Chapter XVII: July-September 1822 (1)

They set off at once, death in their hearts, yet clinging outwardly to any semblance of a hope. They crossed to Lerici, they posted to Pisa; they went first to Casa Lanfranchi. Byron was there; he could tell them nothing. It was midnight, but to rest or wait was impossible; they posted on to Leghorn. They went about inquiring for Trelawny or Roberts. Not finding the right inn they were forced to wait till next morning before prosecuting their search. They found Roberts; he only knew the _Ariel_ had sailed on Monday; there had been a storm, and no more had been heard of her. Still they did not utterly despair. Contrary winds might have driven the boat to Corsica or elsewhere, and information was perhaps withheld.

"So remorselessly," says Trelawny, "are the quarantine laws enforced
in Italy that, when at sea, if you render assistance to a vessel in
distress, or rescue a drowning stranger, on returning to port you are
condemned to a long and rigorous quarantine of fourteen or more days.
The consequence is, should one vessel see another in peril, or even
run it down by accident, she hastens on her course, and by general
accord not a word is said or reported on the subject."

Trelawny accompanied the forlorn women back to Casa Magni, whence, for the next seven or eight days, he patrolled the coast with the coastguards, stimulating them to keep a good look-out by the promise of a reward. On Thursday, the 18th, he left for Leghorn, and on the next day a letter came to him from Captain Roberts with the intelligence that the bodies of Shelley and Williams had been washed ashore. The letter was received and opened by Clare Clairmont. To communicate its contents to Mary or Jane was more than she could do: in her distress she wrote to Leigh Hunt for help or counsel.

_Friday Evening, 19th July 1822._

MY DEAR SIR--Mr. Trelawny went for Livorno last night. There came this
afternoon a letter to him from Captain Roberts--he had left orders
with Mary that she might open it; I did not allow her to see it. He
writes there is no hope, but they are lost, and their bodies found
three miles from Via Reggio. This letter is dated 15th July, and says
he had heard this news 14th July. Outside the letter he has added, "I
am now on my way to Via Reggio, to ascertain the facts or _no facts_
contained in my letter." This then implies that he doubts, and as I
also doubt the report, because we had a letter from the captain of
the port at Via Reggio, 15th July, later than when Mr. Roberts writes,
to say nothing had been found, for this reason I have not shown his
letter either to Mary or Mrs. Williams. How can I, even if it were
true?

I pray you to answer this by return of my messenger. I assure you I
cannot break it to them, nor is my spirit, weakened as it is from
constant suffering, capable of giving them consolation, or protecting
them from the first burst of their despair. I entreat you to give me
some counsel, or to arrange some method by which they may know it. I
know not what further to add, except that their case is desperate in
every respect, and death would be the greatest kindness to us
all.--Ever your sincere friend,

CLARE.

This letter can hardly have been despatched before Trelawny arrived. He had seen the mangled, half-devoured corpses, and had identified them at once. It remained for him now to pronounce sentence of doom, as it were, on the survivors. This is his story, as he tells it--

I mounted my horse and rode to the Gulf of Spezzia, put up my horse,
and walked until I caught sight of the lone house on the sea-shore in
which Shelley and Williams had dwelt, and where their widows still
lived. Hitherto in my frequent visits--in the absence of direct
evidence to the contrary--I had buoyed up their spirits by maintaining
that it was not impossible but that the friends still lived; now I had
to extinguish the last hope of these forlorn women. I had ridden fast
to prevent any ruder messenger from bursting in upon them. As I stood
on the threshold of their house, the bearer or rather confirmer of
news which would rack every fibre of their quivering frames to the
uttermost, I paused, and, looking at the sea, my memory reverted to
our joyous parting only a few days before. The two families then had
all been in the verandah, overhanging a sea so clear and calm that
every star was reflected on the water as if it had been a mirror; the
young mothers singing some merry tune with the accompaniment of a
guitar. Shelley's shrill laugh--I heard it still--rang in my ears,
with Williams' friendly hail, the general _buona notte_ of all the
joyous party, and the earnest entreaty to me to return as soon as
possible, and not to forget the commissions they had severally given
me. I was in a small boat beneath them, slowly rowing myself on board
the _Bolivar_, at anchor in the bay, loath to part from what I verily
believed to have been at that time the most united and happiest set of
human beings in the whole world. And now by the blow of an idle puff
of wind the scene was changed. Such is human happiness.

My reverie was broken by a shriek from the nurse Caterina as, crossing
the hall, she saw me in the doorway. After asking her a few questions
I went up the stairs, and unannounced entered the room. I neither
spoke nor did they question me. Mrs. Shelley's large gray eyes were
fixed on my face. I turned away. Unable to bear this horrid silence,
with a convulsive effort she exclaimed--

"Is there no hope?"

I did not answer, but left the room, and sent the servant with the
children to them. The next day I prevailed on them to return with me
to Pisa. The misery of that night and the journey of the next day, and
of many days and nights that followed, I can neither describe nor
forget.

There is no journal or contemporary record of the next three or four weeks; only from a few scattered hints in letters can any idea be gleaned of this dark time, when the first realisation of incredible misfortune was being lived out in detail. Leigh Hunt was almost broken-hearted.

"Dearest Mary," he wrote from Casa Lanfranchi on the 20th July, "I
trust you will have set out on your return from that dismal place
before you receive this. You will also have seen Trelawny. God bless
you, and enable us all to be a support for one another. Let us do our
best if it is only for that purpose. It is easier for me to say that I
will do it than for you: but whatever happens, this I can safely say,
that I belong to those whom Shelley loves, and that all which it is
possible to me to do for them now and for ever is theirs. I will
grieve with them, endure with them, and, if it be necessary, work for
them, while I have life.--Your most affectionate friend,

LEIGH HUNT.

Marianne sends you a thousand loves, and longs with myself to try
whether we can say or do one thing that can enable you and Mrs.
Williams to bear up a little better. But we rely on your great
strength of mind."

Mary bore up in a way that surprised those who knew how ill she had been, how weak she still was, and how much she had previously been suffering in her spirits. It was a strange, tense, unnatural endurance. Except to Miss Curran at Rome, she wrote to no one for some time, not even to her father. This, which would naturally have been her first communication, may well have appeared harder to make than any other. Godwin's relations with Shelley had of late been strained, to say the least,--and then, Mary could not but remember his letters to her after Williams' death, and the privilege he had claimed "as a father and a philosopher" of rebuking, nay, of contemptuously deprecating her then excess of grief. How was she to write now in such a tone as to avert an answer of that sort? how write at all? She did accomplish it at last, but before her letter arrived Godwin had heard of the catastrophe through Miss Kent, sister of Mrs. Leigh Hunt. His fatherly feeling of anxiety for his daughter was aroused, and after waiting two days for direct news, he wrote to her as follows--

GODWIN TO MARY.

NO. 195 STRAND, _6th August 1822_.

DEAR MARY--I heard only two days ago the most afflicting intelligence
to you, and in some measure to all of us, that can be imagined--the
death of Shelley on the 8th ultimo. I have had no direct information;
the news only comes in a letter from Leigh Hunt to Miss Kent, and,
therefore, were it not for the consideration of the writer, I should
be authorised to disbelieve it. That you should be so overcome as not
to be able to write is perhaps but too natural; but that Jane could
not write one line I could never have believed; and the behaviour of
the lady at Pisa towards us on the occasion is peculiarly cruel.

Leigh Hunt says you bear up under the shock better than could have
been imagined; but appearances are not to be relied on. It would have
been a great relief to me to have had a few lines from yourself. In a
case like this, one lets one's imagination loose among the
possibilities of things, and one is apt to rest upon what is most
distressing and intolerable. I learned the news on Sunday. I was in
hope to have had my doubts and fears removed by a letter from yourself
on Monday. I again entertained the same hope to-day, and am again
disappointed. I shall hang in hope and fear on every post, knowing
that you cannot neglect me for ever.

All that I expressed to you about silence and not writing to you again
is now put an end to in the most melancholy way. I looked on you as
one of the daughters of prosperity, elevated in rank and fortune, and
I thought it was criminal to intrude on you for ever the sorrows of an
unfortunate old man and a beggar. You are now fallen to my own level;
you are surrounded with adversity and with difficulty; and I no longer
hold it sacrilege to trouble you with my adversities. We shall now
truly sympathise with each other; and whatever misfortune or ruin
falls upon me, I shall not now scruple to lay it fully before you.

This sorrowful event is, perhaps, calculated to draw us nearer to each
other. I am the father of a family, but without children; I and my
wife are falling fast into infirmity and helplessness; and in addition
to all our other calamities, we seem destined to be left without
connections and without aid. Perhaps now we and you shall mutually
derive consolation from each other.

Poor Jane is, I am afraid, left still more helpless than you are.
Common misfortune, I hope, will incite between you the most friendly
feelings.

Shelley lived, I know, in constant anticipation of the uncertainty of
his life, though not in this way, and was anxious in that event to
make the most effectual provision for you. I am impatient to hear in
what way that has been done; and perhaps you will make me your lawyer
in England if any steps are necessary. I am desirous to call on
Longdill, but I should call with more effect if I had authority and
instructions from you. Mamma desires me to say how truly and deeply
she sympathises in your affliction, and I trust you know enough of her
to feel that this is the language of her heart.

I suppose you will hardly stay in Italy. In that case we shall be near
to, and support each other.--Ever and ever affectionately yours,

WILLIAM GODWIN.

I have received your letter dated (it has no date) since writing the
above; it was detained for some hours by being directed to the care of
Monro, for which I cannot account. William wrote to you on the 14th of
June, and I on the 23d of July. I will call on Peacock and Hogg as you
desire. Perhaps Williams' letter, and perhaps others, have been kept
from you. Let us now be open and unreserved in all things.

This letter was doubtless intended to be kind and sympathetic, even in the persistent prominence given to the business aspect of recent events. Yet it was comical in its solemnity. For when had Godwin held it sacrilege to trouble his daughter with his adversities, or shown the slightest scruple in laying before her any misfortune or ruin that may have fallen on him? and what new prospect was afforded her in the future by his promise of doing so now? No; this privilege of a father and a philosopher had never been neglected by him.

Well indeed might he feel anxious as to what provision had been made for his daughter by her husband. In these matters he had long ceased to have a conscience, yet it was impossible he should be unaware that the utmost his son-in-law had been able to effect, and that at the expense of enormous sacrifices on the part of himself and his heirs, and of all the credit he possessed with publishers and the one or two friends who were not also dependents, had been to pay his, Godwin's, perpetual debts, and to keep him, as long as he could be kept, afloat.

Small opportunity had Shelley's "dear"[1] friends allowed him as yet to make provision for his family in case of sudden misfortune!

Godwin, however, was really anxious about Mary, and his anxiety was perhaps increased by his letter; for in three days he wrote again, with out alluding to money.

GODWIN TO MARY.

_9th August 1822._

MY DEAR MARY--I am inexpressibly anxious to hear from you, and your
present situation renders the reciprocation of letters and
answers--implying an interval of a month between each letter I receive
from you to the next--intolerable.

My poor girl, what do you mean to do with yourself? You surely do not
mean to stay in Italy? How glad I should be to be near you, and to
endeavour by new expedients each day to endeavour to make up your
loss. But you are the best judge. If Italy is a country to which in
these few years you are naturalised, and if England is become dull and
odious to you, then stay!

I should think, however, that now that you have lost your closest
friend, your mind would naturally turn homeward, and to your earliest
friend. Is it not so? Surely we might be a great support to each other
under the trials to which we are reserved. What signify a few outward
adversities if we find a friend at home?

One thing I would earnestly recommend in our future intercourse, is
perfect frankness. I think you are of a frank nature, I am sure I am
so. We have now no battle to fight,--no contention to maintain,--that
is over now.

Above all, let me entreat you to keep up your courage. You have many
duties to perform; you must now be the father as well as the mother;
and I trust you have energy of character enough to enable you to
perform your duties honourably and well.--Ever and ever most
affectionately yours,

W. GODWIN.

The stunning nature of the blow she had endured, the uncertainty and complication of her affairs, and the absence of any one preponderating motive, made it impossible for Mary to settle at once on any scheme for the future. Her first idea was to return to England without delay, so as to avoid any possible risk to her boy from the Italian climate. Her one wish was to possess herself, before leaving, of the portrait of Shelley begun at Rome by Miss Curran, and laid aside in an unfinished state as a failure. In the absence of any other likeness it would be precious, and it might perhaps be improved. It was on this subject that she had written to Miss Curran in the quite early days of her misfortune; no answer had come, and she wrote again, now to request "that favour now nearer my heart than any other thing--the picture of my Shelley."

"We leave Italy soon," she continued, "so I am particularly anxious to
obtain this treasure, which I am sure you will give me as soon as
possible. I have no other likeness of him, and in so utter desolation,
how invaluable to me is your picture. Will you not send it? Will you
not answer me without delay? Your former kindness bids me hope
everything."

She was awakening to life again; in other words, to pain: with keen anguish, like that of returning circulation to a limb which has been frozen and numb, her feelings, her forces, her intellect, began to respond to outward calls upon them, with a sensation, at times, of even morbid activity. It was a kind of relief, now, to write to Mrs. Gisborne that letter which contains the most graphic and connected of all accounts of the past tragedy.

MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

_15th August 1822._

I said in a letter to Peacock, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, that I would
send you some account of the last miserable months of my disastrous
life. From day to day I have put this off, but I will now endeavour to
fulfil my design. The scene of my existence is closed, and though
there be no pleasure in retracing the scenes that have preceded the
event which has crushed my hopes, yet there seems to be a necessity in
doing so, and I obey the impulse that urges me. I wrote to you either
at the end of May or the beginning of June. I described to you the
place we were living in--our desolate house, the beauty yet
strangeness of the scenery, and the delight Shelley took in all this.
He never was in better health or spirits than during this time. I was
not well in body or mind. My nerves were wound up to the utmost
irritation, and the sense of misfortune hung over my spirits. No words
can tell you how I hated our house and the country about it. Shelley
reproached me for this--his health was good, and the place was quite
after his own heart. What could I answer? That the people were wild
and hateful, that though the country was beautiful yet I liked a more
_countrified_ place, that there was great difficulty in living, that
all our Tuscans would leave us, and that the very jargon of these
_Genovesi_ was disgusting. This was all I had to say, but no words
could describe my feelings; the beauty of the woods made me weep and
shudder; so vehement was my feeling of dislike that I used to rejoice
when the winds and waves permitted me to go out in the boat, so that I
was not obliged to take my usual walk among the shaded paths, alleys
of vine festooned trees--all that before I doated on, and that now
weighed on me. My only moments of peace were on board that unhappy
boat when, lying down with my head on his knee, I shut my eyes and
felt the wind and our swift motion alone. My ill health might account
for much of this. Bathing in the sea somewhat relieved me, but on the
8th of June (I think it was) I was threatened with a miscarriage, and
after a week of great ill health, on Sunday, the 16th, this took place
at 8 in the morning. I was so ill that for seven hours I lay nearly
lifeless--kept from fainting by brandy, vinegar, and eau-de-Cologne,
etc. At length ice was brought to our solitude; it came before the
doctor, so Clare and Jane were afraid of using it, but Shelley
overruled them, and by an unsparing application of it I was restored.
They all thought, and so did I at one time, that I was about to die, I
hardly wished that I had,--my own Shelley could never have lived
without me; the sense of eternal misfortune would have pressed too
heavily upon him, and what would have become of my poor babe? My
convalescence was slow, and during it a strange occurrence happened to
retard it. But first I must describe our house to you. The floor on
which we lived was thus--

+--------------------------------------------+
| | | |
| 5 | 7 | 3 |
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|-----| |-----|
| | | |
| 6 | 2 | 4 |
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|-----+--------------------------------+-----|
| |
| 1 |
+--------------------------------------------+

1 is a terrace that went the whole length of our house and was
precipitous to the sea; 2, the large dining-hall; 3, a private
staircase; 4, my bedroom; 5, Mrs. Williams' bedroom; 6, Shelley's; and
7, the entrance from the great staircase. Now to return. As I said,
Shelley was at first in perfect health, but having over-fatigued
himself one day, and then the fright my illness gave him, caused a
return of nervous sensations and visions as bad as in his worst times.
I think it was the Saturday after my illness, while yet unable to
walk, I was confined to my bed--in the middle of the night I was awoke
by hearing him scream and come rushing into my room; I was sure that
he was asleep, and tried to waken him by calling on him, but he
continued to scream, which inspired me with such a panic that I jumped
out of bed and ran across the hall to Mrs. Williams' room, where I
fell through weakness, though I was so frightened that I got up again
immediately. She let me in, and Williams went to Shelley, who had been
wakened by my getting out of bed--he said that he had not been asleep,
and that it was a vision that he saw that had frightened him. But as
he declared that he had not screamed, it was certainly a dream, and no
waking vision. What had frightened him was this. He dreamt that, lying
as he did in bed, Edward and Jane came in to him; they were in the
most horrible condition; their bodies lacerated, their bones starting
through their skin, their faces pale yet stained with blood; they
could hardly walk, but Edward was the weakest, and Jane was supporting
him. Edward said, "Get up, Shelley, the sea is flooding the house, and
it is all coming down." Shelley got up, he thought, and went to his
window that looked on the terrace and the sea, and thought he saw the
sea rushing in. Suddenly his vision changed, and he saw the figure of
himself strangling me; that had made him rush into my room, yet,
fearful of frightening me, he dared not approach the bed, when my
jumping out awoke him, or, as he phrased it, caused his vision to
vanish. All this was frightful enough, and talking it over the next
morning, he told me that he had had many visions lately; he had seen
the figure of himself, which met him as he walked on the terrace and
said to him, "How long do you mean to be content?" no very terrific
words, and certainly not prophetic of what has occurred. But Shelley
had often seen these figures when ill; but the strangest thing is that
Mrs. Williams saw him. Now Jane, though a woman of sensibility, has
not much imagination, and is not in the slightest degree nervous,
neither in dreams nor otherwise. She was standing one day, the day
before I was taken ill, at a window that looked on the terrace, with
Trelawny. It was day. She saw, as she thought, Shelley pass by the
window, as he often was then, without a coat or jacket; he passed
again. Now, as he passed both times the same way, and as from the side
towards which he went each time there was no way to get back except
past the window again (except over a wall 20 feet from the ground),
she was struck at her seeing him pass twice thus, and looked out and
seeing him no more, she cried, "Good God, can Shelley have leapt from
the wall? Where can he be gone?" "Shelley," said Trelawny, "no Shelley
has passed. What do you mean?" Trelawny says that she trembled
exceedingly when she heard this, and it proved, indeed, that Shelley
had never been on the terrace, and was far off at the time she saw
him. Well, we thought no more of these things, and I slowly got
better. Having heard from Hunt that he had sailed from Genoa, on
Monday, 1st July, Shelley, Edward, and Captain Roberts (the gentleman
who built our boat) departed in our boat for Leghorn to receive him. I
was then just better, had begun to crawl from my bedroom to the
terrace, but bad spirits succeeded to ill health, and this departure
of Shelley's seemed to add insufferably to my misery. I could not
endure that he should go. I called him back two or three times, and
told him that if I did not see him soon I would go to Pisa with the
child. I cried bitterly when he went away. They went, and Jane, Clare,
and I remained alone with the children. I could not walk out, and
though I gradually gathered strength, it was slowly, and my ill
spirits increased. In my letters to him I entreated him to return;
"the feeling that some misfortune would happen," I said, "haunted me."
I feared for the child, for the idea of danger connected with him
never struck me. When Jane and Clare took their evening walk, I used
to patrol the terrace, oppressed with wretchedness, yet gazing on the
most beautiful scene in the world. This Gulf of Spezzia is subdivided
into many small bays, of which ours was far the most beautiful. The
two horns of the bay (so to express myself) were wood-covered
promontories, crowned with castles; at the foot of these, on the
farthest, was Lerici, on the nearest San Terenzo; Lerici being above a
mile by land from us, and San Terenzo about a hundred or two yards.
Trees covered the hills that enclosed this bay, and their beautiful
groups were picturesquely contrasted with the rocks, the castle, and
the town. The sea lay far extended in front, while to the west we saw
the promontory and islands, which formed one of the extreme boundaries
of the Gulf. To see the sun set upon this scene, the stars shine, and
the moon rise, was a sight of wondrous beauty, but to me it added only
to my wretchedness. I repeated to myself all that another would have
said to console me, and told myself the tale of love, peace, and
competence which I enjoyed; but I answered myself by tears--Did not my
William die, and did I hold my Percy by a firmer tenure? Yet I thought
when he, when my Shelley, returns, I shall be happy; he will comfort
me, if my boy be ill he will restore him, and encourage me. I had a
letter or two from Shelley, mentioning the difficulties he had in
establishing the Hunts, and that he was unable to fix the time of his
return. Thus a week passed. On Monday, 8th, Jane had a letter from
Edward, dated Saturday; he said that he waited at Leghorn for Shelley,
who was at Pisa; that Shelley's return was certain; "but," he
continued, "if he should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca,
and you may expect me Tuesday evening at farthest." This was Monday,
the fatal Monday, but with us it was stormy all day, and we did not at
all suppose that they could put to sea. At 12 at night we had a
thunderstorm; Tuesday it rained all day, and was calm--wept on their
graves. On Wednesday the wind was fair from Leghorn, and in the
evening several feluccas arrived thence; one brought word that they
had sailed on Monday, but we did not believe them. Thursday was
another day of fair wind, and when 12 at night came, and we did not
see the tall sails of the little boat double the promontory before
us, we began to fear, not the truth, but some illness--some
disagreeable news for their detention. Jane got so uneasy that she
determined to proceed the next day to Leghorn in a boat, to see what
was the matter. Friday came, and with it a heavy sea and bad wind.
Jane, however, resolved to be rowed to Leghorn (since no boat could
sail), and busied herself in preparations. I wished her to wait for
letters, since Friday was letter day. She would not; but the sea
detained her; the swell rose so that no boat could venture out. At 12
at noon our letters came; there was one from Hunt to Shelley; it said,
"Pray write to tell us how you got home, for they say that you had bad
weather after you sailed Monday, and we are anxious." The paper fell
from me. I trembled all over. Jane read it. "Then it is all over," she
said. "No, my dear Jane," I cried, "it is not all over, but this
suspense is dreadful. Come with me, we will go to Leghorn; we will
post to be swift, and learn our fate." We crossed to Lerici, despair
in our hearts; they raised our spirits there by telling us that no
accident had been heard of, and that it must have been known, etc.,
but still our fear was great, and without resting we posted to Pisa.
It must have been fearful to see us--two poor, wild, aghast creatures
driving (like Matilda) towards the sea, to learn if we were to be for
ever doomed to misery. I knew that Hunt was at Pisa, at Lord Byron's
house, but I thought that Lord Byron was at Leghorn. I settled that we
should drive to Casa Lanfranchi, that I should get out, and ask the
fearful question of Hunt, "Do you know anything of Shelley?" On
entering Pisa, the idea of seeing Hunt for the first time for four
years, under such circumstances, and asking him such a question, was
so terrific to me, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself
from going into convulsions. My struggles were dreadful. They knocked
at the door, and some one called out, _chi e?_ It was the Guiccioli's
maid. Lord Byron was in Pisa. Hunt was in bed; so I was to see Lord
Byron instead of him. This was a great relief to me. I staggered
upstairs; the Guiccioli came to meet me, smiling, while I could
hardly say, "Where is he--Sapete alcuna cosa di Shelley?" They knew
nothing; he had left Pisa on Sunday; on Monday he had sailed; there
had been bad weather Monday afternoon. More they knew not. Both Lord
Byron and the lady have told me since, that on that terrific evening I
looked more like a ghost than a woman--light seemed to emanate from my
features; my face was very white; I looked like marble. Alas! I had
risen almost from a bed of sickness for this journey; I had travelled
all day; it was now 12 at night, and we, refusing to rest, proceeded
to Leghorn--not in despair--no, for then we must have died; but with
sufficient hope to keep up the agitation of the spirits, which was all
my life. It was past 2 in the morning when we arrived. They took us to
the wrong inn; neither Trelawny nor Captain Roberts were there, nor
did we exactly know where they were, so we were obliged to wait until
daylight: we threw ourselves drest on our beds, and slept a little,
but at 6 o'clock we went to one or two inns, to ask for one or the
other of these gentlemen. We found Roberts at the "Globe." He came
down to us with a face that seemed to tell us that the worst was true,
and here we learned all that occurred during the week they had been
absent from us, and under what circumstances they had departed on
their return.

Shelley had passed most of the time at Pisa, arranging the affairs of
the Hunts, and screwing Lord Byron's mind to the sticking place about
the journal. He had found this a difficult task at first, but at
length he had succeeded to his heart's content with both points. Mrs.
Mason said that she saw him in better health and spirits than she had
ever known him, when he took leave of her, Sunday, July 7, his face
burnt by the sun, and his heart light, that he had succeeded in
rendering the Hunts tolerably comfortable. Edward had remained at
Leghorn. On Monday, July 8, during the morning, they were employed in
buying many things, eatables, etc., for our solitude. There had been a
thunderstorm early, but about noon the weather was fine, and the wind
right fair for Lerici. They were impatient to be gone. Roberts said,
"Stay until to-morrow, to see if the weather is settled;" and Shelley
might have stayed, but Edward was in so great an anxiety to reach
home, saying they would get there in seven hours with that wind, that
they sailed; Shelley being in one of those extravagant fits of good
spirits, in which you have sometimes seen him. Roberts went out to the
end of the mole, and watched them out of sight; they sailed at 1, and
went off at the rate of about seven knots. About 3, Roberts, who was
still on the mole, saw wind coming from the Gulf, or rather what the
Italians call _a temporale_. Anxious to know how the boat would
weather the storm, he got leave to go up the tower, and, with the
glass, discovered them about ten miles out at sea, off Via Reggio;
they were taking in their topsails. "The haze of the storm," he said,
"hid them from me, and I saw them no more. When the storm cleared, I
looked again, fancying that I should see them on their return to us,
but there was no boat on the sea."

This, then, was all we knew, yet we did not despair; they might have
been driven over to Corsica, and not knowing the coast, have gone God
knows where. Reports favoured this belief; it was even said that they
had been seen in the Gulf. We resolved to return with all possible
speed; we sent a courier to go from tower to tower, along the coast,
to know if anything had been seen or found, and at 9 A.M. we quitted
Leghorn, stopped but one moment at Pisa, and proceeded towards Lerici.
When at two miles from Via Reggio, we rode down to that town to know
if they knew anything. Here our calamity first began to break on us; a
little boat and a water cask had been found five miles off--they had
manufactured a _piccolissima lancia_ of thin planks stitched by a
shoemaker, just to let them run on shore without wetting themselves,
as our boat drew four feet of water. The description of that found
tallied with this, but then this boat was very cumbersome, and in bad
weather they might have been easily led to throw it overboard,--the
cask frightened me most,--but the same reason might in some sort be
given for that. I must tell you that Jane and I were not alone.
Trelawny accompanied us back to our home. We journeyed on and reached
the Magra about half-past 10 P.M. I cannot describe to you what I felt
in the first moment when, fording this river, I felt the water splash
about our wheels. I was suffocated--I gasped for breath--I thought I
should have gone into convulsions, and I struggled violently that Jane
might not perceive it. Looking down the river I saw the two great
lights burning at the _foce_; a voice from within me seemed to cry
aloud, "That is his grave." After passing the river I gradually
recovered. Arriving at Lerici we were obliged to cross our little bay
in a boat. San Terenzo was illuminated for a festa. What a scene! The
waving sea, the sirocco wind, the lights of the town towards which we
rowed, and our own desolate hearts, that coloured all with a shroud.
We landed. Nothing had been heard of them. This was Saturday, July 13,
and thus we waited until Thursday July 18, thrown about by hope and
fear. We sent messengers along the coast towards Genoa and to Via
Reggio; nothing had been found more than the _Lancetta_; reports were
brought us; we hoped; and yet to tell you all the agony we endured
during those twelve days, would be to make you conceive a universe of
pain--each moment intolerable, and giving place to one still worse.
The people of the country, too, added to one's discomfort; they are
like wild savages; on festas, the men and women and children in
different bands--the sexes always separate--pass the whole night in
dancing on the sands close to our door; running into the sea, then
back again, and screaming all the time one perpetual air, the most
detestable in the world; then the sirocco perpetually blew, and the
sea for ever moaned their dirge. On Thursday, 18th, Trelawny left us
to go to Leghorn, to see what was doing or what could be done. On
Friday I was very ill; but as evening came on, I said to Jane, "If
anything had been found on the coast, Trelawny would have returned to
let us know. He has not returned, so I hope." About 7 o'clock P.M. he
did return; all was over, all was quiet now; they had been found
washed on shore. Well, all this was to be endured.

Well, what more have I to say? The next day we returned to Pisa, and
here we are still. Days pass away, one after another, and we live
thus; we are all together; we shall quit Italy together. Jane must
proceed to London. If letters do not alter my views, I shall remain in
Paris. Thus we live, seeing the Hunts now and then. Poor Hunt has
suffered terribly, as you may guess. Lord Byron is very kind to me,
and comes with the Guiccioli to see me often. To-day, this day, the
sun shining in the sky, they are gone to the desolate sea-coast to
perform the last offices to their earthly remains, Hunt, Lord Byron,
and Trelawny. The quarantine laws would not permit us to remove them
sooner, and now only on condition that we burn them to ashes. That I
do not dislike. His rest shall be at Rome beside my child, where one
day I also shall join them. _Adonais_ is not Keats', it is his own
elegy; he bids you there go to Rome. I have seen the spot where he now
lies,--the sticks that mark the spot where the sands cover him; he
shall not be there, it is too near Via Reggio. They are now about this
fearful office, and I live!

One more circumstance I will mention. As I said, he took leave of Mrs.
Mason in high spirits on Sunday. "Never," said she, "did I see him
look happier than the last glance I had of his countenance." On Monday
he was lost. On Monday night she dreamt that she was somewhere, she
knew not where, and he came, looking very pale and fearfully
melancholy. She said to him, "You look ill; you are tired; sit down
and eat." "No," he replied, "I shall never eat more; I have not a
soldo left in the world." "Nonsense," said she, "this is no inn, you
need not pay." "Perhaps," he answered, "it is the worse for that."
Then she awoke; and, going to sleep again, she dreamt that my Percy
was dead; and she awoke crying bitterly--so bitterly, and felt so
miserable--that she said to herself, "Why, if the little boy should
die, I should not feel it in this manner." She was so struck with
these dreams, that she mentioned them to her servant the next day,
saying she hoped all was well with us.

Well, here is my story--the last story I shall have to tell. All that
might have been bright in my life is now despoiled. I shall live to
improve myself, to take care of my child, and render myself worthy to
join him. Soon my weary pilgrimage will begin. I rest now, but soon I
must leave Italy, and then there is an end of all but despair. Adieu!
I hope you are well and happy. I have an idea that while he was at
Pisa, he received a letter from you that I have never seen; so not
knowing where to direct, I shall send this letter to Peacock. I shall
send it open; he may be glad to read it.--Yours ever truly,

MARY W. S.

PISA, _15th August 1822_.

I shall probably write soon again. I have left out a material
circumstance. A fishing-boat saw them go down. It was about 4 in the
afternoon. They saw the boy at mast-head, when baffling winds struck
the sails. They had looked away a moment, and, looking again, the boat
was gone. This is their story, but there is little doubt that these
men might have saved them, at least Edward, who could swim. They could
not, they said, get near her; but three-quarters of an hour after
passed over the spot where they had seen her. They protested no wreck
of her was visible; but Roberts, going on board their boat, found
several spars belonging to her: perhaps they let them perish to obtain
these. Trelawny thinks he can get her up, since another fisherman
thinks that he has found the spot where she lies, having drifted near
shore. Trelawny does this to know, perhaps, the cause of her wreck;
but I care little about it.

All readers know Trelawny's graphic account of the burning of the bodies of Shelley and Williams. Subsequent to this ceremony a painful episode took place between Mary and Leigh Hunt. Hunt had witnessed the obsequies (from Lord Byron's carriage), and to him was given by Trelawny the heart of Shelley, which in the flames had remained unconsumed. This precious relic he refused to give up to her who was its rightful owner, saying that, to induce him to part with it, her claim must be maintained by "strong and conclusive arguments." It was difficult to advance arguments strong enough if the nature of the case was not in itself convincing. He showed no disposition to yield, and Mary was desperate. Where logic, justice, and good feeling failed, a woman's tact, however, succeeded. Mrs. Williams "wrote to Hunt, and represented to him how grievous it was that Shelley's remains should become a source of dissension between his dearest friends. She obtained her purpose. Hunt said she had brought forward the only argument that could have induced him to yield."

Under the influence of a like feeling Mary seems to have borne Hunt no grudge for what must, at least, have appeared to her as an act of most gratuitous selfishness.

But Mary Shelley and Jane Williams had, both of them, to face facts and think of the future. Hardest of all, it became evident that, for the present, they must part. Their affection for each other, warm in happier times, had developed by force of circumstances into a mutual need; so much nearer, in their sorrow, were they to each other than either could be to any one else. But Jane had friends in England, and she required to enlist the interest of Edward's relations in behalf of his orphan children.

Meanwhile, if Mary had for the moment any outward tie or responsibility, it was towards the Leigh Hunts, thus expatriated at the request and desire of others, with a very uncertain prospect of permanent result or benefit. Byron, having helped to start the _Liberal_ with contributions of his own, and thus fulfilled a portion of his bond, might give them the slip at any moment. Shelley, although little disposed toward the "coalition," had promised assistance, and any such promise from him would have been sure to mean, in practice, more, and not less, than it said. Mary had his MSS.; she knew his intentions; she was, as far as any mortal could be, his fitting literary representative. She had little to call her elsewhere. The Hunts were friendly and affectionate and full of pity for her; they were also poor and dependent. All tended to one result; she and they must for the present join forces, so saving expense; and she was to give all the help she could to the _Liberal_. Lord Byron was going to Genoa. Mary and the Hunts agreed to take a house together there for several months or a year.

Once more she wrote from Pisa to her friend.

MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

PISA, _10th September 1822_.

And so here I am! I continue to exist--to see one day succeed the
other; to dread night, but more to dread morning, and hail another
cheerless day. My Boy, too, is alas! no consolation. When I think how
he loved him, the plans he had for his education, his sweet and
childish voice strikes me to the heart. Why should he live in this
world of pain and anguish? At times I feel an energy within me to
combat with my destiny; but again I sink. I have but one hope for
which I live, to render myself worthy to join him,--and such a feeling
sustains one during moments of enthusiasm, but darkness and misery
soon overwhelm the mind when all near objects bring agony alone with
them. People used to call me lucky in my star; you see now how true
such a prophecy is! I was fortunate in having fearlessly placed my
destiny in the hands of one who, a superior being among men, a bright
"planetary" spirit enshrined in an earthly temple, raised me to the
height of happiness. So far am I now happy, that I would not change my
situation as his widow with that of the most prosperous woman in the
world; and surely the time will at length come when I shall be at
peace, and my brain and heart no longer be alive with unutterable
anguish. I can conceive of but one circumstance that could afford me
the semblance of content, that is the being permitted to live where I
am now, in the same house, in the same state, occupied alone with my
child, in collecting his manuscripts, writing his life, and thus to go
easily to my grave. But this must not be! Even if circumstances did
not compel me to return to England, I would not stay another summer in
Italy with my child. I will at least do my best to render him well and
happy, and the idea that my circumstances may at all injure him is the
fiercest pang my mind endures.

I wrote you a long letter containing a slight sketch of my sufferings.
I sent it directed to Peacock, at the India House, because accident
led me to fancy that you were no longer in London. I said in that,
that on that day (15th August) they had gone to perform the last
offices for him; however, I erred in this, for on that day those of
Edward were alone fulfilled, and they returned on the 16th to
celebrate Shelley's. I will say nothing of the ceremony, since
Trelawny has written an account of it, to be printed in the
forthcoming journal. I will only say that all, except his heart (which
was inconsumable), was burnt, and that two days ago I went to Leghorn
and beheld the small box that contained his earthly dross; those
smiles, that form--Great God! no, he is not there, he is with me,
about me--life of my life, and soul of my soul; if his divine spirit
did not penetrate mine I could not survive to weep thus.

I will mention the friends I have here, that you may form an idea of
our situation. Mrs. Williams, Clare, and I live all together; we have
one purse, and, joined in misery, we are for the present joined in
life. She, poor girl, withers like a lily; she lives for her children,
but it is a living death. Lord Byron has been very kind; the Guiccioli
restrains him. She, being an Italian, is capable of being jealous of a
living corpse, such as I. Of Hunt I will speak when I see you. But the
friend to whom we are eternally indebted is Trelawny. I have, of
course, mentioned him to you as one who wishes to be considered
eccentric, but who was noble and generous at bottom. I always thought
so, even when no fact proved it, and Shelley agreed with me, as he
always did, or rather I with him. We heard people speak against him on
account of his vagaries; we said to one another, "Still we like
him--we believe him to be good." Once, even, when a whim of his led
him to treat me with something like impertinence, I forgave him, and I
have now been well rewarded. In my outline of events you will see how,
unasked, he returned with Jane and me from Leghorn to Lerici; how he
stayed with us poor miserable creatures[2] five days there,
endeavouring to keep up our spirits; how he left us on Thursday, and,
finding our misfortune confirmed, then without rest returned on Friday
to us, and again without rest returned to Pisa on Saturday. These were
no common services. Since that he has gone through, by himself, all
the annoyances of dancing attendance on Consuls and Governors for
permission to fulfil the last duties to those gone, and attending the
ceremony himself; all the disagreeable part, and all the fatigue, fell
on him. As Hunt said, "He worked with the meanest and felt with the
best." He is generous to a distressing degree. But after all these
benefits to us, what I most thank him for is this. When on that night
of agony, that Friday night, he returned to announce that hope was
dead for us; when he had told me that his earthly frame being found,
his spirit was no longer to be my guide, protector, and companion in
this dark world, he did not attempt to console me--that would have
been too cruelly useless,--but he launched forth into, as it were, an
overflowing and eloquent praise of my divine Shelley, till I was
almost happy that thus I was unhappy, to be fed by the praise of him,
and to dwell on the eulogy that his loss thus drew from his friend. Of
my friends I have only Mrs. Mason to mention; her coldness has stung
me; yet she felt his loss keenly, and would be very glad to serve me;
but it is not cold offers of service one wants; one's wounded spirit
demands a number of nameless slight but dear attentions that are a
balm, and wanting these, one feels a bitterness which is a painful
addition to one's other sufferings.

God knows what will become of me! My life is now very monotonous as to
outward events, yet how diversified by internal feeling! How often in
the intensity of grief does one instant seem to fill and embrace the
universe! As to the rest, the mechanical spending of my time: of
course I have a great deal to do preparing for my journey. I make no
visits, except one once in about ten days to Mrs. Mason. I have not
seen Hunt these nine days. Trelawny resides chiefly at Leghorn, since
he is captain of Lord Byron's vessel, the _Bolivar_; he comes to see
us about once a week, and Lord Byron visits me about twice a week,
accompanied by the Guiccioli; but seeing people is an annoyance which
I am happy to be spared. Solitude is my only help and resource;
accustomed, even when he was with me, to spend much of my time alone,
I can at those moments forget myself, until some idea, which I think
I would communicate to him, occurs, and then the yawning and dark
gulph again displays itself, unshaded by the rainbow which the
imagination had formed. Despair, energy, love, desponding and
excessive affliction are like clouds driven across my mind, one by
one, until tears blot the scene, and weariness of spirit consigns me
to temporary repose.