The Life and Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Volume I Part 16

As the autumn advanced it became evident that the sunless house at Marlow was exceedingly cold, and far too dreary a winter residence to be desirable for one of Sh.e.l.ley's feeble const.i.tution, or even for Mary and her infant children. Sh.e.l.ley's health grew worse and worse. His poem was finished and dedicated to Mary in the beautiful lines beginning--

So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery, Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome; Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, Its doubtful promise thus I would unite With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

But the reaction from the "agony and b.l.o.o.d.y sweat of intellectual travail," the troubles and griefs of the past year, and the ceaseless worry about money, all told injuriously on his physical state. He had to be constantly away from his home, up in town, on business; and his thoughts turned longingly again towards Italy. Byron had signified his consent to receive and provide for his daughter, subject to certain stringent conditions, chief among which was the child's complete separation from its mother, from the time it pa.s.sed into his keeping. In writing to him on 24th September, Sh.e.l.ley adverts to his own wish to winter at Pisa, and the possibility in this case of his being himself Alba's escort to Italy.

"Now, dearest, let me talk to you," he writes to Mary. "I think we ought to go to Italy. I think my health might receive a renovation there, for want of which perhaps I should never entirely overcome that state of diseased action which is so painful to my beloved. I think Alba ought to be with her father. This is a thing of incredible importance to the happiness, perhaps, of many human beings. It might be managed without our going there. Yes; but not without an expense which would, in fact, suffice to settle us comfortably in a spot where I might be regaining that health which you consider so valuable. It is valuable to you, my own dearest. I see too plainly that you will never be quite happy till I am well. Of myself I do not speak, for I feel only for you."

He goes on to discuss the practicability of the plan from the financial point of view, calculating what sum they may hope to get by the sale of their lease and furniture, and how much he may be able to borrow, either from his kind friend Horace Smith, or from money-lenders on _post obits_, a ruinous process to which he was, all his life, forced to resort.

Poor Mary in the chilly house at Marlow, with her three-weeks-old baby, her strength far from re-established, and her house full of guests, who made themselves quite at home, was not likely to take the most sanguine view of affairs.

_25th September 1817._

You tell me, dearest, to write you long letters, but I do not know whether I can to-day, as I am rather tired. My spirits, however, are much better than they were, and perhaps your absence is the cause. Ah!

my love! you cannot guess how wretched it was to see your languor and increasing illness. I now say to myself, perhaps he is better; but then I watched you every moment, and every moment was full of pain both to you and to me. Write, my love, a long account of what Lawrence says; I shall be very anxious until I hear.

I do not see a great deal of our guests; they rise late, and walk all the morning. This is something like a contrary fit of Hunt's, for I meant to walk to-day, and said so; but they left me, and I hardly wish to take my first walk by myself; however, I must to-morrow, if he still shows the same want of _tact_. Peac.o.c.k dines here every day, _uninvited_, to drink his bottle. I have not seen him; he morally disgusts me; and Marianne says that he is very ill-tempered.

I was much pained last night to hear from Mr. Baxter that Mr. Booth is ill-tempered and jealous towards Isabel; and Mr. Baxter thinks she half regrets her marriage; so she is to be another victim of that ceremony. Mr. Baxter is not at all pleased with his son-in-law; but we can talk of that when we meet.

... A letter came from G.o.dwin to-day, very short. You will see him; tell me how he is. You are loaded with business, the event of most of which I am anxious to learn, and none so much as whether you can do anything for my Father.

MARLOW, _26th September 1817_.

You tell me to decide between Italy and the sea. I think, dearest, if--what you do not seem to doubt, but which I do, a little--our finances are in sufficiently good a state to bear the expense of the journey, our inclination ought to decide. I feel some reluctance at quitting our present settled state, but as we _must_ leave Marlow, I do not know that stopping short on this side the Channel would be pleasanter to me than crossing it. At any rate, my love, do not let us enc.u.mber ourselves with a lease again.... By the bye, talking of authors.h.i.+p, do get a sketch of G.o.dwin's plan from him. I do not think that I ought to get out of the habit of writing, and I think that the thing he talked of would just suit me. I am glad to hear that G.o.dwin is well.... As to Mrs. G.o.dwin, something very a.n.a.logous to disgust arises whenever I mention her. That last accusation of G.o.dwin's[28]

adds bitterness to every feeling I ever felt against her.... Mr.

Baxter thinks that Mr. Booth keeps Isabel from writing to me. He has written to her to-day warmly in praise of us both, and telling her by all means not to let the acquaintance cool, and that in such a case her loss would be much greater than mine. He has taken a prodigious fancy to us, and is continually talking of and praising "Queen Mab,"

which he vows is the best poem of modern days.

MARLOW, _28th September 1817_.

DEAREST LOVE--Clare arrived yesterday night, and whether it might be that she was in a croaking humour (in ill spirits she certainly was), or whether she represented things as they really were, I know not, but certainly affairs did not seem to wear a very good face. She talks of Harriet's debts to a large amount, and something about Longdill's having undertaken for them, so that they must be paid. She mentioned also that you were entering into a _post obit_ transaction. Now this requires our serious consideration on one account. These things (_post obits_), as you well know, are affairs of wonderful length; and if you must complete one before you settle on going to Italy, Alba's departure ought certainly not to be delayed.... You have not mentioned yet to G.o.dwin your thoughts of Italy; but if you determine soon, I would have you do it, as these things are always better to be talked of some days before they take place. I took my first walk to-day. What a dreadfully cold place this house is! I was s.h.i.+vering over a fire, and the garden looked cold and dismal; but as soon as I got into the road, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the sun was s.h.i.+ning, and the air warm and delightful.... I will now tell you something that will make you laugh, if you are not too teased and ill to laugh at anything. Ah! dearest, is it so? You know now how melancholy it makes me sometimes to think how ill and comfortless you may be, and I so far away from you. But to my story. In Elise's last letter to her _chere amie_, Clare put in that Madame Clairmont was very ill, so that her life was in danger, and added, in Elise's person, that she (Elise) was somewhat shocked to perceive that Mademoiselle Clairmont's gaiety was not abated by the _douloureuse_ situation of her amiable sister. Jenny replies--

"Mon amie, avec quel chagrin j'apprends la maladie de cette jolie et aimable Madame Clairmont; pauvre chere dame, comme je la plains. Sans doute elle aime tendrement son mari, et en etre separee pour toujours--en avoir la cert.i.tude elle sentir--quelle cruelle chose; qu'il doit etre un mechant homme pour quitter sa femme. Je ne sais ce qu'il y a, mais cette jeune et jolie femme me tient singulierement au coeur; je l'avoue que je n'aime point mademoiselle sa soeur.

Comment! avoir a craindre pour les jours d'une si charmante soeur, et n'en pas perdre un grain de gaite; elle me met en colere."

Here is a n.o.ble resentment thrown away! Really I think this _mystification_ of Clare's a little wicked, although laughable. I am just now surrounded by babes. Alba is scratching and crowing, William is amusing himself with wrapping a shawl round him, and Miss Clara staring at the fire.... Adieu, dearest love. I want to say again, that you may fully answer me, how very, _very_ anxious I am to know the whole extent of your present difficulties and pursuits; and remember also that if this _post obit_ is to be a long business, Alba must go before it is finished. w.i.l.l.y is just going to bed. When I ask him where you are, he makes me a long speech that I do not understand. But I know my own one, that you are away, and I wish that you were with me. Come soon, my own only love.--Your affectionate girl,

M. W. S.

_P.S._--What of _Frankenstein_? and your own poem--have you fixed on a name? Give my love to G.o.dwin when Mrs. G.o.dwin is not by, or you must give it her, and I do not love her.

_5th October 1817._

... How happy I shall be, my own dear love, to see you again. Your last was so very, very short a visit; and after you were gone I thought of so many things I had to say to you, and had no time to say.

Come Tuesday, dearest, and let us enjoy some of each other's company; come and see your sweet babes and the little Commodore;[29] she is lively and an uncommonly interesting child. I never see her without thinking of the expressions in my mother's letters concerning f.a.n.n.y.

If a mother's eyes were not partial, she seemed like this Alba. She mentions her intelligent eyes and great vivacity; but this is a melancholy subject.

But Sh.e.l.ley's enforced absences became more and more frequent; brief visits to his home were all that he could s.n.a.t.c.h. As the desire to escape grew stronger, the fair prospect only seemed to recede. New complications appeared in the shape of Harriet's creditors, who pressed hard on Sh.e.l.ley for a settlement of their hitherto unknown and unsuspected claims. So perilous with regard to them was his position that Mary herself was fain to caution him to stay away and out of sight for fear of arrest. It was almost more than she could do to keep up the mask of cheerfulness, yet her letters of counsel and encouragement were her husband's mainstay.

"Dearest and best of living beings," he wrote in October, "how much do your letters console me when I am away from you. Your letter to-day gave me the greatest delight; so soothing, so powerful and quiet are your expressions, that it is almost like folding you to my heart....

My own Mary, would it not be better for you to come to London at once?

I think we could quite as easily do something with the house if you were in London--that is to say, all of you--as in the country."

The next two letters were written in much depression. She could not get up her strength; she dared not indulge in the hope of going abroad, for she realised, as Sh.e.l.ley could not do, how little money they would have and how much they already owed. Their income, and more, went in supporting and paying for other people, and left them nothing to live on! Clare was unsettled, unhappy, and petulant. G.o.dwin, ignorant like the rest of the world of her story and her present situation, unaware of Sh.e.l.ley's proposed move, and certain to oppose it with the energy of despair when he heard of it, was an impending visitor.

_16th October 1817._

So you do not come to-night love, nor any night; you are always away, and this absence is long and becomes each day more dreary. Poor Curran! so he is dead, and a sod on his breast, as four years ago I heard him prophesy would be the case within that year.

Nothing is done, you say in your letter, and indeed I do not expect anything will be done these many months. This, if you continued well, would not give me so much pain, except on Alba's account. If she were with her father, I could wait patiently, but the thought of what may come "between the cup and the lip"--between now and her arrival at Venice--is a heavy burthen on my soul. He may change his mind, or go to Greece, or to the devil; and then what happens?

My dearest Sh.e.l.ley, be not, I entreat you, too self-negligent; yet what can you do? If you were here, you might retort that question upon me; but when I write to you I indulge false hopes of some miraculous answer springing up in the interval. Does not Longdill[30] treat you ill? he makes out long bills and does nothing. You say nothing of the late arrest, and what may be the consequences, and may they not detain you? and may you not be detained many months? for G.o.dwin must not be left unprovided. All these things make me run over the months, and know not where to put my finger and say--during this year your Italian journey shall commence. Yet when I say that it is on Alba's account that I am anxious, this is only when you are away, and with too much faith I believe you to be well. When I see you, drooping and languid, in pain, and unable to enjoy life, then on your account I ardently wish for bright skies and Italian sun.

You will have received, I hope, the ma.n.u.script that I sent yesterday in a parcel to Hookham. I am glad to hear that the printing goes on well; bring down all that you can with you.

If we were free and had no anxiety, what delight would G.o.dwin's visit give me; as it is, I fear that it will make me dreadfully miserable.

Cannot you come with him? By the way you write I hardly expect you this week, but is it really so?

I think Alba's remaining here exceedingly dangerous, yet I do not see what is to be done. Your babes are well. Clara already replies to her nurse's caresses by smiles, and w.i.l.l.y kisses her with great tenderness.--Your affectionate

MARY.

_P.S._--I wish you would purchase a gown for Milly,[31] with a little note with it from Marianne,[32] that it may appear to come from her.

You can get one, I should think, for 12s. or 14s.; but it must be _stout_; such a kind of one as we gave to the servant at Bath.

w.i.l.l.y has just said good-night to me; he kisses the paper and says good-night to you. Clara is asleep.

MARLOW, _Sat.u.r.day, 18th October 1817_.

Mr. Wright has called here to-day, my dearest Sh.e.l.ley, and wished to see you. I can hardly have any doubt that his business is of the same nature as that which made him call last week. You will judge, but it appears to me that an arrest on Monday will follow your arrival on Sunday.

My love, you ought not to come down. A long, long week has pa.s.sed, and when at length I am allowed to expect you, I am obliged to tell you not to come. This is very cruel. You may easily judge that I am not happy; my spirits sink during this continued absence. G.o.dwin, too, will come down; he will talk as if we meant to stay here; and I must--must I?--tell fifty prevarications or direct _lies_. When I thought that you would be here also, I knew that your presence would lead to general conversation; but Clare will absent herself. We shall be alone, and he will talk of your private affairs. I am sure that I shall never be able to support it.

And when is this to end? Italy appears to me farther off than ever, and the idea of it never enters my mind but G.o.dwin enters also, and makes it lie heavy at my heart. Had you not better speak? you might relieve me from a heavy burden. Surely he cannot be blind to the many heavy reasons that urge us. Your health, the indispensable one, if every other were away. I a.s.sure you that if my Father said, "Yes, you must go; do what you can for me; I know that you will do all you can;"

I should, far from writing so melancholy a letter, prepare everything with a light heart; arrange our affairs here; and come up to town, to await patiently the effect of your efforts. I know not whether it is early habit or affection, but the idea of his silent quiet disapprobation makes me weep as it did in the days of my childhood.

I shall not see you to-morrow. G.o.d knows when I shall see you! Clare is for ever wearying with her idle and childish complaints. Can you not send me some consolation?--Ever your affectionate

MARY.

The fears of an arrest were not realised. Early in November Sh.e.l.ley came for three days to Marlow, after which Mary went up to stay with him in London.

During this fortnight's visit the question of renewed intercourse with Isabel Booth was practically decided, and decided against Mary. She had written on the 4th of November to Mr. Baxter inviting Christy to come on a visit. Subsequently a plan was started for Isabel Booth's accompanying the Sh.e.l.leys in their Italian trip,--they little dreaming that when they left England it would be for the last time.