard against low
spirits as my worst disease, and I do guard, and usually I am not in
low spirits. Why then do you awaken me to thought and suffering by
forcing me to explain the motives of my conduct? Could you not trust
that I thought anxiously, decided carefully, and from disinterested
motives, not to save myself, but my child, from evil. Pray let the
stream flow quietly by, as glittering on the surface as it may, and do
not awaken the deep waters which are full of briny bitterness. I never
wish any one to dive into the secret depths; be content, if I can
render the surface safe sailing, that I do not annoy you with clouds
and tempests, but turn the silvery side outward, as I ought, for God
knows I would not render any living creature so miserable as I could
easily be; and I would also guard myself from the sense of woe which I
tie hard about, and sink low, low, out of sight and fathom line.

Adieu. Excuse all this; it is your own fault; speak of yourself. Never
speak of me, and you will never again be annoyed with so much
stupidity.--Yours truly,

M. S.

The painful mood of this letter was not destined to find present relief. From her father's death in 1836 till the year 1840 was to be perhaps the hardest, dreariest, and most laborious time she had ever known. No chance had she now to distract her mind or avoid the most painful themes. Her very occupation was to tie her down to these. She was preparing her edition of Shelley's works, with notes. The prohibition as to bringing his name before the public seems to have been withdrawn or at any rate slackened; it had probably become evident, even to those least disposed to see, that the undesirable publicity, if not given by the right person, would inevitably be given by the wrong one. Much may also have been due to the fact that Mr. Whitton, Sir Timothy's solicitor, was dead, and had been replaced by another gentleman who, unlike his predecessor, used his influence to promote milder counsels and a better mutual understanding than had prevailed hitherto.

This task was accepted by Mary as the most sacred of duties, but it is probable that if circumstances had permitted her to fulfil it in the years which immediately followed Shelley's death she would have suffered from it less than now. It might not have been so well done, she might have written at too great length, or have indulged in too much expression of personal feeling; and in the case of omissions from his writings, the decision might have been even harder to make. Still it would have cost her less. Her heart, occupied by one subject, would have found a kind of relief in the necessity for dwelling on it. But seventeen years had elapsed, and she was forty-two, and very tired. Seventeen years of struggle, labour, and loneliness; even the mournful satisfaction of retrospect poisoned and distorted by Jane Williams' duplicity. She could no longer dwell on the thought of that affection which had consoled her in her supreme misfortune.

Mary had had many and bitter troubles and losses, but nothing entered into her soul so deeply as the defection of this friend. Alienation is worse than bereavement. Other sorrows had left her desolate; this one left her different.

Hence the fact that an undertaking which would once have been a painful pleasure was too often a veritable martyrdom. Who does not remember Hans Andersen's little princess, in his story of the _White Swans_, who freed her eleven brothers from the evil enchantment which held them transformed, by spinning shirts of stinging-nettles? Such nettle-shirts had Mary now to weave and spin, to exorcise the evil spirits which had power of misrepresenting and defaming Shelley's memory, and to save Percy for ever from their sinister spells.

Her health was weak, her heart was sore, her life was lonely, and, in spite of her undaunted efforts, she was still so badly off that she was, as the last letter shows, reduced to accepting Trelawny's offer of a loan of money. Nor was it only her work that she had on her mind; she was also very anxious about her son's future. He had, at this time, an idea of entering the Diplomatic Service, and his mother overcame her diffidence so far as to try and procure an opening for him--no easy thing to find. Among the people she consulted and asked was Lytton Bulwer; his answer was not encouraging.

SIR E. L. BULWER TO MRS. SHELLEY.

HERTFORD STREET, _17th March 1839_.

MY DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--Many thanks for your kind congratulations. I am
delighted to find you like _Richelieu_.

With regard to your son, with his high prospects, the diplomacy may do
very well; but of all professions it is the most difficult to rise in.
The first steps are long and tedious. An Attache at a small Court is
an exile without pay, and very little opening to talent. However, for
young men of fortune and expectations it fills up some years agreeably
enough, what with flirting, dressing, dancing, and perhaps, if one has
good luck, a harmless duel or two!