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diff --git a/old/64118-0.txt b/old/64118-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e04d076..0000000 --- a/old/64118-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7849 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ariel, by André Maurois - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Ariel - A Shelley Romance - -Author: André Maurois - -Translator: Ella D'Arcy - -Release Date: December 23, 2020 [eBook #64118] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Al Haines, Howard Ross & the online Distributed Proofreaders - Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIEL *** -This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Howard Ross & the online -Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net - - - - - = A R I E L = - - A SHELLEY ROMANCE - - - BY - ANDRÉ MAUROIS - - TRANSLATED BY - ELLA D’ARCY - - - - - First published in 1924 - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PART I - CHAPTER PAGE - I KEATE’S WAY 11 - II THE HOME 17 - III THE CONFIDANT 23 - IV THE NEIGHBOURING PINE 29 - V QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM 35 - VI TIMOTHY SHELLEY’S VIGOROUS DIALECTICS 40 - VII AN ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES 47 - VIII THIS DESPOTIC CHAIN 54 - IX A VERY YOUNG COUPLE 59 - X HOGG 65 - XI HOGG (_continued_) 72 - XII FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH MIDDLE AGE 76 - XIII SOAP BUBBLES 85 - XIV THE VENERATED FRIEND 92 - XV MISS HITCHENER 97 - XVI HARRIET 102 - XVII COMPARISONS 108 - XVIII SECOND INCARNATION OF THE GODDESS 116 - - PART II - XIX A SIX WEEKS’ TOUR 125 - XX THE PARIAHS 130 - XXI GODWIN 138 - XXII DON JUAN CONQUERED 144 - XXIII ARIEL AND DON JUAN 150 - XXIV GRAVES IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE 159 - XXV THE RULES OF THE GAME 166 - XXVI “QUEEN OF MARBLE AND OF MUD” 175 - XXVII THE ROMAN CEMETERY 184 - XXVIII “ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND” 189 - XXIX THE CAVALIER’ SIRVENTE 198 - XXX A SCANDALOUS LETTER 204 - XXXI LORD BYRON’S SILENCE 207 - XXXII MIRANDA 214 - XXXIII THE DISCIPLES 220 - XXXIV II SAMUEL XII. 23 226 - XXXV THE REFUGE 232 - XXXVI ARIEL SET FREE 239 - XXXVII LAST LINKS 247 - - - - - ARIEL - - - - - PART I - - - So I turned to the Garden of Love - That so many sweet flowers bore; - And I saw it was filled with graves. - - WILLIAM BLAKE - - - - - CHAPTER I - - KEATE’S WAY - - -In the year 1809 George III appointed as Headmaster of Eton, Dr. Keate, -a terrible little man who considered the flogging-block a necessary -station on the road to perfection, and who ended a sermon on the Sixth -Beatitude by saying, “Now, boys, be pure in heart! For if not, I’ll flog -you until you are!” - -The county gentlemen and merchant princes who put their sons under his -care were not displeased by such a specimen of pious ferocity, nor could -they think lightly of the man who had birched half the ministers, -bishops, generals, and dukes in the kingdom. - -In those days the severest discipline found favour with the best people. -The recent French Revolution had proved the dangers of liberalism when -it affects the governing classes. Official England, which was the soul -of the Holy Alliance, believed that in combating Napoleon she was -combating liberalism in the purple. She required from her public schools -a generation of smooth-tongued hypocrites. - -In order to crush out any possible republican ardour in the young -aristocrats of Eton, their studies were organized on conventional and -frivolous lines. At the end of five years the pupil had read Homer twice -through, almost all Virgil, and an expurgated Horace; he could turn out -passable Latin epigrams on Wellington and Nelson. The taste for Latin -quotations was then so pronounced, that Pitt in the House of Commons -being interrupted in a quotation from the _Æneid_, the whole House, -Whigs and Tories alike, rose as one man to supply the end. Certainly a -fine example of homogeneous culture. - -The study of science, being optional, was naturally neglected, but -dancing was obligatory. On the subject of religion Keate held doubt to -be a crime, but that otherwise it wasn’t worth talking about. He feared -mysticism more than indifference, permitted laughing in chapel and -wasn’t strict about keeping the Sabbath. - -Here, in order to make the reader understand the—perhaps -unconscious—Machiavellism of this celebrated trainer of youth, we may -note that he did not mind being told a few lies: “A sign of respect,” he -would say. - -Barbarous customs reigned amongst the boys themselves. The little boys -were the slaves or “fags” of the big boys. The fag made his master’s -bed, fetched from the pump outside and carried up his water in the -morning, brushed his clothes, and cleaned his shoes. Disobedience was -punished by torments to fit the crime. A boy writing home, not to -complain, but to describe his life, says: “Rolls, whose fag I am, put on -spurs to force me to jump a ditch which was too wide for me. Each time I -funked it he dug them into me, and of course my legs are bleeding, my -‘Greek Poets’ reduced to pulp, and my new clothes torn to tatters.” - -The glorious “art of self-defence” was in high honour. At the conclusion -of one strenuous bout, a boy was left dead upon the floor. Keate, coming -to look at the corpse, said simply: “This is regrettable, of course, but -I desire above all things that an Eton boy should be ready to return a -blow for a blow.” - -The real, but hidden, aim of the system was to form “hard-faced men,” -all run in the same mould. In action you might be independent, but any -originality of thought, of dress, or of language, was the most heinous -of crimes. To betray the smallest interest in ideas or books was a bit -of disgusting affectation to be forcibly pulled up by the roots. - -Such a life as this seemed to the majority of English boys quite right. -The pride they felt in carrying on the traditions of a school like Eton -founded by a king, and under the protection of and near neighbour to all -the succeeding kings, was balm of Gilead to their woes. - -Only a few sensitive souls suffered terribly and suffered long. - -One of these, for example, the young Percy Bysshe Shelley, son of a rich -Sussex landowner, and grandson to Sir Bysshe Shelley, Bart., did not -seem able to acclimatize himself at all. - -This boy, who was exceptionally beautiful, with brilliant blue eyes, -dark curling hair, and a delicate complexion, displayed a sensitiveness -of conscience most unusual in one of his class, as well as an incredible -tendency to question the Rules of the Game. - -When first he appeared in the school, the Sixth Form captains, seeing -his slender build and girlish air, imagined they would have little need -to enforce their authority over him. But they soon discovered that the -smallest threat threw him into a passion of resistance. An unbreakable -will, with a lack of the necessary physical strength to carry out its -decrees, forefated him to rebellion. His eyes, dreamy when at peace, -acquired, under the influence of enthusiasm or indignation, a light that -was almost wild; his voice, usually soft and low, became agonized and -shrill. - -His love of books, his contempt for games, his long hair floating in the -wind, his collar opened on a girlish throat, everything about him -scandalized those self-charged to maintain in the little world of Eton -the brutal spirit of which it was so proud. - -But Shelley, from his first day there, having decided that fagging was -an outrage to human dignity, had refused obedience to the orders of his -fag-master, and in consequence was proclaimed an outlaw. - -He was called “Mad Shelley.” The strongest of his tormentors undertook -to save his soul as by fire, although they gave up attacking him in -single combat, when they found he would stop at nothing. Scratching and -slapping, he fought with open hands like a girl. - -An organized “Shelley-bait” became one of the favourite amusements. Some -scout would discover the strange lad reading poetry by the riverside, -and at once give the “view hallo!” Shelley, with his hair streaming on -the wind, would take flight across the meadows, through the college -cloisters, the Eton streets. Finally, surrounded like a stag at bay, he -would utter a prolonged and piercing shriek, while his tormentors would -“nail” him to the wall with balls slimy with mud. - -A voice would cry “Shelley!” And “Shelley!” another voice would take it -up. The old walls would re-echo to yells of “Shelley!” in every key. A -lickspittle fag would pluck at the victim’s jacket; another would pinch -him; a third would kick away the books he squeezed convulsively under -his arm. Then, every finger would be pointed towards him, while fresh -cries of “Shelley!” “Shelley!” “Shelley!” finally shattered his nerves. - -The crisis was reached for which his tormentors waited—an outburst of -mad rage, in which the boy’s eyes flashed fire, his cheeks grew white, -his whole body trembled and shook. - -Tired at length of a spectacle that was always the same, the school went -back to its games. - -Shelley picked up his mud-stained books and lost in thought wandered -away through the meadows that border the Thames and, flinging himself -down on the sun-flecked grass, watched the river glide past him. Running -water, like music, has the power to change misery into melancholy. Both, -through their smooth, unceasing flow, pour over the soul the anodyne of -forgetfulness and peace. The massive towers of Windsor and Eton, -typified to the young rebel a hostile and unchanging world, but the -reflection of the willow-trees trembling in the water soothed him by its -tenuous fragility. - -He returned to his books, to Diderot, to Voltaire, to the system of M. -d’Holbach. To love these Frenchmen, so hated by his masters, seemed an -act of defiance worthy of his courage. An English work condensed them -all. Godwin’s _Political Justice_. It was his favourite reading. - -Godwin made all things seem simple. Had men studied him the world would -have attained to a state of idyllic happiness. Had they listened to the -voice of reason, that is of Godwin, two hours’ work a day would have -been sufficient for all their needs. Free love would have replaced the -stupid conventions of marriage, and philosophy have banished the terrors -of superstition. - -Unfortunately, “prejudices” still shut men’s minds to truth. - -Shelley closed his book, stretched himself out upon the sunny, -flower-starred grass, and meditated on the misery of man. From the -school buildings behind him a confused murmur of stupid voices floated -out over the exquisite landscape of wood and stream, but here at least -no mocking eye could spy upon him. The boy’s tears ran down, and -pressing his hands together, he made this vow: “I swear, to be just and -wise and free, if such power in me lies. I swear never to become an -accomplice, even by my silence, of the selfish and the powerful. I swear -to dedicate my whole life to the worship of beauty.” - -Had Dr. Keate been witness to the above outburst of religious ardour, so -deplorable in any well-regulated school, he would certainly have treated -the case in his favourite way. - - - - - CHAPTER II - - THE HOME - - -In the holidays the refractory slave became the hereditary prince. Mr. -Timothy Shelley, his father, owned the manor of Field Place in Sussex, a -well-built, low, white house surrounded by a park, and extensive woods. -There Shelley found his four pretty sisters, a little brother three -years old, whom he had taught to say “The devil!” so as to shock the -pious, and his beautiful cousin Harriet Grove, who people said resembled -him. - -The head of the family, Sir Bysshe Shelley, lived in the market-town of -Horsham. He was a gentleman of the old school who boasted of being as -rich as a duke and of living like a poacher. Six feet high, of -commanding presence and a handsome face, Sir Bysshe was of cynical mind -and energetic temperament. Unlike the rest of the Shelleys, who all had -bright blue eyes, Sir Bysshe’s eyes were brown, inherited presumably -from his New Jersey mother, the wealthy widow Plum. - -He had sunk eighty thousand pounds in building Castle Goring, but could -not finish it because of the expense. So he lived in a cottage close to -the Horsham Town Hall, with one man-servant as eccentric as himself. He -dressed like a peasant and spent his days in the tap-room of the Swan -Inn, talking politics with all and sundry. He had a rough sort of humour -that frightened the slow-witted country-folk. He had made his two -daughters so unhappy at home that they had run away, which afforded him -an excellent pretext for not giving them any dowry. - -His one desire was to round off an immense estate and to transmit it -intact to innumerable generations of Shelleys. With this in view he had -entailed the greater part of it on Percy, to the total exclusion of his -other children. Considering his grandson as the necessary upholder of -his posthumous ambition, he had a certain affection for him. But for his -son, Timothy, who dealt in stilted phrases, he had nothing but contempt. - -Timothy Shelley was member of Parliament for the pocket borough of New -Shoreham. Like his father, he was tall and well made, fair, handsome and -imposing. He had a better heart than Sir Bysshe but less will-power. Sir -Bysshe was rather attractive, as avowed egoists and cynics often are. -Timothy had good intentions and was insupportable. He admired intellect -with the irritating want of tact of the illiterate. He affected a -fashionable respect for religion, an aggressive tolerance for new ideas, -a pompous philosophy. He liked to call himself liberal in his political -and religious opinions, but was careful not to scandalize the people of -his set. A friend of the Duke of Norfolk, he spoke with complacency of -the emancipation of the Irish Catholics. He was proud of his own -boldness and not a little scared by it. He had tears at command, but -became ferocious if his vanity was touched. In private life he plumed -himself on his urbanity, but tried to combine the mailed fist with the -velvet glove. Diplomatic in small things he was boorish in big ones; -inoffensive yet exasperating, he was well fitted to try the temper of -any young critic; and it was the vexation caused by the silly -bibble-babble of his father which had done much to throw Shelley into -intellectual isolation. As to Mrs. Shelley, she had been the prettiest -girl in the county, she liked a man to be a fighter and a gentleman, and -she would watch with disgust her eldest son go off into the woods -carrying a book under his arm instead of a gun. - -In the eyes of his sisters, however, Shelley was a Superman. The moment -he arrived from Eton the house was filled with fantastic guests, the -park was alive with confused murmurs as in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” -The little girls lived in a continual but agreeable terror. Percy -delighted in clothing with mystery the everyday objects of life. There -was no hole in the old walls into which he did not thrust a stick in the -search for secret passages. In the attics he had discovered a locked -room. Here, said he, lived an old alchemist with a long beard, the -terrible Cornelius Agrippa. When a noise was heard in the attics, it was -Cornelius upsetting his lamp. During a whole week the Shelley family -worked in the garden, digging out a summer shelter for Cornelius. - -Other monsters woke again with the boy’s arrival. There was the great -tortoise which lived in the pond, and the great old snake, a formidable -reptile, that once had really frequented the underwood, and which one of -the Squire’s gardeners had killed with a scythe. “This gardener, little -girls, this gardener who had the look of a human being like you and me, -was in reality Father Time himself who causes all legendary monsters to -perish.” - -What rendered these inventions so fascinating was that the teller -himself was not too sure he was inventing them. Stories of witches and -ghosts had troubled his sensitive childhood. But the more he feared -ghostly apparitions the more he forced himself to brave them. At Eton, -having drawn a circle on the ground, and set fire to some alcohol in a -saucer, which enveloped him in its bluish flame, he began his -incantation: “Demons of the air, and of fire. . . .” “What on earth are -you doing, Shelley?” said his Master, the solemn and magnificent Bethel, -interrupting him one day: “Please, sir, I’m raising the devil. . . .” In -the country likewise the Lord of Darkness was often called up by a -shrill young voice, and sometimes to their great joy the children -received an order from the sovereign brother to dress up as ghosts or -demons. - -The discipline of science was quite alien to Shelley’s nature, but he -liked its romantic side. Armed with a machine which had just been -invented, he gave electric shocks to the admiring bevy of little girls. -But whenever little Hellen, the youngest, saw him coming with a bottle -and a bit of wire she began to cry. - -His dearest and most faithful disciples were Elizabeth his eldest -sister, and his lovely cousin, Harriet Grove. These three children were -drawn together by their dawning senses and their impassioned love of -Truth. The first awakening of instinct always sheds over ideas an -extraordinary charm. Shelley led his fair pupils to the churchyard to -which the mysterious presence of the dead lent, in his eyes, a poetic -fascination, and safe from the pursuit of his father, seated between -them on some rustic tomb in the shadow of the old church, arms round -swaying waists, he discoursed eloquently on all things in heaven and -earth while lovely eyes drank up his every word. - -The picture he drew of the world was a simple one. On the one side Vice: -kings, priests, and the rich. On the other Virtue: philosophers, the -wretched, and the poor. Here, religion in the service of tyranny: there, -Godwin and his _Political Justice_. But more often he spoke to the girls -of Love. - -“Men’s laws pretend to regulate our natural sentiments. How absurd! When -the eye perceives a lovely being the heart takes fire. How is it under -man’s control to love or not to love? But the essence of love is liberty -and it withers in an atmosphere of constraint. It is incompatible with -obedience, jealousy, or fear. It requires perfect confidence and -absolute freedom. Marriage is a prison. . . .” - -Scepticism extended to marriage is a form of wit which unmarried ladies -do not much appreciate. Metaphysical heresy may sometimes amuse them, -matrimonial heresy smells of the faggot. - -“Bonds?” repeated Harriet. “No doubt. . . . But what matter if the bonds -are light ones?” - -“If they are light they are useless. Does one shackle a voluntary -prisoner?” - -“But religion . . .” - -Shelley called Holbach to the aid of Godwin. “If God is just, how can we -believe that he will punish creatures whom he himself has created weak? -If he is All-Powerful, how is it possible either to offend him or resist -him? If he is reasonable, why is he angry with the hapless beings to -whom he has left the liberty to be unreasonable?” - -“Custom . . .” - -“What can custom matter to us in this short moment of eternity which we -call the nineteenth century?” - -Elizabeth took her brother’s side, and it was impossible for Harriet to -oppose a demi-god with flashing eyes, a shirt-collar open on a delicate -throat, and hair as fine as spun-silk. - -She sighed; then to change the conversation, “Let us go on with -_Zastrozzi_?” she proposed. - -This was a novel which the three were writing together. It dealt with a -robber chief, a haughty tyrant, and an “elegantly proportioned heroine -all tenderness and purity.” - -The hours passed pleasantly in _Zastrozzi’s_ company; the evening closed -in. Elizabeth left the guileless lovers alone in the darkness. - -Shelley and Harriet, their arms interlocked, wandered back to the house -through the white mist rising from the meadows. The breeze waved the -topmost leaves of the trees across the face of the moon. The anemones -shut their pale cups and drooped their heads. The sadness of twilight -reminded Shelley of his approaching return to the sombre cloisters of -Eton. But conscious of the warm loveliness of his cousin, who trembled -and vibrated beneath his touch, he felt himself filled with new courage -for a life of apostleship and combat. - - - - - CHAPTER III - - THE CONFIDANT - - -In October, 1810, Timothy Shelley took his son up to Oxford. The member -for New Shoreham was in the best of tempers. - -Objecting to hotels, he put up at his old lodgings in the High—“the -leaden horse”—appropriate house-sign of John Slatter, Plumber and -Glazier. This Slatter was a son of Mr. Shelley’s former landlord, whom -he had succeeded in the lodging-house and plumbing businesses. Another -son, with whom to his chagrin he was to have much to do, had gone into -partnership with Munday, bookseller at Carfax. - -Mr. Shelley had come to enter a future baronet in the books of -University College; through which he himself had passed many years -earlier, without distinction. Such ceremonies are always agreeable to an -Englishman, and would be particularly so to a man of the consequential -turn of mind of Timothy Shelley. So soon as the rite was satisfactorily -accomplished, he went down with Bysshe to the bookseller, and there -opened for him an unlimited credit in books and paper. - -“My son here,” he said, pointing good-humouredly to the wild-haired -youth with luminous eyes who stood by, “has a literary turn, Mr. -Slatter. He is already the author of a romance”—it was the famous -_Zastrozzi_—“and if he wishes to publish again, do pray indulge him in -his printing freaks.” - -Shelley was delighted with college. To have rooms of his own, where he -could sport his oak; to be free to attend lectures or shirk them; to -follow the studies of his choice; to read, write, or go walking as he -pleased; this was to combine the charm of the monastic life with the -freedom of thought of the philosopher. It was thus he had dreamed of -passing his life “for ever.” - -That evening in hall he found himself seated by the side of a young man, -a freshman like himself, who after introducing himself as “Jefferson -Hogg,” relapsed into the high-bred reserve which Oxford manners require. -However, towards the middle of the meal the two young men, incapable of -maintaining silence any longer, began to talk of their reading. - -“The best poetical literature of these days,” said Shelley, “is German -literature.” - -Hogg, with a smile, asserted the German’s want of nature. So much -romanticism made him tired. . . . - -“What modern literature can you compare with theirs?” - -Hogg named the Italian. - -This roused all Shelley’s impetuosity, and started such an endless -discussion that the servants were able to clear the tables before the -two perceived they were alone. - -“Will you come up to my rooms?” said Hogg. “We can go on talking there.” - -Shelley eagerly accepted, but he lost the thread of his discourse on the -way and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of Germany. While Hogg -was lighting the candles, his guest said calmly that he was not -qualified to maintain such a discussion, being as ignorant of Italian as -he was of German, and that he had only talked for talking’s sake. - -Hogg replied smiling that his own indifference and ignorance were -profound, and proceeded to set out on the table a bottle, glasses, and -biscuits. - -“Besides,” declared Shelley, “all literature is vain trifling. What is -the study of ancient or modern tongues but merely a study of words and -phrases, of the names of things? How much wiser it were to investigate -the things themselves!” - -How was this to be done, Hogg wanted to know. - -“Through the physical sciences, and especially through chemistry,” said -Shelley, and raising his voice he discoursed with a degree of animation -that far outshone his zeal in defence of the Germans, on chemical -analysis, on the recent discoveries in physics, and on electricity. - -Feeling no interest in these subjects Hogg had leisure to examine the -appearance of his new friend. His clothes were expensive, and made -according to the most approved mode of the day, but they were tumbled, -rumpled, unbrushed. His figure was slight and fragile, he was tall, but -appeared less tall than he really was, being round-shouldered, through -an habitual eagerness of mood which always made him thrust his face -forward. His gestures were both graceful and abrupt, his complexion red -and white like a girl’s; his hair dark-brown, long and bushy. His -features breathed an animation, a fire, a vivid and preternatural -intelligence. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the -intellectual, for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness about -it, and that air of profound religious veneration which characterizes -the frescoed saints of the great masters of Florence. - -Shelley was still talking when some clock chimed—he uttered a cry. “My -mineralogy class!” and fled downstairs. - - * * * - -Hogg had promised to call on him next morning. He found him in a violent -dispute with the scout who wanted to tidy up his rooms. - -Books, boots, papers, pistols, linen, ammunition, phials, and crucibles -were scattered on the floor and on every chair and table. An electrical -machine, an air pump, and a solar microscope were conspicuous amidst the -mass of matter. Shelley turned the handle of the machine so that the -fierce crackling sparks flew out, and presently getting upon the stool -with glass feet, his long wild locks bristled and stood on end. Hogg, -with a look of amusement, followed his movements with anxiety, watching -in particular over the glasses and tea-cups. Just as his host was going -to pour out tea, the guest removed in haste from the bottom of his cup a -small gold seven-shilling piece partly dissolved by the nitromuriatic -acid in which it was immersed. - -The young men became inseparable. Every morning they went for a long -walk, during which Shelley behaved like a child, climbing all the banks, -jumping all the ditches. - -When he came to any water he launched paper boats, and sent little -argosies trembling down the Isis. He followed them until they sank, -while Hogg, compliant but exasperated, waited for him at the starting -point by the water’s edge. - -After the walk they went up to Shelley’s rooms where, worn out by his -continual expenditure of energy, he would be overcome by extreme -drowsiness. He would lie stretched out upon the rug before a large fire -and, curled round upon himself like a cat, would sleep thus from six to -ten. At ten he would suddenly start up, and rubbing his eyes with great -violence and passing his fingers swiftly through his long hair, he would -enter at once into a vehement argument, or begin to recite verses with -an energy which was almost painful. - -At eleven he supped, but his meals were very simple. Eating no meat on -principle, he liked bread, and his pockets were always full of it. He -would walk reading and nibbling as he went, and his path was marked by a -long line of crumbs. Next to bread he liked pudding raisins and dried -prunes bought at the grocer’s. A regular sit-down meal was intolerably -boring to him, and he hardly ever remained to the end. - -After supper his mind was clear and his conversation brilliant. He spoke -to Hogg about his cousin Harriet, to whom he wrote long letters in which -outbursts of love alternated with Godwin’s philosophy; about his sister -Elizabeth, a valiant enemy of convention. Or he read the last solemn -letter from his father with shrieks of laughter. Or he took up one of -his favourite books, Locke, Hume or Voltaire, and commented on it with -enthusiasm. - -Hogg often asked himself why these writers exercised so great a -fascination over the religious and mystical nature of his friend. It -seemed as though in suddenly discovering in the by-ways of his extensive -reading the immense variety of systems, resembling an entanglement of -deep valleys and rocky precipices, that a sort of vertigo must have -seized Shelley and only a clear and simple doctrine such as Godwin’s -could relieve his metaphysical giddiness. He amused himself by -substituting for the titanic and confused accumulations of History, an -aëry edifice of crystalline theories, and he preferred to the real -world, the incoherence of which terrified him, the more agreeable vision -which the soul gains by looking at facts through the vaporous meshes of -clouds. - -Then the college clock struck two. Hogg got up, and in spite of the -protestations of his friend went off to bed. - -“What an extraordinary creature!” thought he as he went up to his room -. . . “the grace of a young girl, the purity of a maiden who has never -left her mother’s side . . . and nevertheless an indomitable force . . . -the soul of a Benedictine monk, with the ideas of a Jacobin.” - -It was certainly a strange mixture, well worth thinking over. But Master -Jefferson Hogg didn’t care about tiring his brain, and his dear friend -Shelley always gave him an overwhelming desire to sleep. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - THE NEIGHBOURING PINE - - -A few days before Christmas Mr. Shelley found in his letter-bag a -communication from a London publisher, a certain Mr. Stockdale, who -called his attention to the extraordinary productions which young Mr. -Percy Shelley desired to have published. Stockdale had received the MS. -of a novel, _St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian_, filled with the most -subversive ideas, and the worthy tradesman could not see without -misgiving the son of so estimable a gentleman as Mr. Shelley treading -this dangerous path. He considered it to be his duty to warn the young -man’s father; and above all to call his attention to the young man’s -evil genius, his comrade Mr. Jefferson Hogg, son of a good old Tory -family in the north of England, but thoroughly false and dangerous in -character. - -Mr. Shelley replied by informing Stockdale that he refused to pay one -penny of the printing bill, which greatly increased the metaphysical and -doctrinal anxieties of the publisher. Then, while awaiting the arrival -of his son, who was to spend the first week of the Christmas holidays at -Field Place, he prepared one of his incoherent, affectionate, and -blustering sermons, in the bombastic style of which he was past master. - -Arguments have never convinced anybody yet. But to imagine that the -arguments of a father can change the ideas of a son is the height of -argumentative madness. At the close of the conversation Shelley went -away sickened by the stupidity of his family, filled with a righteous -fury at the behaviour of Stockdale so unworthy of a gentleman, and more -than ever attached to Jefferson Hogg, his only friend. That very evening -he sat down and confided every thing to him in a long letter: - - “Everybody attacks me for my detestable principles; I am - reckoned an outcast; there lowers a terrific tempest, but I - stand as it were on a pharos, and smile exultingly at the vain - beating of the billows below. I attempted to enlighten my - father. _Mirabile dictu!_ He, for a time, listened to my - arguments; he allowed the impossibility of any direct - intervention of Providence. He allowed the utter incredibility - of witches, ghosts, legendary miracles. But when I came to - _apply_ the truths on which we had agreed so harmoniously, he - started . . . and silenced me with an equine argument ‘I believe - because I believe.’ - - “My mother believes me to be in the high-road to Pandemonium. - She fancies I want to make a deistical coterie of all my little - sisters. How laughable!” - -Field Place, usually so gay during the holidays, was overshadowed by -these happenings. Mrs. Shelley advised her daughters not to speak too -much with Percy, and the little girls became shy and silent. They -continued their Christmas preparations through force of habit, but no -one took any further interest in them; the little amusements and -surprises were arranged as usual, but without the laughter and fun which -makes Christmas Day so delightful in happy families. - -Only Elizabeth remained faithful to Shelley in secret. But she saw that -her admiration was no longer shared by her cousin Harriet, who grew -colder and more evasive every day. - -The letters which Harriet had received from Oxford, filled with -enthusiastic dissertations extremely difficult to follow, had troubled -and annoyed her. The quotations from Godwin bored her to tears, and her -terror was even greater than her boredom. It is rare that pretty women -show a taste for dangerous ideas. Beauty, the natural expression of law -and order, is conservative by essence; it upholds all established -religions of which it adorns the ceremonies; Venus was always the right -hand of Jupiter. - -Harriet showed Shelley’s letters to her mother, who advised her to pass -them on to her father. This gentleman pronounced Shelley’s doctrines to -be abominable. Both parents took gloomy views as to the young man’s -future. Ought Harriet to unite herself with an eccentric creature whose -follies alienated everybody? She loved elegance, county balls, and -admiration. What sort of a life would she lead with this mad boy who -respected nothing, not even marriage? Yet, after all, religion has -claims. . . . - -Before Shelley’s arrival the two young girls had some violent -discussions. Elizabeth pleaded his cause. How could Harriet weigh a few -poor worldly successes against the happiness of passing her life with -the most marvellous of men? - -“You make your brother out to be an extraordinary person, but how can I -be sure he really is as you represent him? We have always lived in the -country, we know nothing of life. Our parents, your own father even, who -is in Parliament, disapprove of Bysshe’s ideas. However, let us admit -that he is a genius. What right have _I_ to enter into an intimacy with -him which must end in disappointment when he discovers how really -inferior I am to the being his imagination has pictured? I am just an -ordinary young girl like all the rest. He has idealized me and he would -be very much surprised if he knew me as I am.” - -So much modesty gives one to think: Love does not reason like this. - -When Shelley arrived Elizabeth explained the situation to him. Instantly -he sought Harriet out. He found her cold and distant, exactly as -Elizabeth had described her. She did not ask Shelley to justify himself: -all she asked was that he should leave her alone. She reproached him -with his universal scepticism. - -“But really, Harriet,” Shelley protested, “it is monstrous that I should -not be allowed to express opinions which I have reached by the most -logical of arguments. And how can my theological opinions disqualify me -as brother, friend, or lover?” - -“You may think what you please,” replied Harriet, “I do not care in the -least what you think, but don’t ask me to unite my lot with yours.” - -It was the first time Shelley had come in contact with a woman’s -indifference, which she can spring upon a man with the suddenness of -night falling in the centre of Africa. - -He went away mad with grief. Through the naked, frozen woods, he -wandered back towards Field Place; unconscious of the drifting snow, he -paced for hours the village graveyard, which had been the background for -love’s young dream. - -He got home at two o’clock in the morning, and went to bed after placing -a loaded pistol, and various poisons taken from his chemical arsenal, by -his side. But the thought of Elizabeth’s grief on finding his corpse -prevented him from killing himself. - -Next day he wrote to Hogg. Against Harriet herself he expressed no -resentment, none against his father nor Mr. Grove. The Spirit of -Intolerance alone was responsible for the tragedy: - - “Here I swear—and as I break my oaths, may Infinity, Eternity - blast me—I swear that I will never forgive Intolerance! It is - the only point on which I allow myself to encourage revenge; - every moment I can spare shall be devoted to my object. - Intolerance is of the greatest disservice to Society; it - encourages prejudices which strike at the root of the dearest, - the tenderest of its ties. Oh how I wish I were the - avenger!—that it were mine to crush the demon; to hurl him to - his native hell, never to rise again and thus to establish for - ever perfect and universal toleration. - - “I expect to gratify some of this insatiable feeling in poetry. - You shall see, you shall hear, how it has injured me. _She_ is - no longer mine! _She_ abhors me as a sceptic, as what _she_ was - before! O bigotry! When I pardon this last, this severest of thy - persecutions, may Heaven—if there be wrath in Heaven—blast me! - - “Forgive me, I have done. I am afraid there is selfishness in - the passion of love, for I cannot avoid feeling every instant as - if my soul were bursting. But I _will_ feel no more. It is - selfish. I would feel for others, but for myself—oh how much - rather would I expire in the struggle! Yes, that were a relief! - Is suicide wrong? I slept with a loaded pistol and some poison - last night, but did not die. Had it not been for my sister, for - _you_, I should have bidden you a final farewell.” - -There still remained a fortnight of the holidays to be passed at Field -Place, an unhappy fortnight owing to the displeasure of his father and -mother, and the embarrassment of his sisters. - -In spite of Elizabeth’s invitations Harriet refused to come over and see -them while he was there. - -People began to whisper, under the seal of secrecy, that she was engaged -to someone else. - -Seeking to appease his spirit in the endeavour to make others happy, -Shelley had resolved that Hogg should fall in love with Elizabeth, whom -he had never seen. He sent Hogg some verses written by her, which were -filled with good intentions, hatred of tyranny, and faults of prosody. - -“All are brethren,” sang Elizabeth like the good pupil she was, “even -the African bending to the stroke of the hard-hearted Englishman’s rod” -. . . and more in the same strain. - -In return, Shelley gave his sister Hogg’s poems which he declared to be -“extremely beautiful” and in which he himself was compared to a young -oak, and Harriet Grove to the ivy which stifles the tree by its -embraces. - -“You have not said,” wrote Shelley, “that the ivy after it had destroyed -the oak, as if to mock the miseries which it had caused, twined around a -pine which stood near.” - -The neighbouring pine was Mr. Heylar, a wealthy landowner, and a man of -sound doctrines, who had been expressly created by Providence to escort -his wife to county balls. - -“She is lost to me for ever! She is married! Married to a clod of earth! -She will become as insensible herself. All those fine capabilities will -moulder. Let us speak no more on the subject.” - -He would have liked to invite Hogg to Field Place, so that Elizabeth -might judge for herself of his admirable qualities. But the squire, -remembering Stockdale’s warnings concerning a certain Evil Genius, -forbade the invitation. - - - - - CHAPTER V - - QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM - - -About a month after these unfortunate holidays, Messrs. Munday & -Slatter, the Oxford booksellers to whom Timothy Shelley had recommended -the literary freaks of his son, saw that young man burst into their -shop, his hair flying, his shirt-collar wide open, and a fat parcel of -pamphlets under his arm. He wished these to be sold at sixpence each, -and to be displayed conspicuously in the shop-window. To be sure of this -being well done, he set about doing it himself. - -The booksellers watched him at work with the amused and fatherly -benevolence which Oxford tradesmen show to Oxford freshmen who have -plenty of money. Had they looked closer they would have been horrified -at the explosive matter with which their young customer strewed their -counters and windows. - -The title of the pamphlet, _The Necessity of Atheism_, was the most -scandalous imaginable in a mealy-mouthed, theological city like Oxford. -It was signed by the unknown name of “Jeremiah Stukeley,” and had -Messrs. Munday & Slatter turned over its pages they would have been more -horrified still by the insolent logic of the imaginary Stukeley. - -“A close examination of the validity of the proofs adduced to support -any proposition, has ever been allowed to be the only sure way of -attaining truth, upon the advantages of which it is unnecessary to -descant.” - -It was with this bold axiom that the pamphlet began, and written in the -form of a geometrical theorem it proceeded to prove the impossibility of -the existence of God. It ended triumphantly with the three letters -Q.E.D., _quod erat demonstrandum_. - -To Shelley who knew nothing of mathematics, this formula had always -seemed like a magician’s spell for the evocation of Truth. Although he -had an ardent belief in a Spirit of universal Goodness, the creator and -director of all things; although he professed the personal theology of -an anglican “_Vicaire Savoyard_”; the word “Atheist” pleased him because -of its vigour. He loved to fling it in the face of Bigotry. He picked up -the epithet with which he had already been pelted at Eton, as a Knight -Errant picks up a glove. To the physical and moral courage of his race, -he added intellectual courage, thus affronting great dangers and an -inevitable scandal. - -_The Necessity of Atheism_ had been published just twenty minutes, when -the Rev. John Walker, a Fellow of New College, a man of a sinister and -inquisitorial turn of mind, passed the shop-window and looked in. - -_The Necessity of Atheism!_ . . . Astounded and outraged, the Rev. John -strode into the shop, calling out in stentorian tones, “Mr. Munday! Mr. -Slatter! What is the meaning of this?” - -“Really, sir, we know nothing about it. We have not personally examined -the pamphlet. . . .” - -“_The Necessity of Atheism!_ . . . But the title in itself is sufficient -to inform you.” - -“Quite so, sir. Quite so. And now that our attention has been called to -it . . .” - -“Now that your attention, gentlemen, has been called to it, you will -have the goodness to withdraw immediately every copy from your window, -and to carry them, as well as any other copies you may possess, into -your kitchen and throw them all into the fire.” - -Mr. Walker had not, of course, the smallest right to give any such -order, but the booksellers knew that he had only to complain to the -University authorities, and they would see their shop put out of bounds. -So they obeyed with obsequious smiles, and sent one of their clerks to -beg young Mr. Shelley to step round for a few minutes’ conversation with -them. - -“We are very sorry, Mr. Shelley, very sorry indeed, but really we -couldn’t help ourselves. Mr. Walker insisted on it, and in your own -interest . . .” - -But his “own interest” was the last thing Shelley ever thought of. In -his piercing, urgent voice, he asserted to the much-worried booksellers -his right to think as he pleased, and to communicate his thoughts to the -world. - -“And,” he told them triumphantly, “I have done worse than spread my net -in the sight of callow Oxford birds. I have sent a copy of _The -Necessity of Atheism_ to every bishop on the Bench, to the Chancellor of -the University, and to every college Master, Warden, and Dean, with the -compliments of ‘Jeremiah Stukeley’ in my own handwriting!” - - * * * - -A few days later a porter appeared in Hogg’s rooms with the Dean’s -compliments to Mr. Shelley, and would he go down to him immediately. He -went down to the Common Room where he found the Master and several of -the Fellows; a little group of learned puritans, all classical and -muscular Christians who had always abhorred Shelley because of his long -hair, his eccentricities of dress, and his really low taste for -experimental science. - -The Dean showed him a copy of _The Necessity of Atheism_, and asked him -if he were the author. As he spoke in a rude, abrupt, and insolent -voice, Shelley did not reply. - -“Are you, yes or no, the author of this pamphlet?” - -“If you can prove that it is by me, produce your evidence. It is neither -just nor lawful to interrogate me in this fashion. Such proceedings -would become a court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free -country.” - -“Do you choose to deny that this is your composition?” - -“I refuse to reply.” - -“Then you are expelled, and I desire that you will quit the college -to-morrow morning at the very latest.” - -An envelope sealed with the college seal was immediately handed to him -by one of the Fellows. It contained the sentence of expulsion. - -Shelley dashed back to Hogg’s rooms, flung himself down on the sofa, and -trembling with rage repeated “Expelled! . . . Expelled!” - -The punishment was terrible. It put a stop to his studies; made it -impossible for him to enter any other university; deprived him of the -peaceful life he so much enjoyed; and drew down on his head his father’s -grotesque and inextinguishable anger. - -Hogg was as indignant as his friend, and carried away by a youthful -generosity, instantly addressed a note to the Master and Fellows, -expressing his grief and astonishment that such treatment could have -been meted out to such a man as Shelley. He trusted that the sentence -was not final. - -The note was dispatched. The Conclave was still sitting. In a moment the -porter returned with “the Dean’s compliments to Mr. Hogg and would he go -down at once.” - -The audience was brief. - -“Did you write this?” - -It was the letter he had just written and he acknowledged it. - -“And this?” putting into Hogg’s hand the pamphlet on Atheism. - -With a wealth of arguments and the subtleties of a K.C., Hogg pointed -out the absurdity of the question, and the injustice of punishing -Shelley for having refused to answer it, the obligation lying on every -man conscious of his rights. . . . - -“That’s enough!” shouted the Master in a furious voice. “You’re expelled -too!” . . . He seemed in a mood to have expelled every man in the -college. Hogg was handed the sealed envelope in his turn. - -In the course of the day a large official paper was affixed to the door -of hall. It was signed by the Master and Dean, bore the college seal, -and declared that Thomas Jefferson Hogg and Percy Bysshe Shelley were -publicly expelled for refusing to answer certain questions put to them. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - TIMOTHY SHELLEY’S VIGOROUS DIALECTICS - - -The exiles set off bag and baggage in the Oxford coach. Shelley had -borrowed £20 from his booksellers, in order to pay his way in London -while waiting news from his father. - -Every lodging which he visited with Hogg appeared to him impossible, -either the street was too noisy, the district too dirty, the -maid-servant too plain. Finally, the name of Poland Street reminded him -of Warsaw . . . of Freedom . . . he was certain that in Poland Street -any one of the rooms must be worthy of a free man’s choice, and the very -first which he visited, where there was a trellised paper, vine leaves, -and huge bunches of green and purple grapes, seemed to him the most -beautiful room in the world. - -“Here we will settle down,” said he, “and begin our Oxford days over -again, our readings by the fireside, our rambles, our delightful -experiences. Here we will live for ever.” - -Nothing was wanting to his programme but the consent of the two fathers, -Mr. Shelley and Mr. Hogg. - - * * * - -When Timothy Shelley heard of the events at Oxford, he was enraged -beyond measure. Evidently, for a wealthy landowner, a Member of -Parliament, and a J.P. for his county, it was a most disagreeable -occurrence. The accusation of atheism annoyed him most, because he -himself was known as a Liberal, and such advanced thought in politics -required to balance it orthodoxy in religion. - -He sat down and wrote a solemn letter to Mr. Hogg senior, deploring “the -unfortunate affair that has happened to my son and yours at Oxford,” and -urging him to get his “young man home” as soon as possible. “As for me,” -he added, “I shall recommend mine to read Paley’s _Natural Theology_: it -is extremely applicable. I shall read it with him.” - -Then he wrote a second letter to his own “young man,” very strongly -worded: “Though I have felt as a father and sympathized in the -misfortune which your criminal opinions and improper acts have begot: -yet you must know that I have a duty to perform to my own character, as -well as to your young brother and sisters. Above all my feelings as a -Christian require from me a firm and decided conduct toward you. - -“If you shall require aid or assistance from me—or any protection—you -must please yourself to me: - -“1st. To go immediately to Field Place, and to abstain from all -communication with Mr. Hogg for some considerable time. - -“2nd. That you shall place yourself under the care and society of such -gentleman as I shall appoint and attend to his instructions and -directions he shall give.” - -If these conditions were not accepted Timothy Shelley would abandon his -son to all the misery which such wicked and diabolical opinions justly -entail. - -Shelley’s reply was brief: - - “MY DEAR FATHER, - - “As you do me the honour of requesting to hear the determination - of my mind as the basis of your future actions I feel it my - duty, although it gives me pain to wound ‘the sense of duty to - your own character, to that of your family and your feelings as - a Christian,’ decidedly to refuse my assent to both the - proposals in your letter and to affirm that similar refusals - will always be the fate of similar requests. With many thanks - for your great kindness, - - “I remain your affectionate, dutiful son, - - “PERCY B. SHELLEY.” - * * * - -The chief obstacle in the diplomatic relations between father and son is -that the former desires above all things to avoid a rupture, which -renders disciplinary measures difficult. His “conditions” having been -succinctly refused, Timothy Shelley found himself at a loss what to do. - -Not a bad man at bottom, he believed in the powerful persuasion of a -bottle of old port. He resolved to go up to town and invite the -delinquents to dinner at Miller’s Hotel, where the wine was good. - -“After all,” he said to himself, while waiting for the two young men, -“one must treat young people with good humour, and even go so far, -ridiculous as it may seem, as to discuss things with them. . . . A -ripened and thoughtful mind should get the better, without any -difficulty, of a philosopher of eighteen, and serious misfortune may be -avoided, by a word of wisdom in the nick of time. . . . I mustn’t forget -that Percy is my heir and that he will succeed to the title: he must be -led back into the fold.” - -And the excellent man, while marshalling into order Paley’s chief -arguments, rubbed his hands with satisfaction. - -Meanwhile, the friends, going on foot from Poland Street to Southwark, -read aloud to each other passages from Voltaire’s _Philosophical -Dictionary_ which Shelley had picked up on a stall. They found it -extremely amusing and laughed immoderately at the old Frenchman’s -ridicule of the Jewish people, the intolerance with which the Bible is -packed, and Jehovah’s sickening and useless cruelties. - -When they reached the hotel, a certain Mr. Graham, the factotum of -Timothy Shelley, was already there with his friend and patron. Mr. -Shelley received Hogg with a wheedling benevolence, then turning to his -son, began to talk in an odd, unconnected manner, punctuating his -discourse with dramatic gestures, which appeared highly ridiculous to -the two young men. - -“What do you think of my father?” Shelley whispered to Hogg. - -“Oh, it is not your father. It is the God of the Jews, the Jehovah you -have been reading about.” - -Percy gave a wild demoniacal burst of laughter, slipped from his seat -and fell on his back at full length on the floor. - -“What’s the matter, Bysshe? Are you ill? Are you mad? Why do you laugh?” -asked his father, scandalized. - -Fortunately, at the same moment, dinner was announced, and proving -excellent, the conversation became almost cordial. When the dessert was -put on the table, the squire sent his son off to order the post-horses -for the next morning, while he undertook the conquest of Hogg. - -“You are a very different person, sir, from what I expected to find; you -are a nice, moderate, reasonable, pleasant gentleman. Tell me what you -think I ought to do with my poor boy? He is rather wild, is he not?” - -“Yes, rather.” - -“Then what am I to do?” - -“If he had married his cousin he would perhaps have been less so. . . . -He wants somebody to take care of him; a good wife. What if he were -married?” - -“But how can I do that? It is impossible. If I were to tell Bysshe to -marry a girl he would refuse immediately. I know him so well.” - -“I have no doubt he would refuse if you were to order him to marry, and -I should not blame him. But if you were to bring him in contact with -some young lady who you believed would make him a suitable wife, without -saying anything about marriage, perhaps he would take a fancy to her, -and if he did not like her you could try another.” - -Mr. Graham, interposing, said it was an excellent plan, and the two men -talking in low voices were going over a list of the young women of their -acquaintance, when Shelley returned. His father ordered a bottle of a -still older port than any they had yet had, and began to speak in praise -of himself. He was so highly respected in the House of Commons: he was -respected by the whole House and by the Speaker in particular, who said -to him, “Mr. Shelley, I do not know what we should do without you.” He -was greatly beloved in the county; he was an admirable Justice of the -Peace; he told a very long story of how he had lately committed two -poachers: “You know the fellows, Graham. You know what they are?” Graham -assented. “Well, when they got out of prison one of them came and -thanked me.” - -Why the poacher was so grateful for a pitiless sentence Hogg never knew, -for the worthy magistrate, believing the wine to have by now produced -its effect, attacked the principal subject of his thoughts. - -“There is certainly a God,” said he. “There can be no doubt of the -existence of a Deity; none whatever.” - -Nobody present expressed any doubt. - -“You, sir,” said he, addressing himself to Hogg, “you have no doubt on -the subject, have you?” - -“None whatever.” - -“If you have, I can prove it to you in a moment.” - -“But I have no doubt.” - -“Ah . . . still you might perhaps like to hear my argument?” - -“Very much.” - -“I will read it to you then.” - -He searched in all his pockets, pulling out various bills and letters, -producing finally a half-sheet of note-paper, which he began to read. -Bysshe, leaning forward, listened with profound attention. - -“I have heard this argument before,” said he, at the end of a few -minutes, and turning to Hogg, “Where have I heard that?” - -“They are Paley’s arguments.” - -“Yes,” the reader observed with much complacency. “They are Paley’s -arguments. I copied them out of Paley’s book this morning, but Paley had -them originally from me; everything in Paley’s book he had from me.” - -On this he folded up the paper, and returned it to his pocket. His son -watched him with more disdain than ever, and the dinner terminated -without having brought about a reconciliation. Shelley refused to go -with his father. His father refused to give him a penny. The only two -who seemed satisfied with one another were Hogg and his host. Timothy -Shelley had found his son’s friend to be far more human than his son. He -was not like Percy, always with bristling quills, always on the strain, -always dug in behind principles which one could not attack without -wounding his infernal pride. Young as he was, Hogg understood life. His -notions on marriage were sensible. Hogg, on his side, declared that -though the oratorical eloquence of the member for New Shoreham was -certainly a bit foggy, nevertheless he was very hospitable and a good -sort. - -A few days later he gave another proof that he understood life by making -up his quarrel with his own father, who, head of a True Blue Tory -family, well known for its orthodoxy, had no need to display the same -horror at the actions of his “young man” as had the Whig owner of Field -Place. - -Hogg senior advised his son to read for the Bar and got him into a -conveyancer’s chambers at York. Hogg was, therefore, obliged to abandon -Shelley in the Poland Street lodgings, a wistful, bright-eyed fox in the -midst of the green and purple bunches of grapes. - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - AN ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES - - -Alone in London, without friends, work, or money, Shelley fell into -despair. He passed his time in writing melancholy poems, or letters to -Hogg. Not knowing what to do with his evenings he went to bed at eight -o’clock. Sleep alone stopped him from going over and over the story of -his woes. The moment he let himself think, the image of his beautiful -and shallow-hearted cousin rose to torture him. He tried to steel his -heart against the painful vision by syllogisms. - -“I loved a being,” he told himself. “The being whom I loved is not what -she was: consequently, as love appertains to mind and not to body, she -exists no longer. . . . I might as well court the worms, which the -soulless body of a beloved being generates in the damp unintelligent -vaults of a charnel-house.” - -This appeared to him such excellent logic that he was astounded it -brought him no consolation. - -The money question grew serious. His father gave no sign of life. -Shelley meeting him one day by chance, politely hoped he was well? All -he got was a look black as a thunder cloud and a majestic “Your most -humble servant, sir!” - -Fortunately, his sisters did not forget him and sent him their -pocket-money. It was all he had to live on. Elizabeth at Field Place was -too well watched to do anything, but the younger girls were now at Mrs. -Fenning’s Academy for Young Ladies on Clapham Common, and very soon Mrs. -Fenning’s pupils made acquaintance with the fine eyes, the open -shirt-collar and tossed curls of Hellen Shelley’s wonderful brother. - -He would arrive, his pockets bulging with biscuits and raisins, and -begin to discourse on ultimate themes to an adoring circle of little -girls. He had undertaken to “illuminate” the prettiest amongst them. He -could not endure the idea that so much loveliness should be abandoned to -“prejudices.” - -He admired most of all his sisters’ greatest friend, Harriet Westbrook, -a lovely child of sixteen, with light brown hair and a complexion of -milk and roses. She was small, slightly and delicately formed, and had -an air of youthful gaiety, of delicious freshness. She came to the -rescue when Mrs. Fenning, acting on the orders of Timothy Shelley, -requested Percy to visit his sisters less often. Harriet, whose family -lived in Chapel Street, Mayfair, often went home: the little sisters, -therefore, entrusted her with the cakes and the money intended for -Percy, and she taking these to the hermit of Poland Street, the two -young people became naturally the greatest friends. - -Harriet Westbrook’s father was a retired publican; he had made money, -and desired to give his youngest daughter a genteel education. Her -mother was dead, and she had been brought up by Eliza, a much older -sister. One can easily imagine the interest which the Westbrook family -took in the grandson of a baronet, the heir to an immense fortune, who -was beautiful as a young god, lived in lodgings on bread and pudding -raisins, and to whom the youngest of the Westbrook girls carried his -sisters’ pocket-money to prevent him from starving to death. - -Eliza being keen to see the hero, Harriet took her with her on the next -visit. Shelley was somewhat intimidated by the elder Miss Westbrook, a -mature virgin, dried-up and bony, with a dead-white skin seamed with -scars, and fish-like eyes that stared without intelligence, the whole -crowned with an immense crop of black hair. Eliza was particularly proud -of her hair. Her affected manners were in striking contrast with -Harriet’s spontaneous gaiety. But Bysshe soon forgot she was plain when -he saw that her intentions were friendly. Not only she made no -objection, as might have been feared, to Harriet’s visits to Poland -Street, but she offered to bring her there, and on several occasions -invited Shelley to come and dine with them when Mr. Westbrook was away. - -She completely won the heart of the young philosopher by asking to share -with Harriet in his teaching, and undertook to read the _Philosophical -Dictionary_ under his guidance. - -Harriet’s walks with Shelley soon became the talk of the Young Ladies’ -Academy. One of the mistresses thought fit to warn her: “Young Mr. -Shelley is notorious for his advanced opinions, and it is probable that -his morals are no better than his ideas.” Harriet had to give up a -letter from him, filled with the most pernicious arguments, and for -corresponding with an “atheist,” she was threatened with expulsion. The -county gentlemen’s daughters gave the cold shoulder to the publican’s -daughter, and life in the school was made exceeding bitter to her. - -One night as Shelley sat alone, reading by his fireside, a message was -brought him from Eliza to say that Harriet was sick, and would he come -and keep her company. He found her in bed, very pale, but lovelier than -ever, with all her chestnut hair spread about her. - -Old Westbrook came upstairs to say “How-d’ye-do,” and Shelley was rather -embarrassed on seeing him, for however free he was from convention, he -could not help feeling that his presence at that late hour in a young -girl’s bedroom was hardly discreet. - -Westbrook, however, showed himself all geniality. “Sorry I can’t stop -with you but I’ve got friends downstairs. Perhaps you’ll join us -presently?” - -Shelley thanked him and declined. The friends of Westbrook had no -attraction for him. He sat beside Harriet’s bed, with Eliza near by. She -was in eloquent vein, speaking at great length on the enthralling -subject of Love. Harriet complained of a headache; she could not stand -the noise of conversation. - -“Very well then,” said Eliza, “I’ll go away.” - -The two young things were left alone until long after midnight, while -Westbrook’s friends drank and roared below. - -Next day Harriet was quite well. - - * * * - -Shelley’s exile was less hard to bear from the moment he could receive -the visits of a young girl and “illuminate” her soul. Nevertheless, he -suffered from being separated from his sister Elizabeth. She no longer -even answered his letters. Could she be shut up in her room? He -determined at all costs to make a secret visit to Field Place so as to -see her. At times he thought of a pacific invasion. What could happen to -him, after all, if one evening he turned up there without notice, and -opposed a Quaker-like silence to the cursings of his father? But the -adventure was simplified when Captain Pilfold, a brother of Mrs. -Shelley, offered his nephew most opportunely a jumping-off place for his -attack on Field Place. - -Pilfold was a hearty and jovial old sea-dog who, under Nelson, had -commanded a frigate at Trafalgar. He infinitely preferred his fantastic -nephew to his solemn brother-in-law. That Percy were an atheist or not, -the Captain did not care a hang. The boy had energy, and that was the -important thing. He invited him to run down to Cuckfield, ten miles from -Field Place, and received him with open arms. - -Shelley, out of gratitude, offered to “illuminate” his host, and the -Captain proved such an apt scholar that at the end of ten days he -staggered the Rector and the Doctor by his fiery syllogisms. - -At Cuckfield, Shelley made acquaintance with Miss Kitchener, a -school-teacher, from the neighbouring town of Hurstpierpoint. She was -rather good-looking, had a Roman nose, and was in her twenty-ninth year. -She was a republican in politics, and enjoyed the reputation of being -sentimental and conceited. She, on her side, lamented that there was not -one who understood her. Shelley having admired as was natural to him the -nobility of her attitude, perceived with regret that she was still a -deist. He proposed “a polemical correspondence,” in the course of which -he undertook to cure her of this infirmity. She agreed. - -Captain Pilfold, meanwhile, set off courageously to grapple and board -Timothy Shelley. He had the bright idea of enrolling in the cause the -Duke of Norfolk, chief of the Whig party. Snobbism triumphed over -paternal tyranny. Shelley walked back into Field Place with all the -honours of war. He was given £200 a year unconditionally. - - * * * - -He could now again see Elizabeth, but he was overwhelmed by the change -he found in her. She was livelier, and gayer, than formerly, but had -become incredibly frivolous. He remembered her serious, enthusiastic; he -found her apathetic to everything but dancing, trivial amusements, and -silly chatter. She lived now for nothing but society. - -He wished to read to her Hogg’s letters as he had been used to do. - -“Oh, you and your ridiculous friend! Every one I know thinks you are -both mad.” - -On this she spoke of matrimony: she thought of little else, and nothing -disgusted Shelley more. She seemed to have forgotten all they had read -together on the subject, and all Godwin’s elevated ideas. - -“Marriage is odious and hateful,” he told her. “I am sickened when I -think of this despotic chain, the heaviest forged by man to shackle -fiery souls. Scepticism and free love are as necessarily associated -together as religion and marriage. Honourable men have no need of laws. -For heaven’s sake, Elizabeth, read over the Marriage Service and ask -yourself if any decent man could wish the girl he loved to submit to -such degradation.” - -“Yet you want me to marry your friend Hogg?” - -“Yes, but not by a clergyman nor according to man’s laws, but freely and -with Love only as high priest.” - -“This then is the honourable advice of a brother?” said Elizabeth with -disdain. - -It was useless to hope to make any impression on a character become -futile beyond any possible cure. “Why should I deceive myself? She is -lost, lost to everything. She talks nothing but cant and twaddle. What -she wants of me is that, like a fashionable brother, I should act as a -jackal for husbands, well, I refuse! I refuse emphatically.” - -He had returned to Field Place merely to see Elizabeth. There was no -good in remaining. Invitations elsewhere were not wanting. Captain -Pilfold would have been glad to have him again at Cuckfield. Westbrook -was going to pass the summer in Wales, and his daughters pressed Shelley -to join them. Hogg wanted him to come for a month to York; it was this -last idea which tempted him most. But his father, who doubtless saw a -symbolic value in the separation of the two Oxford criminals, would not -have tolerated it, and as the first quarter’s allowance was due on the -first of September it was better to be patient. Hogg wrote jestingly -that it was easy to see the lovely Harriet took precedence over old -friends. - -“Your jokes amuse me,” Shelley answered. - -“If I know anything about love I am _not_ in love. But I have heard from -the Westbrooks, both of whom I highly esteem.” - -While he still hesitated where to go, Thomas Grove, a cousin of his -mother’s, invited him to Cwm Elan, a wild corner of Radnorshire. Here he -could economize while awaiting his allowance. He accepted the Groves’ -invitation. - -On his way through London he would have liked to have seen Miss -Kitchener and have taken her to lunch. But the school-teacher with the -Roman nose feared this would not be quite a proper thing to do, there -was such an immense social difference between her and Mr. Shelley. -Indignant at the mere idea, Shelley wrote her a long letter on equality, -in which he addressed her as “his soul’s sister.” Miss Kitchener began -to think that Lady Shelley was a fine name and to study her reflection -in the looking-glass. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - THIS DESPOTIC CHAIN . . . - - -Now for the first time Shelley was among mountain solitudes, and heard -the voices of mountain torrents, but the power of hills was not upon -him. “This is most divine scenery,” he wrote to Hogg, “but all very -dull, stale, flat, and unprofitable; indeed, the place is a very great -bore.” Sitting near some tree-shaded waterfall he passed his time in -reading and re-reading the letters he received from his friends. He was -the director of innumerable “souls”: Miss Kitchener, the faithful Hogg, -Captain Pilfold, the terror of the pious, Eliza and Harriet Westbrook, -without counting many whose names are unknown. - -The Westbrooks had just gone back to London when he received from -Harriet a most disturbing letter. Her father insisted on her returning -to Mrs. Fenning’s school where she had been so miserable, where her -schoolfellows had sent her to Coventry, and called her “an abandoned -wretch.” Rather than exist in such a prison she would kill herself. “Why -live? No one loves me, and I have no one to love. Is suicide a crime in -one who is useless to others and insupportable to herself? Since there -is no law of God, has the law of man any right to forbid so natural an -action?” - -A sort of terror seized Shelley. This schoolgirl logic appeared -irrefutable, and it was he who had formed her mind. How then could he -answer her with calculated coldness and abandon her to death? He wrote -advising firmness; before despairing she should resist, she should -refuse to return to school, and he himself wrote Mr. Westbrook a letter -of expostulation. - -The old publican was outraged. What right had this young sprig of -nobility to interfere? He had been dangling after the Westbrook girls -for six months or more, and Eliza imagined he would marry Harriet, but -when had a future baronet ever married the daughter of a tavern-keeper? -The young fellow wanted, evidently, something very different. - -Westbrook had sized him up the evening he had first met him in Harriet’s -bedroom. He had invited him to come down and take a glass in the -parlour, and Mr. Shelley had refused with disdain. - -How could the grandson of Sir Bysshe Shelley, the wealthy baronet, be a -Friend of the People, or a believer in Equality? Bah! the Upper Ten were -all exactly the same. - -Harriet was ordered to get ready for Clapham. She wrote to Shelley again -a letter in which a somewhat less lugubrious plan replaced that of -suicide. She was too miserable at home, too cruelly persecuted, but she -was ready to elope with him if he would consent. - -He instantly took the coach for London in indescribable agitation of -mind. - -That he was partly responsible for Harriet he could not doubt. He had -formed her, he had inspired her with exalted courage, and the horror of -injustice. It was a letter from him which had brought about her first -disgrace. - -But if he eloped with her how should they live? He had no profession, no -prospects—and did he really love her? Could he love anyone again after -the blighting of his young hopes by his cousin? - -Still, Harriet was charming, and there was something intoxicating in the -idea of a journey in the company of the lovely creature he had seen one -night in bed, with unbound auburn hair. - -It was difficult to repel even warmer ideas. - -When he saw her again her face was pale, wasted, tragic. - -“They have made you suffer?” - -“No, no. . . .” She hesitated to say, “I suffer because I am in love -with you,” but her eyes, lifted to his, confessed the truth. She was -madly in love with him. He had completely transformed her. Before -meeting him she had had all the normal tastes of the British schoolgirl. -She had adored the red coats of the military, and when she wove -day-dreams the hero was always an officer. But when she dreamed of -marriage the hero became a black-coated clergyman. - -Shelley had overthrown all such reasonable ideals. The first time she -had heard him declaim on religion or politics, she had been frightened, -and made up her mind to convert him. But at the outset his logic had -crushed her, and conquered by an antagonist so greatly her superior, she -found nothing but pleasure in her defeat. - -When he had decided not to join them in Wales, she was afraid she had -lost him, and in writing to him had exaggerated her hardships in order -to bring her hero back. - -Shelley had little admiration for Knight Errantry, which struck him as -senseless. A man has no right to devote to Woman a life which should be -consecrated to the service of Humanity. But looking on Harriet’s -exquisite face, which a single word from him could suffuse with -happiness, he gave his principles the go-by. He took her hand in his, -and declared himself hers heart and soul. - -A last rag of prudence made him decide against an immediate elopement. -It was dangerous and needless to force events. If they tried to coerce -her, she had but to make a sign to him, he would fly to her from the -ends of the earth and carry her off. - -Once more her face glowed with the rosy happiness of the young girl who -knows she is beloved. - - * * * - -But the moment he had left her, he sighed deeply and fell into -embarrassment and melancholy. He wrote to describe the situation to -Hogg, and Hogg replied strongly urging his friend not to elope with -Harriet without marrying her first. He knew all Shelley’s hostility to -marriage, but he used powerful arguments. “If you don’t marry her, which -will suffer? You or she? Evidently she alone. It is she whom the world -will scorn. It is she who must make the sacrifice of her reputation and -her security. Have you the right to ask this of her?” The appeal was -cleverly turned, as selfishness was of all vices the one which Shelley -most despised. But he felt too that marriage was a shameful and immoral -action. The chapters in _Political Justice_ against matrimonial chains -stuck in his mind. It was now that some one reassured him by telling him -that the great Godwin himself had been married twice. - -“It is evidently useless,” he wrote to Hogg, “to seek by an individual -example to rejuvenate the forms of society until such time as reason -shall have brought about so great a change, that the reformer be no -longer exposed to stoning.” - -At the same time he was in no hurry to apply his new tenets. Captain -Pilfold invited him to Cuckfield; he knew he would see there his “soul’s -sister,” the handsome school-teacher with the Roman nose. He desired to -complete her initiation in the Truth. So, again promising Harriet to -return at the first sign she should make him, he left London. - -One would need to be nineteen years old to have the smallest doubt as to -what must happen. A young girl very much in love and armed with such a -promise, does not long resist her heart’s desire. Before a week was out -an ardent message recalled Shelley to town. The tyrants insisted on -delivering up Andromeda to the Scholastic Dragon! - -Shelley realized that there was no help for it but to elope with -Harriet, and marry her afterwards—as soon as possible. - -Next day the Edinburgh Mail Coach carried northwards these two young -things whose united ages did not exceed thirty-five. - -“An act of will, not an act of passion,” the young Knight told himself, -as he sat facing his exquisite little sweetheart, while the stage jolted -and rumbled on its way. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - A VERY YOUNG COUPLE - - -A pair of young lovers, persecuted and charming, exercises a fascination -which is almost irresistible. The citizens of Edinburgh, difficult to -get at where their purse is concerned, could not prevent themselves from -giving an amused and indulgent welcome to the very young couple who -arrived at their gates in such brilliant penury. - -Before leaving London Shelley had borrowed a few pounds from a friend. -When he got to Edinburgh he hadn’t a penny left. It was useless to hope -for help from his father, whom the news of his elopement must have -thrown into paroxysms of rage. - -However, he found a good-humoured landlord to whom he told his story; -this, with Harriet’s beauty and a promise of speedy payment, induced him -to give the travellers an excellent ground-floor flat in his house. - -Better still, he advanced them the money they needed to pay their way -during the first few days, and to arrange the wedding, according to the -simple rites of the Scottish Church. His only condition was that Shelley -should treat him and his friends to a supper on the wedding night. - -So it was in the midst of Edinburgh tradesmen that the grandson of Sir -Bysshe ate his wedding-feast. The fumes of the wines and the spectacle -of the young people going to the heads of the guests, these honest -Puritans became a trifle too wanton for Shelley’s taste. The jests grew -ribald. The modest Harriet blushed crimson, and Shelley rising announced -that he and his wife would say good night. - -A roar of laughter was the reply. - -A little later there came a knock at their door. Shelley opened it to -find his landlord, followed by all his friends. He spoke tipsily: “It’s -the custom here when there’s a wedding, to come up in the middle of the -night and wash the bride with whisky. . . .” - -“Take another step into the room, and I blow your brains out!” cried -Shelley, seizing a pistol in each hand. - -Perceiving that there was something dangerous in this young man who -looked so like a girl, the intruders wished him a respectful good night, -and tumbled precipitately downstairs. - -Thus Shelley and Harriet found themselves husband and wife, free and -alone in a big unknown city. They looked at each other in rapture. - -A few days had sufficed to render the young husband, who in the stage -had reflected with melancholy, “An act of will and not of passion,” over -head and ears in love. - -Harriet was really delightful to look upon: always pretty, always -bright, always blooming, her head well dressed, not a hair out of its -place; smart, usually plain in her neatness, without a wrinkle, without -a spot, she resembled some pink-and-white flower. - -Without being really cultivated she was remarkably well-informed. She -had read a prodigious number of books, she still read all day long, and -works of a high ethical tone for choice. - -Her master, who was her lover, had given her his own veneration for -Virtue, and Fénelon’s _Télémaque_ was his favourite hero. She practised -saying over the magic words “Intolerance,” “Equality,” “Justice,” and -her child-lips uttered maxims which would have staggered the Lord -Chancellor. As to the Anglican religion she ignored it as completely as -did Calypso and Nausicaa. - -Children are delightful, but their society is fatiguing. Fully alive to -the charm, sweet temper, and unselfishness of Harriet, nevertheless -Shelley now and again sighed for Hogg’s caustic talk, or Miss -Hitchener’s ardent enthusiasm. He asked himself uneasily what the latter -would think of his marriage. - - “My dearest Friend,” he wrote to her, “if I may still address - you so? Or have I lost, through my equivocal conduct, the esteem - of the virtuous and the wise? . . . How in one week all my plans - have changed, and to what an extent are we the slaves of - circumstance! You will ask how I, an atheist, could submit - myself to the marriage ceremony, how my conscience could ever - consent to it? This is what I want to explain to you. . . .” - -Thereupon, treading in Hogg’s footsteps, he proved that one has not the -right to deprive a beloved being of all the advantages which are bound -up with a good reputation. - - “Blame if thou wilt, dearest friend, for _still_ thou art - dearest to me, yet pity even this error if thou blamest me. If - Harriet be not at sixteen all you are at a more advanced age, - assist me to mould a really noble soul into all that can make - its nobleness useful and lovely. . . . Charming she is already - unless I am the weakest of error’s slaves.” - -The letter finished with an invitation that the lady should join them at -Edinburgh, where Harriet’s presence would prevent any thought of -impropriety. Miss Kitchener did not accept. Evidently the poetic -“thee’s” and “thou’s” were not sufficient to buy pardon for the somewhat -unfortunate reference to Harriet’s and Miss Hitchener’s respective ages. - -But though the virgin of Cuckfield declined to come and help in the -moulding of Harriet’s soul, one sunny morning Shelley heard a knock at -the door of his flat, and looking out of the window was overjoyed to see -Hogg standing in the street, bag in hand. - -Having just given himself a few weeks’ holiday, he came to pass them in -Edinburgh. He received a triumphal reception. - -“We have met at last once more!” cried Shelley. “And we will never part -again! You must have a bed in the house!” - -Harriet came in. Hogg was charmed with her. He had never seen such -blooming, radiant youth and beauty. The landlord was summoned. - -“We want another bedroom, instantly, urgently, indispensably!” When the -poor man was permitted to answer, he offered them a room at the top of -the house. - -The three friends had a thousand things to tell and to ask. They all -talked at once, while a dirty little nymph, the servant of the house, -brought in tea, with many discordant ejaculations. - -So soon as the excitement had somewhat subsided Shelley proposed a walk, -and they went to visit the palace of Mary Stuart. - -Harriet, as an excellent pupil of the Academy for Young Ladies and a -tireless reader of historical romances, explained the history of the -unhappy Queen. On leaving Holyrood House Shelley declared he must go -home and write letters, but he wished Hogg and Harriet to climb to -Arthur’s Seat, whence they would get a view of the whole city. - -Hogg having admired the scene, they sat there a long time together, and -probably in such delightful company he would have found any view -admirable. - -As they came down, the wind having begun to blow, displayed Harriet’s -ankles, which Hogg by a side glance examined with interest. - -This made Harriet sit down again upon a rock and declare she would -remain there “for ever”! - -Hogg who was desperately hungry, protested in vain. So he left her . . . -and presently she came running down after him. - -Thus began for the three young people some delightful weeks. - -The money question remained an anxious one, but jolly Uncle Pilfold sent -frequent presents. “To be confoundedly angry with his son is all very -well, but to stop the supplies is a great deal too bad.” Hogg also had -some spare cash, although Timothy Shelley had taken the trouble to write -to Hogg senior: “I think it my duty to warn you that my young man has -just set off for Scotland with a young female, and that your young man -has joined them.” - -Every morning Shelley would go out to fetch his letters, the number of -which remained prodigious. After breakfast he worked at a translation of -Buffon which he had undertaken, while Hogg and Harriet went for a walk. -If the weather were bad she read aloud to Hogg. She was fond of reading -aloud and she read remarkably well, with a very distinct enunciation and -an agreeable voice. - -Hogg listened to the greater part of _Télémaque_ and never complained. -The virtuous Idomeneus giving wise laws to Crete was horribly boring, -but the reader was so lovely to look upon that he would have listened -without complaining the whole day through. - -Shelley, less polite, would sometimes drop off to sleep, and his -innocent slumbers gave serious offence. His friend would support his -wife in stigmatizing him as an inattentive wretch, Hogg taking an -unconscious pleasure in making common cause with Harriet. - -It was the year of the famous comet and of the still more famous vintage -1811. The nights were clear and bright. - - - - - CHAPTER X - - HOGG - - -At the end of six weeks it was necessary that Hogg should return to -York. As Shelley and Harriet had nothing to retain them in Edinburgh, -nor indeed anywhere else in the world, they decided to go with him. They -would remain with him in York during the year which he must still spend -in that city, and then all three would remove to London where they would -live “for ever,” writing, reading, and being read to. - -Not to overtire Harriet they hired a post-chaise. On either side of the -road fields of turnips alternated monotonously with fields of barley. - -“But which are the turnips and which is the barley?” Harriet asked. - -“Why, you little Cockney!” Shelley, the heir to broad lands, exclaimed -with indignation. - -Silent in his corner, Hogg, the scoffer, asked himself how it came about -that the virtuous Idomeneus had taught his disciple so little. - -To while away the time, Harriet read aloud in the chaise Holcroft’s -novels. The rigid, spartan, iron tone of that stern author was not -encouraging. Bysshe sometimes sighed deeply. - -“Is it necessary to read all that, Harriet dear?” - -“Yes, absolutely.” - -“Cannot you skip some part?” - -“No, it is impossible.” - -At the first relay, Shelley vanished. He had always possessed the -astonishing power of vanishing like an Elf. He was recaptured by Hogg, -who found him standing on the seashore—it was at Berwick—gazing -mournfully at the setting sun. - -He took a violent dislike to York. The theological and civic -pre-eminence of the old city had no charm for him, and the only lodgings -they could find were dingy rooms kept by a couple of dingy milliners in -a dingy street. “It’s impossible to stay here,” Bysshe declared. But to -move elsewhere money was needed. He decided to go and see Captain -Pilfold, protector of the good and free; there, too, at Cuckfield, he -would again meet Miss Kitchener; perhaps he could persuade her to go -back with him to York, and on their way through London they could pick -up Eliza Westbrook, whose company was much desired by Harriet. And thus, -for the first time, all Shelley’s spiritual sisters would find -themselves together. - -He therefore took the coach, and Harriet and Hogg were left by -themselves, a strange and delicious situation. In this city, where they -had no acquaintances, they were as free as on some desert island, and -Harriet found a childish pleasure in playing at “housekeeping” with her -young and witty companion. Hogg’s sarcastic tongue amused her greatly, -and was a relief to Shelley’s burning seriousness which she admired so -much. Hogg was always paying her compliments, both in Edinburgh and on -the journey to York, and she saw no harm in it. Percy was always a -little bit of “the school-master.” He had taught her all she knew. He -gravely corrected her mistakes. He was conscious of her limitations. -Hogg, on the contrary, admired everything she did, noticed her frocks, -and the way she did her hair. He listened to _Télémaque_, and praised -the voice of the reader. He was always gay. It was really very pleasant. - -Hogg’s own sentiments were quite other and less commendable. Living -continually in the company of this charming girl, he began to desire her -with passion. At first he told himself that this was a terrible desire -and that the wife of his best friend could never be an object of his -pursuit. But when one is intelligent, one knows how to put intelligence -at the service of one’s desires. - -“Am I to blame,” said he, “if Bysshe throws her in my arms? What a mad -notion of his to sit and write long letters on Virtue when he possesses -an adorable creature like Harriet! For she is ravishingly pretty. When -she walks in the street the most Puritanical run to the windows to look -at her. . . . Does Bysshe really love her? He shows her a rather -contemptuous sort of affection, and has some excuse for it. For Harriet -is . . . what? The daughter of a publican. . . . She can’t be very -stand-off. . . .” - -Ever since he first knew Shelley, two contradictory sentiments had -divided his soul. He admired his friend’s moral courage, frankness, and -ardent loyalty. He knew him to be unique, a diamond of the purest water. -Yet, at the same time, his sense of humour was tickled by Percy’s -declamatory vehemence, by his feverish energy that yet accomplished -nothing. - -At Oxford Hogg had acted the cultured Sancho Panza to this fair-skinned -Don Quixote, and had taken his share of the punishment meted out by the -terrible windmills. His admiration in the beginning had triumphed over -his irony, which simply served to lend the former a more tender hue. -Now, stirred up by a guilty passion, his irony visibly increased. - -On the first day of Shelley’s absence, when Hogg left his chambers he -took Harriet for a walk by the river. He gazed in her eyes with delight, -and murmured a thousand foolish things. She talked of her husband whose -return she longed for, partly for his own sake but chiefly because he -was to bring with him her dearest Eliza. “Eliza is very beautiful as you -will see, she has splendid hair, jet black, glossy . . . she is awfully -clever . . . it is she who has always guided me in the important affairs -of my life.” - -“The child has had important affairs in its life?” - -Harriet spoke of her martyrdom at school . . . of the obstacles to her -marriage . . . she remained pensive a moment plunged in the past . . . -then, “What is your opinion of suicide? Did you never think of -destroying yourself?” - -“Never! Nor you either, I should hope?” - -“Oh yes, very often. Even at school I used to get up in the night with -the fixed intention of killing myself. I would look out of the window, -and say good-bye to the moon and the stars, to the sleeping girls . . . -and then I would go back to bed again and fall asleep.” - -The walk continued, so did their intimate talk. Then they went home to -make the tea, a ceremony during which Hogg was always extremely funny. -After tea Harriet offered to read to him, but of what she read to him -that evening he retained no notion. When she said “good night” and left -him, he asked himself, “Is she really _good_?” - -When he saw her next day he told her he was madly in love with her. - -Harriet was upset and indignant. For a child of sixteen, she defended -herself fairly well. She spoke of Shelley and of Virtue. “Don’t you see -how odious your behaviour is? Percy gave me into your care and you -betray his confidence. . . . But I’m sure you are cured already. . . . -Please don’t say another word about it. . . . And I will say nothing to -Percy so as not to grieve him.” - -She spoke with vivacity. Love scenes are a pretty woman’s battlefields -and soldiers enjoy fighting. Harriet’s courage was victorious, and Hogg -promised to be good. - -That evening, when he returned from work, he saw sitting by Harriet’s -side on the sofa a big woman, with raven-black hair, a face of a dead -white, and a horse-like profile. “Hogg, this is Eliza, she is come, -isn’t it kind of her? Eliza, this is Hogg, our greatest friend, of whom -Percy has so often spoken to you.” - -Eliza shadowed him a bow from the nape of her neck. - -“I thought Bysshe was to have brought you with him?” - -“Oh dear no!” said Eliza, and she went on talking to Harriet and paid -him no further attention. - -Hogg was not used to such treatment in the Shelleys’ house. - -“So this is Eliza?” he thought. “She is hideous and common-looking. -Here’s an end to my flirtation with Harriet—though perhaps that’s just -as well. . . .” - -“Harriet, dearest,” he said aloud, “aren’t we going to have any tea -to-day? You don’t take tea, Miss Westbrook?” he inquired, turning to her -politely. - -“Oh dear no!” replied that lady. - -“And you, Harriet?” - -“No, I won’t either.” - -Hogg resigned himself to making his own tea, and to drinking it in -silence. - -From this day forth the house became insupportable. Eliza took over, or -rather resumed, the management of everything. She had managed Harriet -her whole life through, and though she had been obliged to relinquish -her post to Shelley during the first few weeks of marriage, she now -again took her place on the bridge like a captain on his ship, who runs -his flag up to the mast-head, and tolerates no other authority on board. - -She began by criticizing severely Shelley’s conduct. “So if I hadn’t -come you would have been left alone with this young man? It’s -unbelievable! And he calls you ‘dearest’? And you permit him to do so! -Good heavens! What would Miss Warne say!” - -When Hogg proposed a walk, “What are you thinking of?” said Eliza. -“Harriet is very tired, not well at all. . . .” - -Hogg was astounded. “Harriet?” he repeated. “What on earth’s the matter -with her?” - -“It’s her poor nerves, you must be blind not to see it.” - -When Harriet wanted to read aloud to Hogg the virtuous counsels of -Idomeneus, of which he stood so much in need: “Read aloud, Harriet? -Whatever will become of your poor nerves? What would Miss Warne say?” - -“Who the deuce _is_ Miss Warne?” Hogg asked Harriet so soon as Eliza had -gone to her room. - -“She is Eliza’s greatest friend, and we have the highest opinion of -her.” - -“Why? Is she anything extraordinary by birth and education?” - -“Oh dear no, her father keeps a public-house like ours.” - -Hogg heaved a sigh and lifted his eyebrows. - -“What does that dear Eliza do in her bedroom? Does she read?” - -“No.” - -Harriet leaned over him to say in tones of mystery: “She brushes her -hair.” - -“Let’s go out, Harriet. . . .” - -At first Harriet refused, but as the hair-brushing was prolonged she -agreed to accompany Hogg for a few minutes. - -Since his first attempt on her virtue he had kept his promise “to be -good.” She was pleased—but disappointed. Quite sure of herself, she -would have enjoyed temptation. - -They stood on the high centre of the old Roman bridge, there was a -mighty flood. The Ouse had overflowed his banks, carrying away with him -timber and what not. - -“Harriet dearest, think how nicely Eliza would spin down the river! How -sweetly she would turn round and round like that log of wood. . . . And -gracious heavens! What would Miss Warne say?” - -Harriet turned away her head to hide her laughter. Hogg said dreadful -things, but really he was too funny. - -“You have such a delightful laugh, Harriet! . . . so musical, so gay!” - -Harriet, full of courage, felt the battle was close at hand. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - HOGG (_continued_) - - -Shelley returned next day, sooner than was expected. He had had no -success. His father had refused to see him. From very different motives -to Shelley’s he too considered his son’s marriage the unforgivable -crime. - -“I’d have willingly supported any amount of illegitimate children,” he -told Captain Pilfold. “But that he should have _married_ her . . . never -speak to me of him again!” - -Miss Hitchener, afraid for her reputation, had refused to make the -journey with Shelley. In London he learned that Eliza had not waited for -him. He reached York, tired and out of spirits, hoping to find -consolation in the society of his wife and his friend. What he found was -an atmosphere of embarrassment and constraint. - -Eliza, shut up in her room, brushed her hair all day long. Harriet and -Hogg, instead of their former gay nonsense round the tea-tray, treated -each other with studied coldness. When Hogg spoke to her, she replied -very shortly. There was something mysterious in the air. - -The moment Harriet and Shelley were alone, “Dear,” he began, “I don’t -like this haughty attitude you take with Hogg. He is my best friend. He -has looked after you in my absence. That you now have your sister with -you is no reason for giving the cold shoulder to Hogg, whom I look on as -a brother.” - -Harriet sighed. “He’s a nice sort of friend!” said she, in a tone heavy -with insinuations. - -Shelley, astonished, urged her to explain. - -She told the story. “He has made love to me . . . twice. The first time -he told me he was passionately in love with me. . . . I pretended it was -a joke. . . . I made him be quiet. I imagined it was all over, and I -even had no intention of speaking to you about it. But yesterday he -began again. He declared he couldn’t live without me, and that he will -kill himself if I don’t consent.” - -Shelley felt his blood freeze. His heart seemed to stand still. - -“Hogg? Hogg did this? But did you not point out to him . . .?” - -“Oh, I said everything I could say . . . that he was a false friend, -that he was betraying your confidence. . . . ‘What does all that matter -when one is in love?’ he replied. ‘It’s all right for Percy, who is a -cold and pure spirit, to talk of virtue . . . but I’m in love with you, -and the rest doesn’t count. . . . Besides, what harm should we do -Shelley? He need never know. Why not give me your love, and give him -your affection? Does he think so much about you?’” - -“He said that?” - -“Yes, and lots of other things as well. He said you mix logic with -things where it has no business, that you are a flame for ideas, and ice -for the sentiments which alone count in life. . . . I answered him as -well as I was able. . . .” - -Shelley let himself fall upon the sofa. Suddenly the world seemed -eclipsed behind a veil of grey. He was seized with giddiness, his head -swam, he shivered with cold. - -“That Hogg should have tried to seduce my wife, taking advantage of the -moment that I had confided her to his protection . . . Hogg, on whose -countenance I have sometimes gazed till I fancied the world could be -reformed by gazing too. . . . Never was there a more shameful -attempt. . . . And yet when I think of Oxford, of his nobility and -disinterestedness. . . . I must talk with him, I must make him see -reason. . . .” - -He kissed Harriet tenderly, and begged Hogg to walk with him to the -fields beyond York. Hogg knew there must be a scene. He was prepared for -it. He denied nothing. - -“Yes, it’s true. I’ve been in love with Harriet since the first day I -saw her in Edinburgh. Is it my fault? I can’t resist beauty in women, -and Harriet is admirably beautiful. I repeat I fell in love with her at -once.” - -“It is not love but lust. A low animal instinct. Not the exalted passion -which differentiates Man from the brute. Love? Think a little, Hogg. -Love supposes self-forgetfulness, and the desire for the happiness of -the beloved object. You could only bring about Harriet’s misery. -Therefore, your feelings are not those of love, but of egotism. . . .” - -“Call it what you like. . . . What do words signify? It is, anyhow, a -terrible passion, which I should have fought against had I not felt it -was invincible.” - -“No passion is invincible. Our will can always be victorious. Had you -thought of me . . . This revelation has aged and broken me more than -twenty years of misery could have done. . . . my heart seems seared -. . . and then there is Harriet, do you not suppose that all this has -been very painful for her?” - -Hogg was pale, cast-down. He looked ashamed and unhappy, and he felt so. -For he too loved Shelley and he blamed his own conduct severely. “No -woman in the world,” he thought, “is worth the sacrifice of such a -friend.” Then aloud, “I’m awfully sorry, Bysshe, for what has happened. -I’ll try to forget, and do you and Harriet try to forgive me. Let us -begin life anew as it was before. Don’t be angry with me any -longer. . . .” - -“I’m not angry with you, I hate your crime, but not yourself. I hope -that one day you will regard this horrible error with as much disgust as -I do. When that day comes, you will no longer be responsible for it. The -man who feels remorse is no longer the man who was guilty. It is -certainly not I who would ever reproach you, for I value a human being -not for what it has been, but for what it is.” - -Shelley felt such satisfaction at having trodden down his anger and his -jealousy, at having discovered for Hogg the way of salvation, that the -offence was almost forgotten. - -But women are much less indulgent. When Shelley on going home announced -that he had forgiven the criminal: “What!” cried Eliza, “you mean to go -on living with that fellow? Good heavens! What will become of Harriet’s -poor nerves?” - -Hogg, coming in from his chambers next day, found an empty house. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH MIDDLE AGE - - -Shelley and the two girls, in their flight from the deplorable Hogg, had -decided to go to the Lakes. There was a sentimental reason for this, -very like his choice of Poland Street. Two great poets, both Liberals, -Southey and Coleridge, had long lived in the Lake District and by some -happy chance it might be that Shelley would make their acquaintance. -Nothing could have delighted him more than to meet some of the rare -great minds that shared his ideas. - -The Shelleys found at Keswick a small furnished cottage set in flowers. -They had no right to the garden, but the landlord, who looked upon -Shelley and Harriet as little better than a pair of strayed children, -allowed them to run about in it. - -The postman soon came to know the weight of Shelley’s letter-bag. First, -there was the correspondence with Hogg, which was very discouraging. He -wrote long letters to Harriet in which he swore to respect her, and at -the same time, to adore her during time and eternity. Such unasked-for -constancy wearied her, yet her pride fed on it. When Shelley said, “Time -and distance will make him forget you,” she shook her head with an air -of scepticism. Really sorry for the unhappiness of her admirer, she -would perhaps have been more sorry to believe it could be cured: -“Distance,” said she, “may ease trifling griefs, but only increases -great ones.” When Hogg wrote, “Either Harriet must forgive me or I’ll -blow out my brains at her feet,” she triumphed and was sad. But when no -pistol-shot came to shatter their flowery solitude, she was -reassured—and disappointed. - -Then, there were the letters of Miss Hitchener who, since the fall of -Hogg, had become Shelley’s only confidante. Nearly every day he sent her -a few urgent and exemplary pages. Harriet would often add to her -husband’s eloquent dissertations a warm invitation to come and join -them. - -The Duke of Norfolk lived in the neighbourhood. He had already brought -about one reconciliation between Shelley and his father, and as the -money question became more and more serious they decided to write to him -again. The Duke replied by inviting Shelley, his wife, and his -sister-in-law to spend the week-end at Greystoke. He took an interest in -the young man possibly through natural benevolence, possibly because it -was his duty, as head of a great political party, to win the friendship -of one, destined it would seem when he came of age, to go into -Parliament, and to inherit £6,000 a year. - -Harriet, at Greystoke, bore herself with grace. The Duchess, who had -been told the story of Shelley’s extraordinary marriage, was agreeably -surprised by the beauty and good manners of his wife. Even Eliza was -considered “quite charming,” at least according to Harriet. The visit -was successful. When Mr. Westbrook knew that his daughters had stayed -with a duke, and that his son-in-law had arrived at the castle with only -a guinea in his pocket, he felt the sudden need to show himself -generous, and he offered the young couple an allowance of £200 a year. - -Mr. Shelley could not be less open-handed, above all when his suzerain -and chief asked him to be clement. He agreed once more to allow his son -£200 a year: and thus all danger of poverty came to an end. - -But in Percy’s eyes the chief satisfaction lay in having obtained these -important results without any concessions on his part: “I think it my -duty to say that however great advantages might result from such -concessions I can make no promise of concealing my opinions in political -or religious matters. . . . Such methods as these would be unworthy of -us both.” His father answered: “If I make you an allowance it is simply -to prevent you from swindling strangers.” So incapable was he of rising -to the height of Shelley’s ideas. - - * * * - -At Greystoke Shelley made acquaintance with William Calvert, a friend of -Southey’s, who offered to take him to call on the poet. Thus, for the -first time, he was to see in the flesh one of the writers he most -admired. But when he actually met Southey he was intensely surprised, -for he had always associated the idea of a poet with the most entrancing -and aerial of beings. - -What he found, in a well-furnished and well-warmed house, was a Mrs. -Southey resembling far more a cook-housekeeper than a Muse. She had been -in point of fact a dressmaker, and she bound her husband’s books with -remnants of the gowns she had made. Her linen-closets were the -sanctuaries in which she exercised her talents, and her conversation was -of money, cooking, and servants, like the most boring of housewives. The -poet seemed insensible to the ignominy of it all. He was an honest -creature, but with no reasoning powers. He admitted the social system -needed changing, but declared that change could only come very slowly. -He made use of the odious formula, “Neither you nor I will live to see -it.” He was opposed to Catholic Emancipation and Parliamentary reform. -Worst of all, he called himself a Christian! Grieved to the heart, -Shelley left him. - -Southey, worthy man, was far from imagining the impression he had made. -“An extraordinary boy!” thought he, after his visitor had gone. “His -chief sorrow seems to be that he is heir to an immense property, and he -is as much worried by the notion that he will have £6,000 a year, as I -used to be at his age by the knowledge that I hadn’t a penny. Apart from -this, he acts upon me as my own ghost would do. He is just what I was in -1794. He thinks himself an Atheist but is really a Pantheist: a childish -ailment through which we have all passed. It is lucky he has fallen on -me. He could not have a better doctor. I have prescribed Berkeley and -before the week is out he will be a Berkeleian. It has surprised him a -good deal to meet for the first time in his life with a man who -perfectly understands him and does him full justice. . . . God help us! -The world wants mending, though he does not set about it exactly in the -right way. Yet I do not despair of convincing him that he may do a great -deal of good with £6,000 a year.” - -Thus did Youth and Middle Age meet upon their way, and the former looked -at the latter with respect, but with impatience. But the Middle Age -looked at Youth with a kindly irony, and promised himself to dominate it -by the strength of a more cultivated mind. - -Middle Age forgot that the minds of different generations are as -impenetrable one by the other as are the monads of Leibniz. - -Southey and his wife did all in their power to be of service to the -young couple. He persuaded Shelley’s landlord to reduce the weekly rent -of Chestnut Cottage. Mrs. Southey gave poor Harriet, who knew nothing of -housekeeping, excellent advice on cookery and laundry work. She even -lent her bed-and-table-linen, which was the high-water mark of favour. -But a discovery which Shelley now made rendered useless every advance on -the part of Middle Age. - -He read by chance in a review an article by Southey in which he spoke of -George III as “the best King who had ever sat upon a throne.” A blatant -piece of flattery, of course, but Southey aspired to be Poet Laureate, -and the road to official honours is steep to climb. Shelley never -pardoned baseness of this sort. He wrote to him that henceforward he -should look upon him as a wage-earning slave, an upholder of crime, and -he would see him no more. - -And at this precise moment he troubled himself very little about -Southey, for he had just discovered Godwin, the great Godwin, the author -of _Political Justice_, the destroyer of marriage, the enemy of the -divinity, the atheist, republican and revolutionary. Godwin was still -alive, he lived in London, he had a postal address like everybody else, -one could send letters on Virtue to Virtue’s own high prophet! - - “You will be surprised,” he wrote, “to receive a letter from a - stranger. No introduction has authorized that which ordinary men - would describe as a liberty. But it is a liberty, which if not - sanctioned by custom, is far from being blamable by reason. The - dearest interests of humanity demand that fashionable etiquette - should not divide man from man. - - “The name of Godwin has been used to excite in me feelings of - reverence and admiration. I have been accustomed to consider him - a luminary too dazzling for the darkness which surrounds - him. . . . You will not, therefore, be surprised at the - inconceivable emotions with which I learnt your existence and - your dwelling. I had enrolled your name in the list of the - honourable dead. It is not so. You still live, and I firmly - believe are still planning the welfare of human kind. - - “I have but just entered on the scene of human operations, yet - my feelings and my reasonings correspond with what yours were. - My course has been short, but eventful. . . . The ill-treatment - I have met with has more than ever impressed the truth of my - principles on my judgment.” - -When Godwin received this letter he was well pleased. Much talked of at -the moment that _Political Justice_ appeared, he had fallen back since -into comparative neglect. He, too, though with less reason than his -young disciple, could talk of an “eventful life.” He began his career as -a clergyman, and at the age of thirty was an avowed atheist and -republican. - -In 1793 he had published his famous book. Pitt was in half a mind to -have him prosecuted for it, but the high price of the work—it was sold -at six guineas—had seemed to the Prime Minister a sufficient protection -against its dangerous teaching. - -Four years later Godwin had married Mary Wollstonecraft, a woman writer -of genius, with whom he had been living. She had died in giving birth to -a daughter, and the inveterate enemy of marriage at once married a -second time, a certain Mrs. Clairmont. This lady, who was a widow, lived -in the next house to his, and had made his acquaintance by addressing -gross flattery to him from her balcony. - -The couple led a thorny life. There were five children, the offspring of -complicated crossings. First, the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and -Godwin, by Genius out of Genius; she was named Mary. Then two children -from Mrs. Clairmont’s first marriage, Jane and Charles. Thirdly, a -little boy, son of Godwin and Mrs. Clairmont. Finally, the eldest in -age, was a young girl who no longer belonged to anyone in the house, the -daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and her American lover, Captain Gilbert -Imlay. This was the gentle and attractive Fanny Imlay, the Cinderella of -the household. - -The second Mrs. Godwin, “a disgusting woman who wore green spectacles,” -had a mendacious tongue and a nasty temper. She treated Fanny and Mary -with harshness, and managed the Juvenile Library in Skinner Street, -which Godwin had started in order to earn the living of his own -juveniles. The poor Philosopher led a sorrowful and difficult existence, -entirely weaned from any sops to his vanity. On this account, a disciple -writing him an enthusiastic letter from Keswick was extremely welcome. -For a publisher of Children’s Books snowed under by Bills of Exchange, -nothing could be more opportune than the acquaintance of a man who -considered him as a luminary too dazzling for close inspection. - -He answered Shelley’s letter by saying he should be glad to have a few -personal details concerning his unknown correspondent. By return of post -he received an autobiography, in which Timothy Shelley and the Dean of -Oxford played ignoble parts. He was informed that his correspondent -would inherit £6,000 a year, that he was married to a woman who shared -all his ideas, and that he had already published two novels and a -pamphlet, all of which he was sending to “the regulator and former” of -his mind. - -This enthusiastic epistle was read with great excitement by the young -girls of the Godwin-Clairmont household, but the author of _Political -Justice_ was somewhat dubious about it. Since becoming himself the -father of a family, he valued paternal authority more highly than -heretofore. Possibly, Mr. Timothy Shelley had only acted in his son’s -interests? One ought not to criticize the powers that be when one is -young, above all one ought not to publish such criticisms. While yet a -scholar, one ought to have no intolerable itch to become a teacher. - -Had anyone but the “venerated” Godwin written this he would have been -relegated at once to the class of stipended upholders of Intolerance. -But Authority and Hierarchies are so essential to Youth, even to -rebellious Youth, that it humbles itself with delight before the chosen -director of its conscience. - -The mystic side of Shelley’s nature had more need than another’s of some -shrine at which to worship. “I am willing to become a scholar; nay a -pupil,” he replied. “My humility and confidence is unfeigned and -complete, where I am conscious that I am not imposed upon, and where I -perceive talents and powers so undoubtedly superior.” - -In his delight at having discovered Godwin, he mapped out the vastest -schemes. To completely change the lives of others, to join their destiny -to his own, appeared to him child’s play. Hadn’t he succeeded perfectly -in the case of Harriet and of Eliza? What could be simpler than to hire -a big house in Wales and there have Miss Kitchener, Godwin, his -“venerated” friend, and the whole of Godwin’s charming family to live -with him. - -But first, being slightly stung by Godwin’s scepticism, he wished to -prove in a striking manner that despite his youth he knew how to act. -Before settling down “for ever” in the Welsh “Home of Meditation,” he -would go to Ireland with Harriet and Eliza, and there spend three months -working for Catholic Emancipation in particular, and the improvement of -the distressful country in general. - -How were the fair Harriet and Eliza of the much-brushed hair going to -emancipate the Irish Catholics? The question was left unanswered, but -Shelley took with him “An Address to the Irish,” so full of philosophy, -wise counsels, and love of humanity, that it seemed impossible the mere -reading of it would not touch every heart. - -Thus did the young Knight Errant of the luminous eyes take ship to -conquer the Green Island. In place of a lance he carried a manuscript, -the Beauteous Harriet was his lady and the Black Eliza his squire; the -latter being in charge of the money, the housekeeping, and all the dirty -jobs. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - SOAP BUBBLES - - -The Knight of the Rueful Countenance got stoned by the galley-slaves -whom he wished to free. Shelley was greeted with cat-calls when, at a -meeting of the friends of Catholic Emancipation, he affirmed that it was -harmful to refuse public employment to the Irish because of their -religion, since one religion is as good as another. His audience much -preferred the fanaticism of its persecutors to the scepticism of its -defender. - -The famous Address was on the same subject. It showed that Catholic -Emancipation is a step on the road to total emancipation, and that -morality and not expediency should be the principle of politics. Instead -of expecting their freedom from the British, the Irish should free -themselves by becoming sober, just, and charitable. Shelley imagined -that his teaching would go straight to the heart of the poor Dubliners, -and he held himself ready for martyrdom in the cause. - -Harriet was not less enthusiastic, and her reforming ardour was a joy to -behold. With pockets stuffed with pamphlets, the young couple walked up -and down Sackville Street, and when they met anyone with a “likely air” -they slipped a soul-saving paper into his hand; or from the balcony of -their lodgings they spread sound doctrine by dropping Addresses on the -heads of the passers-by. When Shelley put one adroitly into the hood of -an old woman’s cloak, Harriet, ready to die of laughter, was obliged to -rush away. The conversion of the Irish was assuredly the most amusing of -games. Godwin and Miss Kitchener expected every day to hear of Shelley’s -arrest. The school-teacher even considered the possibility of a -political assassination. But Dublin Castle learned with composure that a -young Englishman, nineteen years of age, had just made a speech on -Virtue. - -The police sent a copy of the Address to the Secretary of State, and -Shelley’s advice to the Irish on sobriety and toleration struck the -official mind as a screaming joke. - -Such impunity was very discouraging, nor were the ways of the Irish -themselves any less so. “The reason they drink so much whisky,” said -kind-hearted Harriet, “is because meat is so dear.” When Shelley tried -to save some wretched creature run in for theft or brawling, the -policeman, with a smile of pity, would prove to him the man was drunk. - -On St. Patrick’s Night everybody was drunk, and there was a ball at the -Castle. Percy and Harriet watched the starving people crowd round the -State carriages to admire the finery. Such a want of dignity reduced -Percy to despair. - -That they themselves might set an example of plain living, all three -became vegetarians, and Shelley thus freed himself from the remorse he -felt when thinking of the “horrors of the slaughterhouse” and the -“massacre of the bird-innocents.” They only broke the rule when Mrs. -Nugent came to dinner. She was their sole acquaintance in Dublin, a -dressmaker by trade. It was just one of the difficulties of their -position that they knew nobody amongst these Irish whom they loved so -much. “I suppose,” said Harriet, “that the moment Percy becomes famous -we shall know everybody all at once.” - -But Shelley himself hadn’t much hope. In the land of baseless and -visionary fabrics where he usually wandered down-trodden Ireland figured -as a proud and beautiful female, Shelley as a knight-errant and apostle, -ready to fight for her and die if need be: crowds of tatterdemalions -followed them in the streets: barbarous British soldiers stopped him and -cudgelled him: but the heroic sweetness of his gospel tamed the brutes -themselves, and philosophy worked the miracle of reconciling hostile -races. - -Little by little this brilliant fantasy melted away, the last shred of -rainbow-tinted mist floated over dirt-blackened houses, and the real -Ireland loomed up, a huge solid mass of towns, farms, forests, an -incalculable number of obscure and dissimilar men, a heap of immemorial -traditions and laws; the land of gambling, hunting, and blood-feuds; -seat of the magistrature, garrison for the soldiery, centre for the -police; Ireland wretched but jeering, suffering but garrulous, -discontented, and rejoicing in her discontent. The Enigmatical Island -. . . the Absurd Island. . . . Gazing at the terrifying Reality, what -could he do? What could he hope for? He was crushed and tired out. - -With growing insistence Godwin urged his disciple to give up the game. -Ever since Shelley had hailed him as a spiritual father he had adopted -the paternal tone, a grumbling and hostile one. - -“Believe me, Shelley,” he prophesied, “you are preparing a bath of -blood!” - -Could he have seen his spiritual son drawing up an inoffensive “Proposal -for an Association for the Good of Mankind,” with Eliza on one side -sewing at a crimson cloak, and Harriet, preparing a meal of bread and -honey on the other, he might have felt more tranquil. - -However, his exhortations were so far useful that they gave Shelley a -decent excuse to give up rescuing the oppressed who didn’t want to be -rescued. - -Minus a few poor creatures who knew how to sponge on him successfully, -no one in Dublin took him seriously. For if in the eyes of an Irishman -there is any one being more ridiculous than an Englishman, it is an -Englishman who loves Ireland, and if in the whole world there is any one -spectacle which an old Eton boy and Oxford man cannot endure, it is -Irish disorder and dirt. - -Having seen close at hand the folly and the misery of the people, his -thoughts turned with longing to the beauty and peace of the English -country-side. - -“I give in,” he wrote to his “venerated” friend. “Never again will I -address myself to the ignorant. . . . I will content myself with being -the cause of an effect which will manifest itself years after I myself -am dust.” - -Harriet packed up all the remaining pamphlets and forwarded them to Miss -Kitchener, who could have very well done without this “inflammable -matter.” - -Eliza folded up the crimson cloak, and the three apostles took the boat -back to England. - - * * * - -The second part of their programme was now to be carried out, the house -in Wales, where the “spiritual flock” could be brought together, and -_all_ problems solved. They thought they had found just the very thing, -in the district where Shelley had stayed before his marriage. The -wildness and beauty of the country attracted him. Near the house a -mountain torrent brawled over the stones, and formed pools on which he -had floated a little boat a foot long. His sail had been a £5 note: a -terrified cat his passenger. He hoped that Miss Hitchener would persuade -her father to come and farm the property of one hundred and thirty -acres. - -But the affair hung fire. The house was too dear. Mr. Hitchener, -indignant at the Cuckfield slanders concerning Shelley and his daughter, -refused to let her go to Nantgwillt. The school-teacher, proud of the -invitation she had received, had very imprudently boasted of it to every -one, and every one, led by Aunt Pilford, construed it in the worst -possible way. - -Once again was Shelley astounded by the world’s malignancy. He, who had -run away with his wife, and made a Scotch love-marriage, how could -anyone suppose he would be unfaithful to Harriet! The idea caused him -such an overwhelming surprise that a less virtuous woman than Miss -Hitchener might have been offended by it. - -As for Mr. Hitchener, he got the treatment he merited. He, too, was a -retired public-house keeper, for the gods seemed to delight in putting -the crystalline Shelley in connection with “the trade.” “Sir,” he wrote -to the lady’s father, “I have some difficulty in repressing my indignant -astonishment on hearing that _you_ refuse my invitation to _your -daughter_. By what right? Who made you her master? . . . Neither the -laws of Nature nor yet those of England have put children on the footing -of personal property. . . . Adieu. When next I hear from you I hope that -time will have liberalized your sentiments.” - - * * * - -As the Shelleys were going to leave Wales, Godwin mentioned to them a -most desirable cottage which one of his friends wanted to let. His -advice was always respected. Shelley and Harriet went to see the cottage -and found it hopeless. The house was commonplace, scarcely finished and -far too small for them. But, on their way back from this useless -journey, they discovered a very picturesque village. Thirty cottages -with thatched roofs covered with climbing roses and myrtles, formed the -delightful hamlet of Lynmouth. By a miracle, one of the cottages was to -let. It was the best situated, above a wooded gorge. From the windows -you looked down upon the sea, three hundred feet below. They instantly -decided to settle there “for ever.” - -The “venerated friend,” on news of this, wrote a stiff letter. He said, -harshly, that the tastes of the Shelleys were too luxurious, and that a -small house, modest as it might be, ought to suffice for one who called -himself Godwin’s disciple. Had Timothy Shelley written such a letter the -most violent epithets would have been hurled at his head, but one -naturally accepts from a stranger what one would never put up with from -one’s own father. - -Shelley did not think of complaining, but of justifying himself. If he -had said that the house recommended by his guide, philosopher, and -friend was too small, this was not from a wish for luxury, or even for -comfort. But the number of rooms was too few, and it seemed to him -hardly the thing for two persons of opposite sex and unmarried to share -the same bedroom. He knew that in a regenerated society this prejudice -would disappear, but in the present state of things, promiscuity -appeared to him imprudent. However, he advanced this opinion—which he -feared was rather reactionary—with precaution. The Master was good -enough to forget it. - -The adorable cottage at Lynmouth was soon the scene of a great event, -the arrival of Miss Hitchener. Shelley promised himself that she would -add to his life the element of intellectual collaboration, so far rather -wanting to it. Nor would Harriet lose anything by the arrangement, for -her “spiritual sister” would help him to form her, both young women -being, he thought, sufficiently high-minded to accept these parts. - -With surprise the Lynmouth villagers now saw him set off of a morning on -long expeditions with this gaunt, bony stranger. And henceforth it was -with her that he discussed all plans for the propagation of his ideas. -The diffusion of Virtue was growing difficult. A London printer had just -been sentenced to the pillory. The fate of Galileo did not frighten -Shelley for himself, but he would not thrust an innocent printer into -danger. - -Luckily, the Magician had at his disposal ways and means which defied -the police of Lord Castlereagh. When he had written some fine incendiary -pamphlet, he would put it in a little box, well resined and waxed, with -a lead below and a tiny mast and sail above, and launch it on the ocean, -or he would make small fire-balloons, and having loaded them with Wisdom -set them sailing up into the summer sky. Or he would watch entranced a -flotilla of dark-green bottles tightly corked, and each containing a -divine remedy, rise and sink as the emerald waves swayed them seaward. - -After he had “worked” hard in this manner, his favourite relaxation was -blowing soap-bubbles. Seated before the door, churchwarden in hand, he -blew glassy spheres that reflected all the forms and colours of heaven -and earth upon their tenuous surfaces. He watched them float away until -they broke and vanished. - -Then quitting for a short time the aërial, translucent palaces of Logic, -he experienced the need of fixing in verse, the intangible beauty of -these shimmering violets, greens, and golds. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - THE VENERATED FRIEND - - -The roses of Lynmouth were fading, and autumn winds swept the loose -clouds like dead leaves across the sky. Miss Hitchener’s star was about -to set. The constant presence of a stranger wearied Harriet. Shelley -himself saw the dream dissolve, revealing grosser forms, and was -surprised to find installed at his side a mediocre and twaddling woman. -He sought his heroine in vain, and repented of his folly. - -After having insisted so strenuously in dragging her from her school it -was difficult to send her back there. Yet to go on living with her in an -autumnal solitude was becoming unbearable. Perhaps in a big city other -friends and other distractions might help him to forget the obsession of -her company. At the same time, Godwin urged the Shelleys to come back to -London. They resolved to go and make a long stay. - - * * * - -It was with great excitement that one day in October 1812, they left -their hotel in St. James’s Street to pay their first visit to Godwin and -his family. Harriet, tiny, fair, and rosy, tripped by the side of her -tall and round-shouldered boy-husband. They wondered what sort of -welcome the Great Man was going to give them? Miss Hitchener, who had -called in Skinner Street on her way through London, had met with a cold -welcome. But maybe that proved nothing but the perspicacity of Godwin. - -They found the whole family gathered together in the dwelling-house -above the Juvenile Library, for the Godwins, on their side, were -devoured with curiosity to see the Shelleys. There was the Philosopher -himself, short, fat, bald, intellectual-looking, with the appearance of -a Methodist parson, like almost all the theorists of Revolution. - -The second Mrs. Godwin had put on her best black silk, and only wore the -green-glasses just for the time needed to take stock of the Baronet’s -grandson and his pretty wife. The Shelleys had been warned that she was -a back-biter, but on this occasion she showed herself amiable. - -Fanny Imlay was there too, gentle and pensive; and Jane Clairmont, a -beautiful and vivacious brunette of the Italian type. - -“The only one absent,” said Godwin, “is my daughter Mary now in -Scotland. She is very like her mother whose portrait I will show you.” - -He took the young couple into his study, and Shelley, much moved, looked -long at the portrait of the fascinating Mary Wollstonecraft. Then every -one sat down and Godwin and Percy talked of the relativity of matter to -spirit, of the position of the clergy, and of German literature. The -women listened in mute admiration. Harriet thought that Godwin resembled -Socrates; he had the same bulgy forehead; and that Percy sitting beside -him was like one of the handsome Greek youths whose ardent impatience -was tempered with respect. - - * * * - -A close intimacy began between the Shelleys and the Godwins. Godwin -often came round to the hotel to take Shelley for a walk, or Mrs. Godwin -invited Harriet and Percy to dinner. She even invited Eliza and Miss -Hitchener, but the last very unwillingly. Sometimes Harriet ventured to -give a dinner herself. - -On the 5th November, Guy Fawkes’ Day, the Shelleys dined with the -Godwins. After dinner little William Godwin, aged nine, said he was -going round to let off fireworks with his friend and neighbour, young -Newton. Shelley at this moment was discussing some profound question or -other with his venerated friend. But the word “fireworks” instantly -brought to life the alchemist of Field Place. He hesitated just a second -between Godwin and his discourse, and the joy of rockets and catherine -wheels lighting up with their many-coloured fires the old London -streets. - -Then, “I’ll go with you,” he said to the little boy, and off they went. - -When the fireworks were over, young Newton, enchanted by this grown-up -friend who played like a boy and could tell such wonderful stories, took -him home to introduce him to his parents. Shelley made no resistance, -and never had to regret it. He found the Newtons adorable. They fell at -once into free, cultured and agreeable talk. - -Newton was just the man to please Shelley. He had endless theories which -he put into practice. One of his favourite ideas was that when Man -migrated from the equatorial regions and pushed northwards, he adopted -unnatural habits and that from these sprang all his woes. One of such -bad habits was the wearing of clothes: Newton’s children ran about the -house entirely naked. Another bad habit was the eating of flesh food; -the whole Newton family was vegetarian. Nothing could arouse more surely -Shelley’s enthusiasm, and Mr. Newton supplied him with new arguments. - -“Man has no similarity with any carnivorous animal; he is without claws -to hold his prey; the formation of his teeth points out that his food -should be vegetables and fruit. He first knew sickness after taking to -flesh-eating which, for him, is poison. Here you have the meaning of the -story of Prometheus which is evidently a vegetarian myth. Prometheus, -that is to say Man, discovered fire and invented cooking; immediately a -vulture began to gnaw at his liver. The vulture is hepatitis, that’s -quite clear.” - -Since the Newtons had taken to vegetarianism they had never needed any -doctors nor any drugs. The children were the healthiest in the world, -and Shelley, who had many opportunities of seeing the little girls, -found them beautiful as sculptor’s models. - -He became a constant visitor, and the moment his voice was heard in the -hall the five children rushed downstairs to meet him, and take him up -with them to the nursery. Mrs. Newton and her sister Madame de Boinville -were just as infatuated with him as were the children. - -At Godwin’s Fanny and Jane passed whole evenings in listening to him -with ecstasy. They raved of his beauty, and his arguments appeared to -them unassailable. Even in a family of republicans this young -aristocrat, heir to an immense fortune and so disdainful of money, shone -with a romantic light. - -As for him, between the two young girls, Fanny, gentle and reserved, -Jane, hot-blooded and vehement, he seemed to be back again in those -happy days of youthful fervour and high enthusiasm, when a bevy of -adoring sisters and cousins clipt him round. - -Harriet pleased the Godwin girls less. They noticed that she never -thought for herself but simply repeated her husband’s favourite phrases -and that her grammar was faulty. - -“Poor dear Shelley!” said they, as soon as the couple had left them. “He -certainly has not got the wife he ought to have.” - -This is an impression very general amongst young women who see the man -they would have liked themselves in the possession of another. They even -ventured to attack Harriet, in her absence, with tiny pin-pricks; they -guessed intuitively those criticisms to which her doctrinaire husband -would be most sensitive. - -“Harriet frightens me,” wrote Fanny, “she is such a fine lady.” Shelley -was indignant. - -“Harriet a ‘fine lady’? And it is you who accuse her of this crime, in -my eyes, the most unforgivable of any. The ease and simplicity of her -manners have always been her greatest charm, and are incompatible with -the vulgar brilliancy of fashionable life. You will not convert me to -your opinion, so long as I have before my eyes the living witness of its -falsity.” - -Later on, this letter of Fanny’s came back to Shelley’s mind. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - MISS HITCHENER - - -Hogg, now fully reconciled with his family, returned to London after a -year’s exile at York to finish his law studies. - -One evening as he sat reading in a comfortable arm-chair wrapped in a -warm dressing-gown, a pot of hot tea by his side, he heard a tremendous -knocking at the outer door of the house. Then this door was flung -violently back against the wall, so that the whole building shook; Hogg -recalled a pair of luminous eyes, a tall and stooping figure. . . . - -“If Shelley were still friends with me, I should imagine . . .” - -Some one rushing upstairs recalled rapid footsteps heard long ago on an -Oxford staircase. - -“No one but Shelley ever ran upstairs like that!” - -The room-door opened, and there Shelley stood, hatless, with -shirt-collar wide open, wild-looking, intellectual, always the image of -some heavenly spirit come down to earth by mistake. - -“I got your address from your ‘special pleader’ fellow, and not without -trouble! He took me for a swindler of some kind and didn’t want to give -it to me. What has become of you all this last year? . . . I’ve just got -back from Ireland. . . . I went to preach humanity to the Irish -Catholics. . . . Then we returned to Wales, a lovely country. . . . -Harriet’s all right . . . she expects a child. . . . Have you read -Berkeley? . . . At this moment I’m reading Helvetius . . . very clever, -but dry stuff. . . .” - -Hogg looked at him with the admiration, affection, and irony, of former -days. Who but Shelley would start off to discuss Helvetius with a friend -from whom he had parted on such bad terms a year back? - -Shelley, full of animation and joy, walked about the room, opened books, -put questions to which he never waited the answers, and seemed to have -forgotten completely that Hogg had ever offended him. - -He talked far into the night, and the men in the chambers next to Hogg -knocked furiously on the walls to warn him that the high and piercing -voice of his visitor prevented them from sleeping. - -Hogg, alarmed for his good name, suggested Shelley should go. Shelley -continued to talk. He explained that he had just opened a subscription -list to finish a dyke which would enable the Welsh at Tremadoc to regain -5,000 acres of land from the sea. He had headed the list with £100 and -he was devoting his life, his strength, and his fortune to the -enterprise. . . . Hogg taking him gently by the arm led him to the door, -but he resisted. - -“Your neighbours bore me! They are brutes who don’t understand that it -is only during the night that the soul feels really free.” - -Hogg had managed to get him out upon the landing. - -“I’ll go, but on one condition, and that is that you come and dine with -us to-morrow. Harriet will be delighted to see you. I apologize for -having a horrible creature with us, Miss Hitchener . . . but she will be -leaving in a day or two.” - -“Miss Hitchener? The sister of your soul?” - -“_She_, the sister of my soul?” cried Shelley. “She’s a crawling and -contemptible worm. . . . We call her the Brown Demon.” - -But they had now reached the street. Hogg gently pushed his friend out -of the house and closed the door behind him. - - * * * - -Next day at six o’clock, Hogg sent in his name to Harriet. She received -him with enthusiasm. She looked younger, more blooming, and lovelier -than ever. - -“What a separation this has been!” she said. “But it will not happen -again. We are now going to live in London for ever!” - -Eliza sat apart in haughty silence. She gave Hogg a limp hand, without -condescending to speak to him. - -“You’re looking delightfully well, Harriet.” - -“She? Oh, no, poor dear thing!” said Eliza in a lackadaisical voice. -“Her nerves are in a fearful state. Most dreadfully shattered!” - -Hogg thought, “Nothing is changed in this house, one must take care what -one says.” - -Shelley at this moment burst into the room like a cannon ball, and -dinner was brought up. - -After dinner there were mysterious whisperings from Eliza into Harriet’s -ear, who came obediently to bid Hogg good night, and to invite him to -come again on Sunday morning. - -“It’s the day the Brown Demon is going, conversation will be so -difficult. But you are always such good fun, you would be the greatest -help to us. . . . Percy has told you about our Tormentor?” - -At the mention of Miss Hitchener’s name Eliza exhibited a deep but -silent disgust. - -“She’s a horrible woman,” Harriet went on. “She tried to make Percy fall -in love with her. She pretended that he did really love her, and that I -was only good for the housekeeping. Percy has promised her £100 a year -if only she will go.” - -Shelley confirmed this. He saw the imprudence of thus sacrificing a -quarter of his income, but it was necessary. The young woman had lost -her situation through him, and her reputation and health into the -bargain, she added, thanks to their barbarous conduct. - -“She is really a horrible creature!” he said shuddering. “A superficial, -ugly, hermaphroditical beast of a woman. I’ve never been so astonished -at my bad taste as after spending four months with her. . . . How would -Hell be, if such a woman were in Heaven? And she writes poetry! She has -written an Elegy on the Rights of Woman, which begins: - - “All, all are men, the woman like the rest. . . .” - -He burst into one of his wild shouts of laughter. - -Next day Hogg did not fail to turn up. The Heroine of the day appeared -to him boring but inoffensive. She was a big, bony, masculine woman, -dark-skinned, and with traces of a beard. - -Shelley presently declared he must go out, Harriet had a bad headache -and needed quiet; Hogg’s fate was to take the two Eliza’s for a walk. - -With the Brown Demon on his right arm, and the Black Diamond, as he -nicknamed Eliza Westbrook, on his left, he directed their steps towards -St. James’s Park. “I could say, like Cornelia: ‘These are my jewels!’” -he thought. - -The two fair rivals attacked each other across him in phrases of haughty -contempt. The languishing Eliza woke up to deal formidable blows with a -calm soft acrimony. Miss Hitchener made a show of speaking only to Hogg. -She discoursed on the Rights of Woman. Eliza who could not talk on this -subject, nor on any other, found herself reduced to ignominious silence. - -When they got home she penned Hogg into a corner of the hall. - -“How could you talk to that nasty creature so much? How could you permit -her to prate so long to you? Harriet will be seriously displeased with -you, I assure you! She will be very angry.” - -But Harriet merely smiled up at him and asked, “Were you not tired of -the Brown Demon?” - -When luncheon was over he wickedly led the conversation back to Woman’s -Rights, and the Goddess of Reason was at once let loose. Shelley rose -from his chair, came and stood before her and fell into animated -discussion. The sisters Westbrook looked at him with sorrowful dismay as -at one guilty of communication with the enemy. - -Eliza whispered to Hogg, “If you only knew how dirty she is you wouldn’t -go near her!” - -But the moment of release came when the exile’s bags and boxes were -piled into a hackney-coach, and the women of Shelley’s household were -left dancing and singing for joy. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - HARRIET - - -The few months which followed the departure of Miss Hitchener were happy -months. The Shelleys were still penniless wanderers, but an immense -interior satisfaction replaced for them money and home. He had begun a -long poem, “Queen Mab,” and to work at it made life worth living. -Harriet, who was with child, was sunk in an agreeable torpor, reserving -all her strength for creative purposes, and so amused by and interested -in her own sensations and hopes, as to be quite insensible to boredom. - -During this period they made short visits to Wales, and returned a -second time to Ireland, but no longer dabbled in politics. To please -Percy, Harriet began to learn Latin. He taught her on a method of his -own. Discarding grammars he plunged her straight into Horace and Virgil. - -While she studied, he went on with his poem or read history. Godwin had -assured him that his ignorance of history was one great cause of his -errors of judgment, and though he loathed the subject he set at it -courageously. In the evening, Harriet sang old Irish songs, “Robin -Adair,” and “Kate of Kearney,” or they read the newspapers together, -which at that time were filled with accounts of the prosecutions of -Liberal writers. - -Often to these unknown comrades, condemned for their opinions, Shelley -would write offering to pay the fine, but never having ten pounds in -hand, he was obliged to borrow at 400 per cent, in order to do so. - -Presently, it was necessary to go back to London as Harriet’s time was -near. Shelley was also approaching his twenty-first birthday, an -important date for him, for it seemed possible he might then come to -terms with his father. - -They took rooms at Cooke’s Hotel in Albemarle Street. Eliza, who was -with them, looked after Harriet with exaggerated care. Her fussiness -annoyed Shelley always in favour of letting Nature have her way. When he -was absent Eliza would prime her sister in matrimonial strategy. - -“It’s most extraordinary that at twenty-one years of age Percy can’t -find a way of making up with his father, so that you could be received -by the family, and lead the proper sort of life for a future baronet’s -wife! If you were a little more skilful and persuasive with him, things -would be very different, I’m sure! You ought to have a town house of -your own, your own silver, your own carriage; and all that could easily -be had if Percy chose.” - -Harriet was of the same mind. She was a pretty woman and she knew it, -and for a pretty woman a life without luxury is as hard to bear as a -subordinate position for a clever man. The street admiration she meets -with tells her of her power, and she knows too that youth’s a stuff that -won’t endure. Just as a strongly armed nation desires to ensure her -place in the sun, before demobilizing, Woman wishes to exact good terms -from her enemy Man, before resigning herself to the pacifism of old age. - -Besides which Eliza was continually pitying Harriet, and self-pity comes -so naturally to all of us that the most solid happiness can be shaken by -the compassion of a fool. - -Moved thereunto by Harriet at the instigation of Eliza, and also by -renewed counsel from the Duke of Norfolk, Shelley decided to write again -to his father. He would not have taken this step had he not judged it to -be both honourable and necessary. He desired earnestly to see his -mother, and even the Squire seen from a distance of time and place -appeared to him a pathetic and inoffensive figure. - - “MY DEAR FATHER, - - “I once more presume to address you to state to you my sincere - desire of being considered as worthy of a restoration to the - intercourse with yourself and my family which I have forfeited - by my follies. . . . I hope the time is approaching when we - shall consider each other as father and son with more confidence - than ever, and that I shall no longer be a cause of disunion to - the happiness of my family. I was happy to hear from John Grove - who dined with us yesterday, that you continue in good health. - My wife unites with me in respectful regards.” - -Unfortunately, Timothy Shelley, with characteristic wrong-headedness, -chose a test of Bysshe’s obedience to which it was impossible for him to -submit; he could not write to the authorities of University College that -he was now a sincere and dutiful son of the Church. And, failing this, -his father declined all further communication with him. - - “I am not so degraded and miserable a slave,” wrote Shelley to - the Duke of Norfolk, “as publicly to disavow an opinion which I - believe to be true. Every man of common sense must plainly see - that a sudden renunciation of sentiments seriously taken up is - as unfortunate a test of intellectual uprightness as can - possibly be devised. . . . I am willing to concede everything - that is reasonable, anything that does not involve a compromise - of that self-esteem without which life would be a burden and a - disgrace.” - -Eliza considered such obduracy absurd. “Thus Harriet, so soon to be -brought to bed, will not even have a carriage to save her running about -the streets on foot!” Shelley, exasperated, bought a carriage on credit, -and refused to use it. He hated being shut up in a closed carriage, and -much preferred long tramps with Hogg on foot. - -Though sick to death of Eliza at home, there were plenty of pleasant -houses where he could take refuge. There was the Godwins’ in Skinner -Street, where Fanny and Jane Clairmont always received him with open -arms. There was the Newtons’ in Chester Square, where he found -affection, intelligence, and old-world courtesy. Mrs. Newton, a -first-rate musician, the favourite pupil of Dussek, would sit down to -the piano, while Shelley seated on the rug amidst the children would -tell them tales of ghosts and phantoms in a low voice. - -Very often Madame de Boinville was on a visit to her sister. These two -ladies, daughters of a wealthy St. Vincent planter, had received a mixed -Anglo-French education that Shelley, tremendous admirer of the French -philosophers, much appreciated. Madame de Boinville, in particular, -charmed him. Her romantic marriage with a ruined _émigré_, a friend of -André Chénier and of La Fayette, invested her with a poetic fascination. -She was a woman with white hair, but with so childlike a face, such -speaking eyes, a mind so lively and up-to-date, that one had more -pleasure in talking with her than with many a younger woman. For the -first time in his life Shelley found, in her and her sister, women whose -intellectuality was on a par with his own. - -The conversation of Eliza and Miss Hitchener now appeared to him -thoroughly despicable. - -From living with Harriet, he had fallen into the habit of looking on -women as children, for whom an abstract idea must be reduced to its -simplest expression. With Madame de Boinville he was astonished to find -that he could not only tell her all his ideas, but that by the charm and -precision of her language she gave them a new attraction. For her and -her sister, as for Shelley himself, the play of thought was the finest -of pastimes. Learning is nothing without cultivated manners, but when -the two are combined in a woman you have one of the most exquisite -products of civilization. - -With a secret joy and a delicious feeling of attained perfection, -Shelley realized that he had at last found surroundings propitious to -his happiness, and that everything he had previously known was -grotesquely unworthy of him. - -The ladies, on their side, were enchanted by their discovery of Shelley, -for this very good-looking and well-born young man loved ideas as they -did and expressed them with warmth. He had got rid of the rather -intolerant dogmatism of his sixteen years, and now in discussion showed -modesty and forbearance. Never had they met a man so selfless, so -generous, so free from materialism as he. Generally serious, he yet was -capable of fun, and he had the ease of manner, the contempt for -ceremony, and the perfect politeness, which is the hall-mark of the -young aristocrat. “What more charming,” they asked themselves, “than a -saint who is at the same time a man of the world?” - -With a tinge of jealousy, but also with affectionate interest, Hogg -watched the manœuvrings of all these pretty women round his ingenuous -friend. At the Godwins’ the girls called Shelley the Elf-King or the -King of Faery; at the Newtons’ he was known as Ariel and Oberon. The -moment he appeared the women gathered about him. But he was a Spirit -difficult to call up at any fixed hour. He was subject to strange -caprices, sudden frights, panic terrors. Sometimes falling into a poetic -vision, he forgot that he was expected to a tea-party. At other times, -when he was actually caught and supposedly held fast, all at once some -imaginary duty called him one knew not where. - -“In certain countries,” Hogg told him, “it is believed that goats, which -are children of the devil, pass one hour out of every twenty-four in -hell. I think you’re like the goats, Shelley.” - -On the other hand, when engaged with a woman after his own heart in one -of the serious and animated talks which he so much enjoyed, he forgot -both time and place. The night waned, and Adonis still led his rather -breathless priestesses conversationally onwards. Dawn broke; he was -talking still. Then, as it was too late to go to bed, a walk in the -delicious morning air rounded things off. - -“What the devil were you talking about all night to your circle of -beauties?” the puzzled Hogg would inquire. - -“I’m sure I don’t know.” - -Harriet also wondered what her husband could have to say to all these -women. She was now near her term, and seldom went out of doors. Shelley -often left her alone. In the houses where he was a favourite, she felt -that she was unwelcome. At the Godwins’ she could not get on with Mrs. -Godwin. At the Boinville’s she had been thought at first charming -because she was so pretty and the wife of a poet, but she was soon set -down as a very ordinary woman. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - COMPARISONS - - -The child was a girl, fair, with blue eyes. Her father named her Ianthe. -Her mother added Elizabeth. Thus Ovid and Miss Westbrook clasped hands -over the cradle. Shelley walked about with the baby in his arms singing -to it a monotonous tune of his own making. The idea of bringing up a new -being that he might save from prejudices was delightful to him. As an -admirer of Rousseau he expected Harriet to suckle the child herself and -he was eager to give the tenderest care to both. In the excitement of -his new rôle, the odious Eliza was forgotten. - -But Harriet, egged on by her sister, refused to nurse the child. She -engaged a wet nurse, “a hireling” as Shelley declared resentfully. But -on this point Harriet was gently but firmly obstinate. - -A curious change came over her after Ianthe’s birth. It seemed as though -she wished to make up for nine months’ inactivity. Her Latin lessons -were not resumed. She wanted nothing now but to be out of doors looking -into the bonnet-shops and jewellers’ windows. To find pleasure in such -idle trifling seemed to Shelley monstrous and unintelligible. He was -willing to pay for any of Harriet’s “reasonable” fancies, even at the -price of loans and endless annoyances, but to spend the money so -necessary to “persecuted writers” and other just causes, on mere “glad -rags,” appeared to him scandalous, and he made his wife and -sister-in-law feel it. - -Eliza was careful to show up Shelley’s failings. - -“Percy finds money enough to pay the debts of his dear Godwin, who -plucks him and whose wife is rude to us. He finds money to pay the fines -for a set of miserable scribblers, but he can’t afford to dress his own -wife decently! He’s a fool if he thinks it odd that a young and pretty -woman should like bonnets. If you don’t dress now at eighteen, when -_can_ you do so?” - -Miss Westbrook encouraged at the house the visits of an army man, a -certain Major Ryan, whom they had first met in Ireland, and now found -again in London. He, too, was of opinion that so charming a young woman -as Harriet ought to lead a more normal life. Harriet was inclined to -agree with him. Latin and philosophy had really been a great strain on -her. She had borne it without complaint because of her love and -admiration for Percy. But shopping and gay chatter were just as much to -her taste as were the Newtons to Shelley’s, and the pleasure she found -in these frivolities contrasted with the rather painful attention she -had given to her “lessons.” - -Shelley thought that town life and its temptations was the cause of the -trouble, and he had the very natural idea of all lovers who feel a -shadow falling between them, to go back to these scenes where their love -had been unclouded. Harriet’s famous carriage was got ready. Shelley -raised £500 by a post-obit bond for £2,000, and, accompanied by the -inevitable Eliza, went on pilgrimage to Keswick and Edinburgh. - -The constant change of scene on the journey made them forget their -worries, and they returned to London in much better spirits, but they -had hardly settled down again when the old disagreements were renewed. -Harriet and Eliza pined for a fine house, fashionable life, gowns, and a -social circle. Shelley detested all these things but detested still more -the idea that his wife wanted them. He still loved her, but he began to -feel a touch of contempt. - -Hogg came to see them. He found Harriet quite recovered, prettier and -more blooming than ever. But she no longer offered to read to him the -wise counsels of Idomeneus. She asked him instead to go with her to her -milliner’s. She vanished into the shop, leaving him waiting on the -pavement. She began to bore him, and as a man has little indulgence -towards the woman who has rejected his advances he let Shelley see it. -Shelley, too, could no longer hide his impatience. The Shelleys had -reached the dangerous moment of confidences with a third person. - - * * * - -When Madame de Boinville invited Shelley and Hogg to pass a few days -with her in the country, they accepted with joy. They found there her -daughter Cornelia, who was cultured, pensive and pretty, and her sister -Mrs. Newton. Shelley again knew the delightful sensations of former -evenings passed with them in town. He called Madame de Boinville, -Maimouna, because she reminded him of the heroine of _Thalaba_ whose - - “. . . face was as a damsel’s face - And yet her hair was grey.” - -The attractive Cornelia gave the two young men lessons in Italian, and -Madame de Boinville expounded in her delicious voice the indulgent -teaching of the French philosophers. “To enjoy life, and help others to -enjoy it, without harming anyone, herein lies the whole of morality.” -This dictum of Chamfort’s, which was a great favourite of Madame de -Boinville, ought by rights to have roused Shelley’s wrath. Poor Harriet -had never said anything so flatly opposed to virtue. . . . But then she -would have said it much less well. - -At Bracknell even fooling seemed pleasant to Shelley, because there the -simplest games were imbued with the cast of thought. Cornelia had the -habit, when she first woke up, of reading over and often learning by -heart, one of Petrarch’s sonnets. This sonnet she thought over and fed -upon all day long. When they said good morning to her, Shelley and Hogg -would inquire which the day’s sonnet might be. Sometimes the poem was so -moving she did not trust herself to recite it, but opened the little -pocket Petrarch always carried with her, and pointed out the passage. - -Walking between the two young men in the garden, she would comment the -love text with eloquence and simplicity. - -“It is so good to begin the day,” she said, “with a draught of -tenderness which sweetens all our thoughts, words and deeds until the -night.” - -These walks, these talks, seemed to Shelley the only things of any real -importance. The house, fine yet simple, charmed him by its perfection -and the absence of the luxury which disgusted him so much. It was for -him a place of repose and of freedom from care. Harriet was invited to -join them. Madame de Boinville received her with kindness. “She’s a very -pretty little creature,” she told Hogg. “But she seems to me a rather -frivolous companion for our dear, delightful Stoic. However, she’s not -yet eighteen, I think?” - -Harriet, unfortunately, saw quite well that she was not treated on a -footing of equality. She saw that Percy took far more pleasure in -reading Petrarch with Cornelia than in discussing with his wife how to -improve their style of living; and by a reaction against an environment -which she dimly felt to be hostile to her in spite of an appearance of -cordiality, she put on cold and ironical airs. - -When the rest of the party were solemnly debating on Virtue, or the -Reform Bill, Shelley saw her exchange mocking smiles with Hogg and -Peacock, a new and very sceptical friend they had just discovered. - -He could forgive Hogg’s irony. His wife’s irritated him. Hogg’s mind was -an entirely different world from his, and he permitted the difference. -But Harriet’s mind was his very own handiwork. He had formed it, trained -it, cultivated it. He was accustomed to think of it as his echo. On -suddenly discovering that this other self had detached itself from him, -and could sometimes even make fun of what he said, he was surprised and -profoundly hurt. - -There is nothing which makes a woman appear stupider than secret -jealousy. Instead of attacking the foe openly, which would be natural -and pathetic, she criticizes with spite innocent words and inoffensive -actions, and showing a terrible want of tact gives an air of meanness to -a sentiment which is perfectly justifiable. Harriet found fault with -everything at Bracknell because she had good cause to be jealous of -Cornelia Turner. But Shelley, who put down her scornful looks and her -mocking remarks to an incredible childishness, treated her with cool -contempt. - -At this her pride was up in arms, and her behaviour became worse. “Eliza -is right,” she thought, “Percy is absolutely selfish, and thinks -everything he does is perfect. Because he likes this dull life, these -silly discussions, and this Italian poetry, he wants to force me to like -them too. But what right has he to prevent me from living _my_ life? How -is Cornelia Turner reading Petrarch so superior to me? These women whom -he admires are neither so young nor so good-looking as I. He would very -soon want me back.” - -With this idea in her head she announced her intention of returning to -London to join Eliza. Her hostesses did nothing to dissuade her, beyond -the few words of regret which politeness requires. “Poor Shelley,” these -ladies remarked, just as the Godwin girls had done, “he has not got the -wife he ought to have.” - -Harriet fell into the way of going up to stay with Eliza for weeks at a -time, leaving her husband alone at Bracknell. Soon the usual “kind -friend” let Shelley know that his wife was going about with Major Ryan. -For the first time since his marriage the idea of a possible infidelity -occurred to him. It was a question which in the abstract he had always -treated with the greatest contempt. Suddenly brought up against it with -Harriet and himself as possible actors, he was overwhelmed with the most -violent grief he had yet known. - -Reason told him he ought to consider himself lucky if he were freed from -a very ordinary woman. If at that moment he loved at all, was it not -rather the heavenly Cornelia than Harriet whose miserable spite had -recently annoyed him so much? And, if he no longer loved her, to break -with her would be best. He had always taught that when passion’s trance -is over-past each should be free again. But it was in vain that he -reasoned thus with himself. He discovered with stupefaction that Percy -Shelley and Harriet Westbrook were no longer two separate and free -beings. The sum of past memories, caresses, joys, and sufferings -enmeshed them both in a web from which there was no escape. - -He rushed up to town, determined either to offer Harriet his excuses or -to confess his faults. But she received him with harshness and irony. -Any heart-to-heart talk was out of the question. - -His child-wife, so gentle and submissive only three months ago, now -showed herself cold and haughty. How had such a change come about? There -were instants when Shelley thought he detected, beneath pride’s hard -surface, a fleeting image of the other Harriet, but when he sought to -hold it by a loving word, it was gone. Against the steely armour of her -heart he knocked in vain. - -Wandering about the streets without any object, he thought: “What a fool -I have been! Here I am tied for ever to a woman who does not love me, -who has never loved me. Evidently she only married me for the money and -title. . . . Now that she sees her hopes upset, she punishes me for her -mistake. . . .” And he repeated with disgust: “A heart of ice . . . a -lump of ice!” - -Perhaps had he ever seen her alone he would have succeeded in thawing -it, but Eliza, prim, hostile, formidable, stood always between them, and -the gallant Major Ryan was in the wings, ready to commiserate the -cruelties of a doctrinaire husband. - -After struggling for a few days, Shelley’s ardour was suddenly quenched. -Capable by fits and starts of an energy when nothing was impossible to -him, he fell as formerly after his long tramps at Oxford into an -insurmountable torpor, and his will-power like a dying candle-flame -threw up a final blaze of light before it expired. - -When he saw that Harriet was obdurate, he gave up all hope of saving the -remnants of his married happiness, and he wrote to Bracknell to announce -he was coming on a month’s visit, and coming alone. He knew well that -after a month’s interval he would find Harriet completely ruined by her -hateful surroundings, he knew that a catastrophe would be the result of -the Bracknell interlude, but he was too tired to carry on the fight. - -“What more am I now but an insect warming itself in a ray of sunshine? -The next cloud that passes will plunge me into the frozen darkness of -death.” And, in melancholy mood, he recited the lines from Burns: - - “But pleasures are like poppies spread, - You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed; - Or like the snow-fall in the river, - A moment white, then melts for ever.” - -It seemed to him that into the translucent domes of crystal wherein his -fancy dwelt, Harriet, Ianthe and Elizabeth had been suddenly flung like -so many blocks of living and rebellious matter. In vain did he try with -all the forces of logic to drag them out. His feeble weapons were -crushed beneath the ponderous reality. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - SECOND INCARNATION OF THE GODDESS - - -There were days when Shelley, recalling the sweet and childlike face of -his eighteen-year-old wife, thought it might still be possible to forget -and make up. In a pathetic poem he tried to tell her how miserable it -was for one who had lived in the warm sunshine of her eyes to die -beneath her scorn. Did the lines move her? He never knew. She shut -herself up more and more in feelings of pride and revenge. He had left -her on several occasions. No doubt it was as a reprisal that the moment -he came back to London she set off with Ianthe for Bath. - -Shelley was obliged to remain in town. He had come of age, yet his -affairs were no further advanced thereby. His solicitor gave him to -understand there might be a family law-suit to deprive him of his -rights. Although crippled with debts himself, he persisted in trying to -free others from theirs. The Juvenile Library founded by Godwin had been -a failure, and the sight of this old fighter for justice, impoverished -and saddened by money troubles, was inexpressibly painful to his young -disciple and friend. - -But three thousand pounds were needed to save Godwin, a big sum. Yet -from the moment he knew of Shelley’s wish to save him, he again -exhibited great friendliness, and as Shelley was now a “bachelor” in -London, his “beauteous half” being in the country for an indefinite -period, he was invited to dine in Skinner Street every night. - -He accepted all the more readily that he wished to see the girls again, -and Godwin had informed him he would find an extra one, Mary, who had at -length come home from Scotland. He gave an attractive portrait of her; -seventeen years old, quick and lively, a great wish to learn, and -immense perseverance. Already Fanny and Jane had described her to -Shelley as being as intelligent as she was beautiful. For her mother, -Mary Wollstonecraft, Shelley had the warmest admiration. He was greatly -moved at the thought he was about to meet her unknown daughter. - -He needed for his happiness to embody in the form of a beautiful woman -the mysterious and benevolent Forces which he imagined as scattered -throughout the Universe. Love was, for him, an impassioned admiration, -an integral act of faith, an exquisite and perfect mixture of the -sensuous and the intellectual. - -Had Mary not appeared at that juncture, or had she proved a -disappointment, the sentiment which hovered and hesitated in his wounded -heart, would have dedicated itself to Fanny or to Jane, but Mary came, -and his fate was settled. - -Her face was very pale and pure, her golden hair arranged in smooth -bands on either side of a shapely head, she had a great slab of a -forehead, and earnest hazel eyes. An air of sensibility and mournful -courage instantly inspired in Shelley the same enthusiasm that he found -in reading Homer or Plutarch. He saw something heroic in this delicate -young girl, and the mixture of the heroic and the feminine was ever that -which most appealed to him. - -“What seriousness and what feeling!” thought he, listening with ecstasy -to her young fresh voice. A maiden standing where brook and river meet, -having the grace of the woman and the intellectual eagerness of the -youth, had always seemed to him one of the most exquisite works of art. -He longed to put a brotherly arm round those slender shoulders, and to -make those questioning eyes sparkle, as he bore her away on some -astonishing gallop through the realms of aërial metaphysics. - -Harriet Westbrook had only imperfectly realized his ideal. For a moment -he had hoped to find in her the delightful blend of beauty and -intelligence that he would so greatly have loved, but poor Harriet had -not withstood the difficult test of time. She was wanting in any real -brain-power; even when she had the air of being interested in ideas, her -indifference was proved by the blankness of her gaze. Worst of all, she -was coquettish, frivolous, versed in the tricks and wiles of woman, and -this alone was sufficient to chill him to the marrow. - -But Mary, of the nut-brown eyes, was slim and true as a Toledo blade. -Brought up by the author of _Political Justice_, her mind appeared free -from all feminine superstition; and the clear if rather piercing tones -of her voice emphasized delightfully its cultivated precision. Dining -every evening in the little house in Skinner Street, Shelley passed the -time in looking at Mary, while he seemed to listen to Godwin, who -explained the regrettable state of his own affairs, and discussed the -Budget, or the laws of the Press. - -Mary, on her side, was quite ready to fall in love with Shelley. The -romance had been prepared by the sisters, who for a month previously had -talked of nothing in their letters but the handsome poet. Yet no -description of Shelley ever came up to the reality. - -Mary saw, at once, how much she interested him. Although he had made no -complaint of life—he never did—she realized he was unhappy, and so one -evening when they found themselves alone in the room where her mother’s -portrait hung she spoke to him of her own troubles. She adored her -father, but detested Mrs. Godwin on whose account the home in Skinner -Street was become odious to her. The only place in the world where she -felt herself at peace was by her mother’s tomb in the churchyard of old -St. Pancras. She went there book in hand every fine day to read and -meditate. Shelley, thrilled, asked if he might go with her. - - * * * - -Thus, after an interval of five years, he found himself sitting again at -a young girl’s side in a graveyard, but this time his companion was of a -serious and impassioned soul. For the second time the Word was made -Woman. But, alas, Shelley was no longer free. He felt himself drawn to -Mary by an irresistible force. He longed to take her hand, to press his -lips to her delicately curved ones, he knew that she desired him, as he -did her, and they dared not let their eyes meet. What could he offer -her? He was a married man. It is true that marriage is only a -convention. When one loves no longer, one is free. He had never promised -Harriet more than this; besides, believing her to be the mistress of -Major Ryan, he felt no scruples on her account. But his marriage was -legally indissoluble. He had nothing to offer Mary but that reprobate -existence which he had not dared to impose on his first love, Harriet -Grove. - -Nevertheless, a love shared, even though hopeless, is better than -uncertainty and moral isolation. He determined to tell Mary the whole -truth about his wife. Married love, even as it dies, long holds out -behind a mask of silence against the world’s assaults, but there comes a -moment when a man finds a bitter joy in laying bare his wounds. - -Shelley drew a picture of Harriet as he now saw her, and by an -unconscious change of values lent, to his very human deception, motives -of a spiritual order. He had needed a companion who could appreciate -poetry and understand philosophy. Harriet was incapable of either. He -took a painful pleasure, also very human, in depreciating the grapes -which he had lost. - -He gave Mary a copy of _Queen Mab_. Under the printed dedication of that -poem to Harriet, he wrote the words, “Count Slobendorf was about to -marry a woman who, attracted solely by his fortune, proved her -selfishness by deserting him in prison.” Back in her own room, Mary -added, “This book is sacred to me, and as no other creature shall ever -look into it, I may write in it what I please—yet what shall I -write—that I love the author beyond all powers of expression and that I -am parted from him, dearest and only love—by that love we have promised -to each other although I may not be yours, I can never be another’s. But -I am thine, exclusively thine. - - ‘By the kiss of love, the glance none saw beside, - The smile none else might understand, - The whispered thought of hearts allied, - The pressure of the thrilling hand.’ - -“I have pledged myself to thee and sacred is the gift.” - -Meanwhile, these glances and smiles that none might see nor understand, -had been seen and perfectly understood by Godwin. The intrigue of his -daughter with a married man troubled him. He pointed out the danger to -her, and wrote to Shelley in the same strain. He advised him to make -things up with his wife: and he begged him to discontinue, for the -present, his visits to Skinner Street. - -The prohibition, kindly as it was, simply hastened on events, which, -without it, might have tarried. Shelley, passionately in love with Mary -and deprived of her society, determined to take a decisive step. He felt -no remorse on Harriet’s account, for he persisted in thinking her -guilty, in spite of the assertions of Peacock and Hogg, both impartial -witnesses. “There’s just one thing only she cares about,” he thought, -“and that is money. I’ll provide for her future, and then she’ll be glad -to be free.” Accordingly he wrote to her begging her to come to London. -She came; she was four months gone with child, and very unwell. When, -calmly and kindly, Percy told her he was going to live without her and -elope with some one else, but that he would always remain her best -friend, the shock brought on an alarming illness. - -Shelley nursed her with devotion, which made her more unhappy still, and -the moment she was better he resumed his inflexible arguments. “The -union of the sexes is sacred only so long as it contributes to the -happiness of husband and wife, and it is dissolved automatically from -the moment that its evils exceed its benefits. Constancy has nothing -virtuous in itself, on the contrary it is often vicious, leading one to -condone the gravest faults in the object of one’s choice.” - -When he wove round her these diaphanous but insuperable webs, Harriet -knew she was lost, just as formerly when she had tried to defend her -religious beliefs against him she had seen herself overwhelmed on every -side. She knew that some answer _must_ exist; that so much anguish and -sorrow and horror should find some expression, and might have found it -had her mind been clearer; as it was she never knew what she ought to -say. She dreamed she was struggling to free herself from invisible -bonds. Her one relief was in terrible outbursts of rage against Mary. It -was she who was the cause of all, she who had separated Percy from his -wife, taking advantage of his romantic tendencies to entice him to meet -her at a grave-side, which was just the kind of thing that would appeal -to him. She had made a shameful use of her mother’s memory. - -Mary, on her side, had not the slightest pity for Harriet. She had -formed an odious conception of her. A woman who, having had the felicity -of marrying Shelley, had yet been incapable of making him happy could -only be selfish, futile, second-rate. She knew that he would treat -Harriet with generosity, that he was going to give an order to his -banker to pay over to her the greater part of his allowance, and this -knowledge quieted her conscience. “She’ll have the money, and that’s all -she cares about,” Mary said with disdain. - -Shelley was in a condition of extreme nervous agitation. All sorts of -contrary sentiments warred in his soul. When he saw Harriet fall into -heartbreaking fits of despair, he could not forget the delicious moments -passed with her long ago, but he had only to be again in Mary’s presence -to consecrate himself anew to her tranquil charm. - -To calm his mind he began to take laudanum as he had formerly done at -Berwick, but now in stronger doses. He showed the bottle to Peacock, and -said: “I never part from this.” He added, “I am always repeating to -myself your lines from Sophocles: - - ‘Man’s happiest lot is not to be; - And when we tread life’s thorny steep, - Most blest are they who earliest free - Descend to death’s eternal sleep.’” - - - - - PART II - - - ARIEL: “Was’t well done?” - - PROSPERO: “Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.” - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - A SIX WEEKS’ TOUR - - -The post-chaise was ordered for four o’clock in the morning. Shelley -waited up all night opposite Godwins’ house. At length he saw the stars -and the oil-lamps grow pale. Mary noiselessly opened the hall door. Jane -Clairmont, who at the last moment had decided to go with her sister, -looked after the luggage with zeal. - -The long carriage journey greatly tired Mary, but Shelley dared not stop -lest Godwin were pursuing them. At about four in the afternoon they -reached Dover, where after the usual difficulties with custom-house -officials, and sailors, they found a small boat which agreed to take -them over to Calais. - -The weather was fine. The white cliffs of Albion slowly faded away. The -fugitives were safe. Presently the wind rose and freshened into a gale. -Mary, very ill, passed the night lying upon Shelley’s knees, who, -himself worn out with fatigue, supported her head on his shoulder. The -moon sunk to a stormy horizon; then, in total darkness, a thunderstorm -struck the sail, and the fast-flashing lightning revealed a dark and -swollen sea. When morning broke the storm passed, the wind changed, and -the sun rose broad, and red, and cloudless, over France. - -Mary shook off her somnolence in the streets of Calais; the gay bustle -of the harbour, the picturesque costume of the fisherfolk, the confused -buzz of voices speaking a strange language, revived her. The day was -spent at the inn, as they had to wait for the luggage coming by the -Dover Packet, but when this arrived it brought also Mrs. Godwin and her -green spectacles. The fat lady hoped to persuade Jane, at least, to go -back with her to Skinner Street, but Shelley’s eloquence won the day, -and Mrs. Godwin returned alone. At six o’clock the travellers left -Calais for Boulogne in a cabriolet drawn by three horses running -abreast. - - * * * - -Their plan was to get to Switzerland, but after a few days in Paris -their purse was empty. Shelley had a letter for a certain Tavernier, a -French man of business, who was to act as banker for them. They invited -him to lunch at the hotel, and put him down as a perfect idiot, for he -seemed to have a difficulty in understanding the absolute necessity of -this journey by two little girls, and a tall and excitable young man. - -Shelley had to pawn his watch and chain; he got eight napoleons for -them. This would give them bread and cheese for a fortnight, so with -minds at ease, they began to explore the Boulevards, the Louvre, and -Notre Dame. Later on they preferred to remain in the hotel and re-read -together the works of Mary Wollstonecraft and Byron’s poems. - -At the end of the week, Tavernier, a good fellow in the main, agreed to -lend them sixty pounds. But, as this was not enough to pay for their -places by diligence, they decided to start on foot, and to buy an ass to -carry the luggage, and each of them ride it by turns. - -Shelley went to the cattle-market and came back to the hotel with a very -small donkey. Next morning a hackney-coach took them to the Barrier of -Charenton, the ass trotting behind the carriage. - -The roads in France in the year 1814 were not particularly safe. The -armies had just been demobilized, and bands of marauders robbed those -who travelled on them. The peasants working in the fields by the -road-side stared with all their eyes at this extraordinary caravan of -two pretty girls in black silk gowns, a stripling with curly hair, and a -ridiculously small donkey. At the end of a few miles, the last appeared -so tired that Shelley and Jane had to carry him! In the village where -they slept they sold him to a peasant and bought a mule in his place. - -The whole of the district had been devastated by the war, the villages -were half-destroyed, the houses mostly roofless with fire-blackened -beams; if they asked a farmer for milk he replied by cursing the -Cossacks who had carried off his cows. - -In the wretched inns the beds were so dirty that Mary and Jane dared not -use them. Enormous rats brushed by them in the darkness. They fell into -the habit of sitting up all night in the farm-kitchens. The big stove, -still alight, made the atmosphere heavy, and between sleeping and -waking, the crying of children and the creakings of the old woodwork -were woven into their dreams. Mary thought of her father, and wondered -was he suffering terribly from her flight? Shelley was preoccupied with -the fate of Harriet. - -From Troyes he wrote her a long letter, urging her to come out and join -them in Switzerland. She should live near them, and there, at least, -find one firm and constant friend. He gave her news of Mary’s health, -which appeared to him a natural thing to do, and he felt quite sure that -Harriet would very soon be with them. Maybe, the “world” would think -this life in common immoral, but why trouble about “the world’s” -opinion? Was it not better to obey the dictates of love and kindness -than those of absurd prejudices? Harriet made no reply. - -Going by Pontarlier and Neufchâtel they reached the Lake of the Four -Cantons. Shelley wished to settle at Brunnen, near the Chapel of William -Tell, the Defender of Liberty. The only empty house in the place was an -old château, deserted, and falling into ruin. They hired two rooms in it -for six months, and bought furniture, beds, chairs, wardrobes, and a -stove. The curé and the village doctor came to call upon the new-comers, -and on the same day Shelley began to write a great novel, _The -Assassins_. They had settled down “for ever.” - -But the new stove refused to draw, and Shelley who was not clever with -his fingers, tinkered at it in vain. The room was glacial and filled -with smoke. Outside the rain beat against the windows. The three young -exiles found themselves desperately lonely. They recalled the comfort of -their English houses, English tea, hot and scented, England’s mild sky, -the cool, good-natured Englishmen speaking their language and able to -pronounce their names. Even the English usurers, though of course -rapacious, were always courteous. - -Shelley counted up the common purse. There remained just twenty-eight -pounds. The same eager desire rose in all three, which Shelley expressed -by the words “Let’s go home!” - -No sooner said than the decision was taken, and their spirits rose. -“Most laughable to think,” writes Jane, “of our going to England the -second day after entering a new house for six months, and all because -the stove don’t suit! As we left Dover, and England’s white cliffs -disappeared, I thought I should never see them again, and now . . .” -Having made up their minds at midnight, the next morning, in driving -rain, they took a boat to Lucerne. Great was the surprise of Brunnen’s -curé when he learnt that they were gone. - -From Lucerne they reached Bale by passenger-boat and thence on to -Cologne. The weather was delightful. Beneath the evening stars, the -boatmen chanted love-songs. Shelley worked at _The Assassins_. Mary and -Jane had each started a novel too, and the hills crowned with ruins on -either side gave them a good background for the romantic adventures of -their heroes. Then the Dutch mail-coach carried them through a sleepy -land of comfortable wooden houses, canals, and windmills. When they -reached Rotterdam they were again penniless. After long discussion, a -ship’s captain agreed to take them aboard. The sea was as rough as on -the day of their departure. - -Shelley employed his time arguing the question of slavery with one of -the passengers. Mary and Jane backed him up with warmth. They did not -know in the least if they would have anything to eat the next day, but -they did know that Percy was a genius, and that Man is perfectible. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - THE PARIAHS - - -On arriving in London, Shelley could not pay the cab fare, so with Mary, -Jane, and the trunks, he drove round to his bankers, merely to learn -that Harriet had withdrawn the entire balance to his credit. At this -news the two girls were highly indignant. The only way to get out of the -scrape, and avoid the police-station, was to go and see Harriet herself. -Shelley had her address, and thither they now drove. Harriet thought at -first that her husband had come back to her, and was very indignant, in -her turn, when she knew that her rival was waiting below at the door. -However, she lent Shelley a few pounds, which enabled the three -wanderers to take furnished lodgings in a mean street. - -Things looked black. Godwin absolutely refused to see them. Shelley -pleaded that he had given a practical application to the principles of -_Political Justice_, but this merely exasperated the author of the -treatise still more. _Political Justice_ was in his eyes a theoretical -work, the principles of which might be excellent in some -Utopia—although it was also very long since he had written it—but in -London in the midst of a pitiless society, in his own house, to expose -Godwin and his only daughter to the scorn of his friends, thus to -pervert his teaching . . . No, he would never forgive them. - -When he mentioned the adventure it was in the most severe terms. Writing -to a Mr. John Taylor of Norwich, he said: - - “I have a story to tell you of the deepest melancholy. . . . You - are already acquainted with the name of Shelley. . . . Not to - keep you longer in suspense, he, a married man, has run away - with my daughter. I cannot conceive of an event of more - accumulated horror. - - “Mary, my only daughter, was absent in Scotland for her health, - and returned to me on the 30th of March last. Shelley came to - London on the 18th June and I invited him to take his meals at - my house. On Sunday, June 26th, he accompanied Mary and her - sister, Jane Clairmont, to the tomb of Mary’s mother, and there - it seems the impious idea first occurred to him of seducing - her. . . . He had the madness to disclose his plans to me and to - ask my consent. I expostulated with him with all the energy of - which I was master. . . . I seemed to have succeeded, but in the - night of the 27th July, Mary and her sister Jane escaped from my - house, and the next morning when I rose I found a letter on my - dressing table informing me what they had done.” - -He begs Taylor to preserve the utmost secrecy about the affair, so that -no stigma may be attached to the names of these unfortunate girls, and -goes on: “When I use the word stigma I am sure it is wholly unnecessary -to say that I apply it in a very different sense to the two girls. Jane -has been guilty of an indiscretion only . . . Mary has been guilty of a -crime.” - -Yet Shelley, in former days, had borrowed large sums to lend to Mary’s -father, and on this account the bailiffs, so soon as they heard of his -return, had begun to dun him. Godwin not only was unable to repay -Shelley, but had fresh need of money himself, and it was these financial -questions which compelled him, most reluctantly, to continue a -correspondence with a depraved and perfidious young man. His conscience -suffered greatly . . . or at least he said it did in every letter. - -So much hypocrisy in a man they had so venerated, was grievous to Mary -and Shelley. “Oh, philosophy!” they said, and sighed. As to Mrs. Godwin, -she reproached them above all with corrupting her daughter, and she -forbade the gentle Fanny to visit them. She herself went to see Jane -once, but meeting Shelley on the stairs she turned away her head. - -Their intercourse with Harriet was sometimes easy, sometimes difficult, -according to her changes of mood. She wanted for nothing, having still -some of Shelley’s money, besides receiving an allowance from the old -tavern-keeper, but she was with child and very unhappy. She passed her -days in telling her story to the gossips of the neighbourhood, or in -writing in pathetic phrases to her friend Catherine Nugent, the Dublin -dressmaker: - - “Every age has its cares. God knows I have mine. Dear Ianthe is - quite well. She is fourteen months old and has six teeth. What I - should have done without this dear babe and my sister I know - not. This world is a scene of heavy trials to us all. I little - expected ever to go thro’ what I have. But time heals the - deepest wounds, and for the sake of that sweet infant I hope to - live many years. Write to me often. . . . Tell me how you are in - health. Do not despond, though I see nothing to hope for when - all that was virtuous becomes vicious and depraved. So it - is—nothing is certain in this world. I suppose there is - another, where those that have suffered keenly here will be - happy. Tell me what you think of this. My sister is with me. I - wish you knew her as well as I do. She is worthy of your love. - Adieu, dear friend, may you still be happy is the first wish of - your ever-faithful friend, - - “H. SHELLEY. - - “Ianthe is well and very engaging.” - -Sometimes she was full of hope. Her friends told her that love affairs -of this sort were short-lived and that her husband would come back to -her. Then she felt gay and wrote Shelley friendly letters. She was sure -that it was Mary who had made all the mischief: that she had seduced -Percy by telling him extravagant tales: that in reality he was good, -that he would never desert her and his two children. - -At other times she had fits of depression and rage. Then she did all she -knew to make the life of the hated couple more difficult still. She ran -into debt, and sent the creditors to Shelley. She declared that he was -living in promiscuity with two of Godwin’s daughters. She found out -Godwin’s creditors in order to urge them to be pitiless, and Mary, who -had never seen her, would say with a sigh: “That frightful woman!” - -One day in November, Harriet was in a state of discomfort and pain, and -imagined herself very ill. Her first thought at such moments was always -to call her husband. She sent for Shelley during the night and he came -at once. Without again becoming the lover, he would have liked to remain -her most devoted friend. But, not understanding the shade of difference, -the moment he showed attention, she grew fond. Then he checked her with -gentle firmness. - -At the end of November, she gave birth to a boy, an eight-months’ child. -It brought about no reconciliation. Shelley doubted if the child was -his. - -With Mary, in spite of their misfortunes, he was deliciously happy. They -shared the same tastes, and both looked upon Life as an opportunity for -learning prolonged into old age. They read the same books and often -aloud. She went with him in his visits to his lawyers, or the sheriff’s -officers. When he amused himself by the Serpentine, just as he used to -do at Oxford, in launching a paper flotilla, Mary, sitting beside him, -fashioned the boats with tireless fingers. - -Under his direction, she set herself to learn Latin and even Greek. More -cultured than Harriet, she did not see in these studies, as did the -first Mrs. Shelley, a rather boring game, but an extension of her -enjoyment. The greatest charm of literary culture is that it humanizes -love. Catullus, Theocritus, and Petrarch united to render more exquisite -our lovers’ kisses. Shelley, watching his new companion at work, was -filled with admiration for her strength of character, and was delighted -to consider her as much superior to himself. - -The only shadow, and that a light one, was the presence of Jane, or -rather of Claire, for, having decided that her name was ugly, she had -changed it for another which was more to her taste. A brilliant and -beautiful girl, she suffered from nerves and was terribly susceptible. -Nothing was worse for her than to live in close contact with an amorous -young couple. She had a passionate admiration for Percy, and showed it a -little too plainly. Mary complained, but Shelley could not agree that -there was anything in the sentiment either disagreeable or shocking. - -He hated being alone, so when Mary, who was expecting a child, had to -give up walks and late hours he took Claire with him to the lawyers, the -bailiffs, and the banks of the Serpentine, and every day he begged her -to pass the evening with him. He talked to her of Harriet, of Miss -Hitchener, and of his sisters. He had always loved confidential talks, -and long analyses of thought; sincerity appeared to him easy with Claire -because she was not his mistress. But Mary could not conceal her -impatience, and Claire, vexed by her sister’s reproaches, remained -silent and gloomy a whole day through. - -In the evening when Mary had gone to bed, Shelley undertook to pacify -Claire. Cleverly and patiently he explained until midnight the somewhat -complicated sentiments of their little group. Such was his gentle -kindness that Claire ceased to sulk. - -“But I’ve suffered so much!” she said. - -“Imaginary sufferings, my dear Claire! You misunderstand words and -gestures to which Mary attaches no importance whatever.” - -“All the same, I have really suffered, but how I like good, kind, -explaining people!” - -Shelley went up to repeat the conversation to Mary. In the room overhead -they heard Claire talking and walking in her sleep. Presently she came -down, she was feeling terribly nervous, and could not remain alone. Mary -took her into her own bed, and Shelley went to sleep upstairs. - -This little scene with slight variations was often repeated. Claire’s -nervousness was communicated to Shelley. Having talked of ghosts and -hobgoblins the greater part of the night, they ended by frightening each -other. - -“What is the matter with you, Claire? You’re deathly pale. . . . Your -eyes . . . No! Don’t look at me like that!” - -“You, too, Percy, you look strange . . . the air is heavy, full of -monsters . . . don’t let us stay here any longer!” - -They said good night and went to their rooms, but almost immediately -after, Shelley and Mary heard a loud cry; somebody tumbled down the -stairs, and Claire, with disordered features, came to relate that her -pillow had been pulled from under her head by an invisible hand. - -Shelley listened to the tale with terrified interest, but Mary shrugged -her shoulders. If only this crazy girl would take herself off! - - * * * - -The outcasts saw few friends. The Boinville-Newton set, despite their -broad-minded French philosophy, had turned a cold shoulder when they -were told by Shelley of his new life. With them, as with Godwin, actions -did not run on all fours with speech, and indulgence in theory allied -itself for some mysterious reason with inclemency in practice. On the -other hand, it was the sceptical Hogg and Peacock who came at the first -call. They believed in the innocence of Harriet, and did not approve of -Shelley’s conduct, but they were full of human interest, and looked upon -the passion of love as a somewhat comic disease. - -Shelley had invited Hogg with misgivings. He was afraid such a cynic -would not please the two girls. Nor was Mary’s first impression -favourable. “He’s amusing enough when he jokes,” she said, “but the -moment he treats of a serious subject, one sees that his point of view -is altogether wrong.” - -Hogg, in fact, became every day more British and conservative, singing -the praises of tradition, sport, Public Schools, and naming the best -port-wine years. But finding Mary very pretty and intelligent, he told -Shelley so, who repeated it to her. On Hogg’s next visit she thought him -much more sympathetic. No doubt he spoke of virtue as a blind man does -of colours; in this family of enthusiastic “souls” he was the “hardened -sinner”; but his charm was acknowledged. Mary thought his coldness a -cloak, and that he was better than he appeared. He was afraid to be -sincere with himself or to delve deep, which would have driven him to -forgo so many things that he liked, but he was really too intelligent -not to feel the weakness of his position. - -Being both good-natured and cultivated, he was ready to give a helping -hand to Mary and Claire in translating Ovid or Anacreon, when their -usual master had mysteriously vanished. He also accompanied the ladies -to their bonnet-maker without grumbling, for they, too, visited -bonnet-shops just like poor Harriet, although they went in quite another -frame of mind. If she bought bonnets with rapture, Mary bought them with -a lofty condescension, so that Shelley did not even have to excuse in -her a concession to fashion which she herself was the first to deplore. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - GODWIN - - -The lodging-house servant brought up a letter from a lady who was -waiting on the opposite pavement. It was from Fanny, to warn Shelley -that his creditors were plotting to have him arrested. He and Mary ran -down to the street, but, on seeing them, Fanny hastened away. She was in -terror of Godwin who had forbidden all communication with the outcasts, -and she, perhaps, had cared too much for Percy to wish to see him again -now that he belonged to her sister. But, being a swift runner, he soon -caught up with her. She told him the bailiffs were looking for him, that -it was his publisher who had given them his address, and that Godwin -wouldn’t lift a finger to save him. - -Not having money to free himself, the only thing he could do was to -disappear. He decided to find another lodging while Mary and Claire -should remain quietly where they were, so as to trick the enemy. Thus, -for the first time, the lovers had to separate, a separation which -seemed terrible to both. They were forced to make appointments in -out-of-the-way taverns, to take a few stealthy kisses, and to part -immediately, lest Mary might be followed. On Sundays, when arrests are -illegal, they remained together till midnight. - -One evening the courage to separate failed them, and Mary followed -Shelley into a miserable hotel. The landlord looked with a suspicious -eye on this couple who had no luggage, and refused to serve them with a -meal unless they paid him in advance. Shelley sent round to Peacock, and -while waiting for the money took out the pocket Shakespeare he always -carried, and read aloud to Mary _Troilus and Cressida_. It made them -forget their hunger a whole day through. Next morning at breakfast-time -Peacock, penniless himself, sent them some cakes. If life was difficult -there was joy in suffering together. Love and misfortune made a happy -pair. - -When they were apart, waiting for night-time, they sent each other by a -confidential messenger, tender little notes, scribbled in haste. - -“Oh! my dearest love,” wrote Shelley, “why are our pleasures so short -and so interrupted? How long is this to last? . . . Meet me to-morrow at -three o’clock in St. Paul’s if you do not hear before. Adieu: remember -love at vespers before sleep. I do not omit _my_ prayers.” - -“Good night, my love,” replied Mary, “to-morrow I will seal this -blessing on your lips. Dear good creature, press me to you, and hug your -own Mary to your heart. Perhaps she will one day have a father: till -then be everything to me, love, and indeed I will be a good girl and -never vex you. I will learn Greek and—but when shall we meet when I may -tell you all this, and you will so sweetly reward me?” - -In January, 1815, this trying existence was brought to an end by an -event they had long expected without desiring it, but which they also -accepted without any hypocritical regret. Old Sir Bysshe died at the age -of eighty-three. Timothy Shelley became second baronet, and Percy the -direct heir. - -He set out for his father’s house, accompanied by Claire, who was in a -state of great excitement and eager curiosity. Sir Timothy, puffed up -with his new title, and more indignant than ever that a baronet should -have such a son, refused him admission to Field Place by the footman. He -sat down on the doorstep and read _Comus_ from Mary’s pocket-copy of -Milton. - -Presently the doctor came out to tell him his father was greatly -incensed with him. Then, his cousin, Shelley Sidney, stealthily appeared -to give the Prodigal Grandson details of the Will. - -A most extraordinary Will. The fixed idea of old Sir Bysshe had been to -found an enormous hereditary fortune, and for that purpose to increase -the entailed estates as much as possible. He left in real and personal -property, possessions which probably did not fall short of £200,000. One -portion of this, valued at £80,000, formed the estate entail which must -necessarily pass to Percy on his father’s death. But Sir Bysshe desired -that this accumulation of his long life should be kept together by his -descendants, and should pass from eldest son to eldest son through -future generations of Shelleys. For this purpose, the consent and -signature of his grandson were necessary, and he had hoped to obtain -them in the following manner. If Percy would concur in prolonging the -entail, and further, would agree to entail the unsettled estates, he -should, after his father’s death, enjoy the usufruct of the entire -fortune. If he should refuse, then he would only inherit, always after -the death of Sir Timothy, the £80,000 of which it was impossible to -deprive him. - -Shelley went back to London musing over this strange news, and called on -his solicitor to discuss it with him. He did not feel he could consent -to the extension of the entail, since he disapproved of all such -plutocratic legislation: nor did he desire, either for himself or his -children, the ownership of so huge a fortune. What he wanted was an -immediate income sufficient to live on, according to his inclinations, -and a certain sum down, so as to settle his debts. To secure these -moneys, he proposed, through his lawyer, to sell to his father the -reversion of the settled estates. The proposal pleased Sir Timothy who -had abandoned all hope of ever bringing Percy to heel, and who now -thought only of his second son, John. Unfortunately the lawyers were not -sure that the arrangement was legally possible under the terms of the -Will. These only authorized the re-sale by Percy to his father of the -estate of a grand-uncle, valued at £18,000. This transaction took place -and Shelley received in exchange an income of one thousand pounds a year -during the joint lives of Sir Timothy and himself, and in addition three -thousand pounds were advanced by Sir Timothy towards the payment of his -son’s debts. If this was not a big fortune, it was at least the end of -straitened means, of furnished lodgings, and of duns. - -His first thought was to make Harriet an allowance. He promised her £200 -a year, which in addition to the £200 which her father allowed her, -should be sufficient for all her wants. Next he undertook to pay off -Godwin’s debts, and set apart for that purpose the whole of his first -year’s annuity. - -The “venerated friend” found the offer of one thousand pounds far below -his expectations. To hear him talk, nothing was easier than to borrow, -on an inheritance now soon to fall in, the many thousands of pounds of -which the Skinner Street book-shop stood so much in need. - -Shelley, exasperated but courteous, informed Godwin, with an indignation -which he restrained, of his surprise that Mary’s father should think it -proper to write to the seducer of his daughter to ask him for money, and -at the same time to refuse to enter into any relations with that -daughter herself, who was foolish enough to suffer from it. Godwin -replied that it was precisely because he was borrowing money from the -seducer that he could not receive Mary: his dignity would not allow it! -He could not risk having it said that he had bartered his daughter’s -honour for the payment of his debts. His scruples were so exaggerated -that he returned a cheque drawn by Shelley in his favour, with the -remark that the names of Shelley and of Godwin must not figure on the -same cheque. Shelley could make it payable to Joseph Hume or James -Martin, and then he, Godwin, might consent to cash it. On which the -following letters were exchanged: - - _Shelley to Godwin._ - - “I confess that I do not understand how the pecuniary - engagements subsisting between us in any degree impose - restrictions on your conduct towards me. They did not, at least - to your knowledge or with your consent, exist at the period of - my return from France, and yet your conduct towards me and your - daughter was then precisely such as it is at present. . . . - - “In my judgment neither I nor your daughter nor her offspring - ought to receive the treatment which we encounter on every side. - It has perpetually appeared to me to have been your especial - duty to see that, so far as mankind value your good opinion, we - were dealt justly by, and that a young family, innocent and - benevolent and united, should not be confounded with prostitutes - and seducers. My astonishment, and I will confess when I have - been treated with most harshness and cruelty by you, my - indignation has been extreme, that, knowing as you do my nature, - any considerations should have prevailed on you to have been - thus harsh and cruel. Do not talk of forgiveness again to me, - for my blood boils in my veins, and my gall rises against all - that bears the human form, when I think of what I, their - benefactor and ardent lover, have endured of enmity and contempt - from you and from all mankind.” - - _Godwin to Shelley._ - - “I am sorry to say that your letter—this moment received—is - written in a style the very opposite of conciliation, so that if - I were to answer it in the same style we should be involved in a - controversy of inextinguishable bitterness. As long as - understanding and sentiment shall exist in this frame, I shall - never cease from my disapprobation of that act of yours which I - regard as the great calamity of my life.” - - _Shelley to Godwin._ - - “We will confine our communications to business. . . . - - “I plainly see how necessary immediate advances are to your - concerns, and will take care that I shall fail in nothing which - I can do to procure them.” - -The cold contempt of this letter did not discourage the borrower. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - DON JUAN CONQUERED - - -Mary’s child was born before its time, and the doctor said it would not -live. Shelley kept watch between the cradle and the bed in company with -Livy and Seneca. Fanny came round with baby-clothes sent by Mrs. Godwin -in her capricious way, but the Philosopher remained inflexible. Hogg -dropped in to gossip, to tell the great news of the day, the return from -Elba, and he did Mary good by his common sense and sarcasm. With a -temperature, and always in the society of Shelley, she had the rather -terrifying if pleasant impression of slipping away out of life. Hogg -brought her back to a sense of reality. - -In spite of predictions the child did live and grew. Mary began to feel -easy about it, when at the end of the month she found on waking one -morning that it was dead. This was a great sorrow. - -Shelley and Claire continued their walks together, while Mary stayed at -home. She sat knitting and thinking of her little child. “I was a -mother, and am so no longer,” she kept repeating, and at night she -dreamed that the baby was not dead, and that by rubbing it before the -fire they had brought it back to life. Then she awoke to find the cradle -empty. From the streets floated up the hoarse shouting of crowds. It was -a time of riots. France threatened war. Mary saw everything through a -mist of tears. - -Claire’s presence in the house vexed her more and more. She was certain -that Claire was in love with Shelley, had always been in love with him. -Percy’s loyalty was self-evident, his morality super-human, angelic; but -he thought it possible to read Petrarch with an impassioned girl, to -direct her studies, to sit up with her the whole night through, without -danger. Mary said to herself: “My charming Shelley understands the elves -better than he does women.” - -When she was alone with him in the evening, she confessed her jealousy. -It was a sentiment he could not understand. He thought it base, and that -it belittled his divine Mary. He knew his capacity for love to be -infinite, and that in dividing it with another woman he took away -nothing from his mistress. The company of the wild and brilliant Claire -was very precious to him, but he had to acknowledge that the atmosphere -of this threefold union was becoming irrespirable. - -Mary besought him to send Claire away. “Your friend,” as she now always -called her. They tried, during many weeks, to find a place for her as -governess or companion, but the unfortunate reputation which her flight -to France had earned her rendered all such attempts futile. - -Claire herself had not the smallest desire to leave. She delighted in -her intellectual intimacy with Percy, and she awaited its inevitable -result without fear. Finally, however, Mary’s gentle firmness carried -the day, and it was arranged that Claire should go to Lynmouth, and -lodge there with a friend of Godwin’s, a Mrs. Bricknell, a widow. - - _Mary’s Journal._ - - “_Friday._—Not very well. After breakfast read Spenser. Shelley - goes out with his friend, he returns first. Construe Ovid—90 - lines—Jefferson Hogg returns. Read over the Ovid to Jefferson. - Shelley and the lady walk out. After tea talk. Shelley and his - friend have a last conversation. - - “_Saturday._—Claire goes; Shelley walks with her. Jefferson - does not come till five. Gets very anxious about Shelley, goes - out to meet him: returns: it rains. Shelley returns at half-past - six; the business is finished. Read Ovid. Charles Clairmont - comes to tea. Talk of pictures. I begin a new journal with our - regeneration.” - - * * * - -Claire, exiled to the country, enjoyed after such storm and stress her -first days of profound peace. But she was not the girl to put up for -long with rural solitude. She must have a reason for living—and she did -not fail to find one. - -When people are in love they always imagine, quite wrongly, that it is -because they have come across an exceptional being who has inspired them -with the passion. The truth is that love, existing already in the soul, -seeks out a suitable object, and if it does not find one, then creates -it. But if, in an ordinary girl, this love-seeking is unconscious, it -was otherwise with the brilliant and hot-blooded Claire. Realizing the -impossibility of taking Shelley from her sister, or even of sharing him -with her, she deliberately looked round for some other hero on whom to -expend her unemployed affection. Some women in such case send letters to -great writers, or soldiers, or actors. But Claire, who was poetical, -desired a poet. - -She found none more worthy of her than George Gordon, Lord Byron, the -man the most worshipped and the most hated in the whole of England. She -knew his poems by heart, Shelley had so often read them to her with -enthusiasm. She knew the stories of vice and wit, of diabolical charm -and infernal cruelty which were woven round his name. - -His extraordinary beauty, his title, his genius as a writer, the -boldness of his ideas, the scandals of his love affairs, all contributed -to make of him the perfect hero. He had had mistresses among the highest -in the land, the Countess of Oxford, Lady Frances Webster, and the -unfortunate Lady Caroline Lamb, who the first day that she met him wrote -in her journal: “Mad, bad and dangerous to know”: and then underneath, -“But this pale handsome face holds my destiny.” - -He had married, and all London repeated the tale that, when he got into -the carriage after the ceremony, he said to Lady Byron: “You are now my -wife, and that is enough for me to hate you. Were you some one else’s -wife, I might perhaps care about you.” He had treated her with such -contempt that she had been driven to ask for a separation from him at -the end of the first year. - -Claire, who sought only for difficult adventures, and had supreme -confidence in herself, found out Byron’s address and decided to chance -her luck. - - _Claire to Byron._ - - “An utter stranger takes the liberty to addressing you. . . . It - is not charity I demand for of that I stand in no need. . . . I - tremble with fear at the fate of this letter. I cannot blame if - it shall be received by you as an impudent imposture. It may - seem a strange assertion, but it is not the less true that I - place my happiness in your hands. . . . If a woman, whose - reputation has yet remained unstained, if without either - guardian or husband to control, she should throw herself on your - mercy, if with a beating heart she should confess the love she - has borne you many years, if she should return your kindness - with fond affection and unbounded devotion, could you betray - her, or would you be silent as the grave? . . . I must entreat - your answer without delay. Address me as E. Trefusis, 21 Noley - Place, Mary Le Bonne.” - -Don Juan made no reply. This unknown writer of ornate style was small -game for him. But there is no one more tenacious than a woman tired of -her virtue. Claire returned to the attack a second time. “Sunday -Morning. Lord Byron is requested to state whether seven o’clock this -evening will be convenient to him to receive a lady to communicate with -him on business of peculiar importance. She desires to be admitted alone -and with the utmost privacy.” - -Lord Byron sent out word by the servant that he had left town. - -Then Claire wrote in her own name that, wanting to go on the stage, and -knowing that Lord Byron was interested in Drury Lane Theatre, she would -like to ask his advice. Byron’s reply was to recommend her to call on -the stage manager. Undeterred, she made, at once, a skilful change of -front. It was not a theatrical career but the literary life which she -now desired. She had written half a novel and would so very much like to -submit it to Byron’s judgment. As he continued to keep silence, or to -send evasive replies, she risked offering him the only thing which a man -with any self-respect seldom refuses. - -“I may appear to you imprudent, vicious, but one thing at least time -shall show you, that I love gently and with affection, that I am -incapable of anything approaching to the feeling of revenge or malice. I -do assure you your future shall be mine. - -“Have you any objection to the following plan? On Thursday evening we -may go out of town together by some stage or mail about the distance of -ten or twelve miles. There we shall be free and unknown; we can return -early the following morning. I have arranged everything here so that the -slightest suspicion may not be excited. Pray do so with your people. - -“Will you admit me for two moments to _settle_ with you _where_? Indeed, -I will not stay an instant after you tell me to go. . . . Do what you -will or go where you will, refuse to see me and behave unkindly, I shall -ever remember the gentleness of your manners and the wild originality of -your countenance.” - -It was then that Don Juan, trapped and tired by the long pursuit, -decided to accept his defeat. He had already decided to leave England -and fix himself in Switzerland or Italy, and the prospect of a speedy -departure set welcome limits to this unwelcome amour. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - ARIEL AND DON JUAN - - -Don Juan counted, however, without the energy of Elvira. Claire had made -up her mind to follow him to Switzerland, and this dark-eyed girl was a -flame and a force. She arranged that the Shelleys should chaperon her, -knowing that they, too, would welcome the idea of a change. - -Since she left them, they had been living at Bishopsgate, on the border -of Windsor Forest, and beneath the oak-shades of the Great Park Shelley -had composed his first long poem since _Queen Mab_. This was _Alastor, -or the Spirit of Solitude_, an imaginative interpretation of his -spiritual experiences, and a record of the exquisite mountain, river, -and woodland scenery of the past year. The tone differs from that of his -previous works. Melancholy and resignation soften down the confident -assertions of earlier years, and religious and moral theories, if still -serving as a peg, get somewhat pushed into the background. - -In the preface he shows the Poet thirsting for love and dying because he -cannot find it. But, says Shelley, it is better to die than to live as -do the comfortable worldlings, “who, deluded by no generous error, -instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no -illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing -no hopes beyond—yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, -rejoicing neither in human joy, nor mourning with human grief; these and -such as they have their appointed curse. . . . They are morally dead. -They are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the -world, nor benefactors of their country . . . they live unfruitful -lives, and prepare for their old age a miserable grave.” - -While Shelley had no regrets for his actions, all the same, life in -England had become odious to him. Mary, as an unmarried wife, suffered -from her social ostracism, and thought that if they went abroad, where -their story would be unknown, she would have more chance of making -friends. - -She had given birth to a second child in January, 1816, a fine little -boy whom she had named William, after Godwin. The expenses of the -household, with the addition of a nurse, were heavy, the income small. -Life in Switzerland was said to be cheap; Claire, at least, had little -difficulty in persuading her that it was so. - -As in the time of their first flight from London the extraordinary trio -crossed France, Burgundy, the Jura, and, reaching Geneva, settled down -at Sécheron, one of its suburbs, in the Hôtel d’Angleterre. The house -was on the edge of the lake, from its windows they saw the sun sparkling -on every wave-crest of the blue water, and in the distance the black -mountain-ridges that seemed to quiver in the sunny atmosphere. Farther -away still, a brilliant and solid-looking white cloud spoke of the snow -peaks of the Alps. The change to this golden climate after English -greyness and London gloom was delicious. They hired a boat, and passed -long days upon the water, reading and sleeping. - - * * * - -While they lived thus, a band of happy children, with the blue sky above -them, and the blue lake beneath, Childe Harold in the most sumptuous of -travelling carriages was crossing Flanders on his way to join them. -England, in one of those crazy fits of virtue which alternate with -periods of the most amazing licence, had just hounded Byron from her -shores. When he entered a ball-room every woman would leave it, as -though he were the devil in person. He determined to shake for ever from -his shoes the dust of so hypocritical a land. - -His departure was accompanied by the most frenzied curiosity. Society, -which punishes cruelly any revolt of the elemental instincts, -nevertheless, in her heart of hearts, admires the rebel and envies him. -At Dover, where the Pilgrim embarked, a double line of spectators stood -on either side of the gangway. Great ladies borrowed the clothes of -their chamber-maids, so as to mix unobserved with the crowd. People -pointed out to one another the enormous packing-cases containing his -sofa, his books, his services of china and glass. - -The sea was rough, and Byron reminded his travelling companions that his -grandfather Admiral Byron was nicknamed “Foul-weather Jack” because he -never put to sea without a squall blowing up. He took a certain pleasure -in painting his own portrait against this traditional stormy background. -Unfortunately, he would have his misfortunes transcendent. - - * * * - -A few days later there was great commotion at the Hôtel d’Angleterre. -Every one was on edge expecting the arrival of the noble lord. Claire -was tremulous in spite of her audacity, Shelley, in the happiest -spirits, was impatient. He was not shocked by the affair between Byron -and Claire. On the contrary he hoped to see the same ties formed between -Byron and his sister-in-law as existed between himself and Mary. - -The Shelleys were not disappointed by Byron’s first appearance. His -beauty was extraordinary. To begin with, you were struck by his air of -pride and intellect; next, you noticed the moonlight paleness of his -skin, his splendid dark blue eyes, his black and slightly curling hair, -the perfect line of his eyebrows. The nose and chin were firm and -well-drawn, the mouth full and voluptuous. His only defect appeared in -his walk. “Club-footed” was said of him. “Cloven-footed” he insinuated -of himself, for he preferred to be considered diabolic rather than -infirm. Mary saw that his lameness embarrassed him, for whenever he had -to take a few steps before spectators he made some satanic jest. In the -register-book of the hotel, against the word “age” he wrote “a hundred.” - -Byron and Shelley got on well together. Byron was glad to find him a man -of his own class, who in spite of hardships had retained the charming -ease of manner peculiar to the young aristocrat. His cultivation was -astounding. Byron, too, had read enormously, but without Shelley’s -serious application. Shelley had read to know, Byron had read to dazzle, -and Byron was perfectly well aware of the difference. He felt, too, the -instant conviction that Shelley’s will was a force, a bent bow, while -his own floated loose on the current at the mercy of his passions and of -his mistresses. - -Shelley, the least vain of men, did not observe this admiration for him, -which Byron took care to hide. While listening to the third canto of -_Childe Harold_ he was moved to enthusiasm and discouragement. In the -superb energy of the poem, which rose and swelled, irresistibly like a -flood, he recognized genius and despaired of ever equalling it. - -But if the poet filled him with admiration, the man filled him with -astonishment. He had expected a Titan in revolt, and he found a wounded -aristocrat fully alive to the pleasures and pains of vanity, which -seemed to Shelley so puerile. Byron had outraged convention, but, all -the same, he believed in it. It had stood in the path of his desires, -and he had flung it aside, but with regret. That which Shelley had done -ingenuously, he had done consciously. Banished from society, he valued -nothing so much as social success. A bad husband, it was only to -legitimate love that he paid respect. His mouth overflowed with -cynicism, but it was by way of reprisals, not from conviction. Between -marriage and depravity he recognized no middle path. He had sought to -terrify his compatriots by acting an audacious part, but only because he -had despaired of conquering them by acting a traditional one. - -Shelley looked to women as a source of exaltation, Byron as a pretext -for idling. Shelley angelic, too angelic, venerated them. Byron human, -too human, desired them and talked of them in the most contemptuous -fashion. “It is the plague of these women,” said he, “that you cannot -live with them or without them. . . . I cannot make up my mind whether -or not women have souls. My beau-ideal would be a woman with talent -enough to understand and value mine, but not sufficient to be able to -shine herself.” - -The upshot of certain of their conversations was surprising. Shelley, -mystical without knowing it, managed to scandalize Byron, a Don Juan in -spite of himself. - -This did not prevent them from being excellent company one for the -other. When Shelley, always a great fisher of souls, tried to win over -his friend to a less futile conception of life, Byron defended his point -of view by brilliant paradoxes which delighted Shelley the artist, as -much as they pained Shelley the moralist. Both were passionately fond of -the water. They bought a boat, keeled and clinker-built, in which they -went on the lake every evening with Mary, Claire, and Byron’s medical -attendant, the handsome young Italian, Polidori. Byron and Shelley, -sitting silent, would ship their oars to follow with their gaze fleeting -shapes amidst the moon-lit clouds; Claire would sing, and her warm, -delicious voice carried their thoughts with it over the starry waters in -a voluptuous flight. - -One night of strong wind Byron, defying the storm, said he would sing -them an Albanian song. “Now be sentimental and give me all your -attention.” It was a strange wild howl that he gave forth, laughing the -while at their disappointment, who had expected a wild Eastern melody. -From that day onward Mary and Claire named him “the Albaneser,” and -“Albé” for short. - -The two poets made a literary pilgrimage round the lake. They visited -the spot where Rousseau has placed his _Nouvelle Héloïse_, “Clarens, -sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love”; and Lausanne and Ferney, full -of memories of Gibbon and Voltaire. - -Shelley’s enthusiasm gained Byron, who wrote under its influence some of -his finest lines. Near Meillerie one of the sudden lake-storms nearly -upset the boat. Byron began to strip. Shelley, who could not swim, sat -still with folded arms. His calmness increased Byron’s admiration for -him, although he hid it more carefully than ever. Long afterwards -Shelley, speaking of this storm, said, “I knew that my companion would -try to save me, and it was a humiliating idea.” - -Sick of hotel life and the impertinent curiosity of their -fellow-boarders, the Shelleys hired a cottage at Coligny on the edge of -the lake. Byron settled himself at the Villa Diodati, a short distance -away. The two houses were only separated by a vineyard. Here, some -vine-dressers at work in the early morning saw Claire come out of -Byron’s villa and run across to Shelley’s. She lost a slipper on the -way, but ashamed of being seen did not stop to pick it up. The honest -Swiss peasants, chuckling hugely, made haste to carry the slipper of the -English “Miss” to the mayor of the village. - -Her love affair did not prosper. She was with child, and Byron was -utterly tired of her. He let her see it. For a moment perhaps he had -admired her voice, and her vivacity, but very soon she bored him. Nor -did he feel himself in any way bound to this young woman who had thrust -herself upon him with such pertinacity. . . . - -“‘Carry off’ quotha! and ‘girl.’ I should like to know _who_ has been -carried off except poor dear _me_. I have been more ravished myself than -anybody since the Trojan War. I am accused of being hard on women. It -may be so, but I have been their martyr. My whole life has been -sacrificed _to_ them and _by_ them.” - -Shelley went to talk with him of Claire’s future, and of the child’s. As -to Claire’s, Byron was perfectly indifferent. All he wanted was to get -rid of her as soon as possible and never to see her again. Shelley had -nothing to say on this point, but he defended the rights of the unborn -child. - -At first Byron had the idea of confiding it to his sister Augusta. -Claire refusing her consent, he then undertook to look after the child -himself as soon as it was a year old, on condition that he should be -absolutely master of it. - -It became difficult for the Shelleys to remain in his neighbourhood. Not -that there was any coldness between the two men, for while Shelley had -found the negotiations for Claire painful, they had seemed to him -perfectly natural. But Claire herself suffered, and Mary was often -indignant at Byron’s cynical talk. When he declared that women had no -right to eat at the same table with men, that their proper place was in -the harem or gynæceum, the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft trembled with -anger. Once more she was homesick for English scenes. A house beside -some English river now appeared to her, at this distance away, a haven -of peace. Shelley wrote to his friends, Peacock and Hogg, to find -something for them, and the journey home began. - - * * * - -After they had gone, Byron wrote to his sister: - - “Now don’t scold; but what could I do? A foolish girl, in spite - of all I could say or do, would come after me, or rather went - before—for I found her here—and I had all the plague possible - to persuade her to go back again, but at last she went. Now, - dearest, I do most truly tell thee that I could not help this, - that I did all I could to prevent it. I was not in love nor have - any love left for any; but I could not exactly play the Stoic - with a woman, who had scrambled eight hundred miles to - unphilosophize me. . . . And now you know all that I know of the - matter, and it’s over.” - -Shelley remained in correspondence with Byron and did not give up hopes -of “saving” him. Mingled with an immense deference for the great poet, -Shelley’s letters show a trace of haughty disapproval of the character -of the man. He opposed to Byron’s constant anxiety concerning his -reputation, his success, and what was said of him in London, a picture -of true glory. - - “Is it nothing to create greatness and goodness, destined - perhaps to infinite extensions? Is it nothing to become a source - whence the minds of other men will draw strength and beauty? - . . . What would Humanity be if Homer and Shakespeare had never - written? . . . Not that I advise you to aspire to Fame. Your - work should spring from a purer, simpler source. You should - desire nothing more than to express your own thoughts, and to - address yourself to the sympathy of those who are capable of - thinking as you do. Fame follows those whom she is unworthy to - guide.” - -Lord Byron, who was then on his way to Venice, read these lofty counsels -with a weary indifference. Exacting veneration bored him. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - GRAVES IN THE GARDEN OF LOVE - - -Of the three young girls who had given life and gaiety to the house in -Skinner Street, one only, Fanny Imlay, was left. She alone, who was -neither Godwin’s child, nor yet Mrs. Godwin’s, lived at home with them -and called them “papa” and “mamma.” She alone, so gentle and so loving, -had found neither lover nor husband. Modest and unselfish, these are -virtues which men praise—and pass by. For a moment she had wondered -whether Percy would not think of her, and with a beating heart had begun -a correspondence with him. But Mary’s hazel eyes had quenched the hopes -to which the timid Fanny had never given definite form. - -In this silent home, saddened by money-worries, it was on Fanny that -Mrs. Godwin wreaked her ill-humour, while Godwin let her understand that -he could not continue to keep her, and that she ought to see about -earning her own living. She asked nothing better, and would have liked -to become a teacher, but the flight of Mary and Jane had thrown a mantle -of disrepute over the household, and the heads of schools distrusted the -way in which the Godwin girls had been brought up. - -Sick at heart and with a touch of envy, Fanny admired from afar her -sisters’ life of wild adventure, a life which was sometimes dangerous, -but always amusing. How she, too, would have loved to be over there at -Lake Leman, in the company of the famous Lord Byron, of whom all London -was talking! - - “Is his face as fine as in your portrait of him? . . . Tell me - also if he has a pleasing voice, for that has a great charm with - me. Does he come into your house in a careless, friendly, - dropping-in manner? I wish to know, though not from idle - curiosity, whether he was capable of acting in the manner that - London scandal-mongers say he did. I cannot think from his - writings that he can be such a _detestable being_. Do answer me - these questions, for where I love the poet, I should like to - respect the man. - - “Shelley’s boat excursion with him must have been very - delightful. . . . I long very much to read the poems the ‘Poet’ - has written on the spot where Julie was drowned. When will they - be published in England? May I see them in manuscript? Say you - have a friend who has few pleasures, and is very impatient to - read them. . . . It is impossible to tell the good that POETS do - their fellow creatures, at least those that can feel. Whilst I - read I am a poet. I am inspired with good feelings—feelings - that create perhaps a more permanent good in me than all the - everyday preachments in the world; it counteracts the dross - which one gives on the everyday concerns of life and tells us - there is something yet in the world to aspire to—something by - which succeeding ages may be made happy and perhaps better.” - -Mary and Claire would read these charming letters with a condescending -pity. Poor Fanny! How Skinner Street! Always thinking that Godwin’s -novels, Godwin’s debts, and Mrs. Godwin’s bad tempers were the most -important things in the world! Fanny’s slavery gave the two others a -more vivid appreciation of their own freedom. Her loneliness enhanced -for them the value of their lovers’ society, and, in their compassion -for her, Mary got Shelley to buy her a watch before leaving Geneva. - -When the Shelleys and Claire came back to England, to settle down at -Bath, they saw Fanny as they passed through London. She was depressed, -and spoke of nothing but her loneliness and her uselessness; no one -wanted her. In saying good-bye to Shelley, her voice quivered. Yet she -wrote to him at Bath with the same affectionate frankness as before, -although her letters now had that indefinable note of reproach which -those who lead a death-in-life feel towards those whose life is filled -with living. Godwin, his literary work broken into by fresh money -troubles, became more and more grumpy; an aunt, Everina Wollstonecraft, -who had promised to take Fanny as governess in her school, wrote to say -that a sister of Mary and Claire would certainly be too terrifying a -teacher for the narrow-minded middle-class parents. - -One morning the Shelleys received from Bristol a curious letter, in -which Fanny bade them farewell in mysterious sentences: “I am going to a -place whence I hope never to return.” - -Mary implored Shelley to go to Bristol at once. He came home during the -night without any news. Next morning he went again, and this time -brought Mary lamentable tidings. Fanny had left Bristol for Swansea by -the Cambrian Coach, and had put up at the Mackworth Arms Inn. She had -gone at once to her room telling the chamber-maid that she was tired. -When she did not come down next morning, her door was forced, and she -was found lying dead, her long brown hair spread about her. By her was -the little Genevan watch given her by Mary and Shelley. On the table was -a bottle of laudanum and the beginning of a letter: - - “I have long determined that the best thing I could do was to - put an end to the existence of a being whose birth was - unfortunate, and whose life has only been a series of pain to - those persons who have hurt their health in endeavouring to - promote her welfare. Perhaps to hear of my death will give you - pain, but you will soon have the blessing of forgetting that - such a creature ever existed as . . .” - -Godwin had taught in _Political Justice_ that suicide is not a crime; -the only difficulty being to decide in each individual case whether the -social advantage of thirty supplementary years of life forbids recourse -to a voluntary death. After the tragedy he wrote to Mary for the first -time since her flight. It was to implore the three outcasts to avoid -anything leading to publicity, “which to a mind in anguish is one of the -severest of all trials.” - - * * * - -Shelley’s nerves were badly shaken by Fanny’s terrible death, and Mrs. -Godwin in her amiable way insinuated she had killed herself for love of -him. He then remembered certain signs of emotion he had seen in her, and -reproached himself for having always considered her as of a slightly -lower status. Perhaps he had, though quite unwittingly, awakened her -love at the moment when, deserted by Harriet, he sought a shelter in any -feminine tenderness. Perhaps she had weighed and counted and analysed -with care, words and glances, into which he had meant to put mere -friendliness. “How difficult it is to understand the soul of another; -How much suffering one may cause without wishing it, or knowing it; How -one may live in presence of the most profound, sometimes of the most -despairful feelings without even suspecting their existence!” It does -not suffice therefore to be sincere, nor to have good intentions. You -can do just as much harm through not understanding as through -unkindness. He was plunged into a blank despondency. - -To shake it off, he went to spend a few days alone with a young literary -critic, Leigh Hunt, who had praised his poetry with intelligence and -enthusiasm. Hunt lived on Hampstead Heath in the Vale of Health, a spot -as tree-embowered and almost as charming to-day as it was then. His wife -Marianne was homely and hospitable. He had a whole brood of jolly -children with whom Shelley could walk and play. There, he could forget -for a time poor Fanny and Godwin. The visit was short but delicious, and -he came home much cheered. - -On his return, he found awaiting him a letter from Hookham, which he -opened eagerly, for he had asked Hookham to find out for him what -Harriet was doing. He had had no news of her for two months. She had -drawn her allowance in March and in September, being then in her -father’s house. But since October nothing was known of her. - - “My dear Sir,” Hookham wrote, “It is nearly a month since I had - the pleasure of receiving a letter from you, and you have no - doubt felt surprised that I did not reply to it sooner. It was - my intention to do so; but on enquiring, I found the utmost - difficulty in obtaining the information you desire relative to - Mrs. Shelley and your children. - - “While I was yet endeavouring to discover Mrs. Shelley’s - address, information was brought me that she was dead—that she - had destroyed herself. You will believe that I did not credit - the report. I called at the house of a friend of Mr. Westbrook; - my doubt led to conviction. I was informed that she was taken - from the Serpentine river on Tuesday last. . . . Little or no - information was laid before the jury which sat on the - body. . . . The verdict was _found drowned_. Your children are - well and are both, I believe, in London.” - -Shelley went up to town in an agonizing condition of mind. With horror -he saw in imagination the blonde and childlike head, which he had so -loved, befouled by the mud of the river-bed, green and swollen through -its sojourn in the water. He asked himself how was it possible she could -have abandoned her children and chosen so dreadful a death. - -The Hunts and Hookham showed him every kindness, and told him all they -knew. A paragraph in _The Times_ stated: “On Thursday a respectable -female far advanced in pregnancy was taken out of the Serpentine river, -and brought home to her residence in Queen Street, Brompton, having been -missed for nearly six weeks. She had a valuable ring on her finger. A -want of honour in her own conduct is supposed to have led to this fatal -catastrophe, her husband being abroad.” - -The gossips of Queen Street repeated the little they had gleaned: -Harriet no longer received letters from her husband, because her former -landlady had failed to forward them, and she had given up all hope of -his ever coming back to her. She had fallen, from despair. Living first -with an army officer, he had been obliged to leave her on his regiment -being ordered to India. Then, unable to endure the loneliness of life, -she found a protector of humble grade, said to be a groom, and that he -deserted her. The Westbrooks had deprived her of her children, and -refused to receive her back. She was said to be in the family way, -absolutely alone, and terrified at the approaching scandal. Then, came -the body in the river. - -Shelley passed an appalling night. . . . “Far advanced in -pregnancy. . . .” What an end to her life . . . what madness. . . . -Detailed and intimate memories of poor Harriet crowded back into his -mind against his will, and he saw in imagination with terrible vividness -the last scenes. . . . Harriet in love, Harriet in terror, Harriet in -despair . . . every expression he knew too well. Ah, this name which -during a few years had meant the whole world to him, for the future he -must associate with all that is basest and most vile! “Harriet, my wife, -a prostitute! Harriet, my wife, a suicide!” - -There were moments when he asked himself if he were not responsible, but -he pushed this idea from him with all his strength. “I did my duty. -Always on every occasion in life, I have done what seemed to me the -loyal and disinterested thing to do. When I left her, I no longer loved -her. I assured her existence to the utmost of my means, and even beyond -them. Never have I treated her with unkindness . . . it is those odious -Westbrooks alone. . . . Ought I to have sacrificed my sanity and my -life, to one who was unfaithful to me, and second-rate?” - -His reason told him “No.” Hogg and Peacock, who surrounded him with -affectionate attentions, told him “No.” He besought them to repeat it to -him, for at instants he seemed to glimpse some mysterious and -super-human duty towards Harriet, in which he had failed. “In breaking -traditional ties one sets free in man unknown forces, the consequences -of which one cannot foresee. . . . Freedom is only good for the strong -. . . for those who are worthy of it. . . . Harriet’s soul was -weak. . . .” Ah, little head, blonde and childlike, of drowned -Harriet. . . . - -Next day he wrote a tender letter to Mary, eager to dwell by contrast on -her gentle serenity. He asked her to become a mother to his “poor babes, -Ianthe and Charles.” His counsel had just informed him that the -Westbrooks would take action to contest his guardianship of the -children, on the pretext that his irreligious opinions, and his living -in concubinage with Miss Godwin, rendered him unfit to bring them up. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - THE RULES OF THE GAME - - -In what way does a marriage ceremony, religious or civil, add to the -happiness of a pair of lovers, deeply smitten and full of confidence in -one another? The event proved that it can at least make joy blossom on -the countenance of a pedant. Godwin’s exhibited an incredible -satisfaction on learning that “the seducer” was going to make “an honest -woman” of his daughter, and that, eventually, she would become Lady -Shelley. He thus inspired in his ex-disciple a contempt for his -character, full measure, pressed down, and running over. - -At first there had been some hesitation as to whether it were decent to -celebrate the marriage so soon after Harriet’s death, but the -authorities on social etiquette declared that it would not do to wait -any longer for the Church’s blessing on a union which Nature had already -blessed twice over. - -Just a fortnight after the body of the first Mrs. Shelley had been taken -out of the Serpentine, Mary and Percy were married by a clergyman in the -church of St. Mildred, Bread Street. Godwin, beaming all over his face, -and Mrs. Godwin, simpering and pretentious, signed as witnesses. That -evening, for the first time since they ran away, the Shelleys dined in -Skinner Street. - -The family feast was a lugubrious one. There, in the little dining-room, -Fanny had moved to and fro; there, Harriet had sat in her happy early -wedded days; their ghosts, suffering and unsatisfied, continued to haunt -the room and torture the living. It is true that Godwin’s ill-temper had -been changed by the morning’s ceremony into an excess of urbanity, but -too many memories troubled the guests to make any real cordiality -possible. - -That night Mary wrote in her journal: “Go to London. A marriage takes -place. Draw. Read Lord Chesterfield and Locke.” Mary had good nerves. -Poor drowned Harriet was never a patch on her. - - * * * - -Nevertheless, it was but right that the news of so splendid a marriage -should be sent to every Godwin in the land. The Philosopher wrote to -Hull Godwin: - - “DEAR BROTHER, - - “Were it not that you have a family of your own, and can see by - them how little shrubs grow into tall trees, you would hardly - imagine that my boy, born the other day, is now fourteen, and - that my daughter is between nineteen and twenty. The piece of - news I have to tell, however, is that I went to church with this - tall girl some little time ago to be married. Her husband is the - eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, of Field Place, in the county - of Sussex, Baronet. So that according to the vulgar ideas of the - world she is well married, and I have great hopes that the young - man will make her a good husband. You will wonder, I daresay, - how a girl without a penny of fortune should make so good a - match. But such are the ups and downs of the world. For my part, - I care but little comparatively about wealth, so that it should - be her destiny in life to be respectable, virtuous, and - contented.” - -The letter closes with a word of cool thanks for a ham and a turkey sent -to the Skinner Street household at Christmas. - -But the formal marriage brought about one real advantage. The -“concubinage” argument, advanced by those who wished to deprive Shelley -of his children, fell to the ground. The Westbrooks, however, did not -give in. By the voice of the retired publican, the young Ianthe aged -three, and Charles aged two, addressed a petition to the Lord Chancellor -in which they said: “Our father avows himself to be an Atheist, and has -written and published a certain work called _Queen Mab_ with notes, and -other works, wherein he blasphemously denies the existence of God as the -Creator of the Universe, the sanctity of marriage, and all the most -sacred principles of morality.” For which reasons these precocious and -virtuous infants prayed that their persons and fortunes might not be -placed in the power of an unworthy father, but under the protection of -persons of the highest morality, such as their maternal grandfather and -their kind Aunt Eliza. - -Shelley’s counsel took care to say nothing in defence of _Queen Mab_: -there was nothing to be said at that time, and in that place, the Court -of Chancery. He confined himself to denying the importance of a work -written by a boy of nineteen. - -“Notwithstanding Mr. Shelley’s violent philippics against marriage, Mr. -Shelley marries twice before he is twenty-five! He is no sooner -liberated from the despotic chains which he speaks of with so much -horror and contempt, than he forges a new set, and becomes again a -willing victim of this horrid despotism! It is hoped that a -consideration of this marked difference between his opinions and his -actions will induce the Lord Chancellor not to think very seriously of -this boyish and silly publication.” As to the proposal of placing the -children with their mother’s family: “We think it right to say that Mr. -Westbrook formerly kept a coffee-house, and is certainly in no respect -qualified to be the guardian of Mr. Shelley’s children. To Miss -Westbrook there are more decided objections: she is illiterate and -vulgar, and it was by her advice, with her active concurrence, and it -may be said by her _management_, that Mr. Shelley, when of the age of -nineteen, ran away with Miss Harriet Westbrook, then of the age of -seventeen, and married her in Scotland. Miss Westbrook, the proposed -guardian, was then nearly thirty, and, if she had acted as she ought to -have done as the guardian and friend of her younger sister, all this -misery and disgrace to both families would have been avoided.” - -His counsel’s ingenious notion of winning his client’s case by -renouncing in that client’s name the opinions of his youth, seemed to -Shelley a piece of disgusting hypocrisy. He, therefore, drew up for the -Lord Chancellor a statement in which he set forth that his ideas on -marriage had not changed, and that if he had made his conduct conform to -the customs of society, he in no way had renounced the liberty to -criticize those customs. - -The Lord Chancellor in his judgment remarks: “This is a case in which a -father has demonstrated that he must and does deem it to be a matter of -duty to recommend to those whose opinions and habits he may take upon -himself to form conduct as moral and virtuous, which the law calls upon -me to consider as immoral and vicious. . . . I cannot, therefore, in -these conditions, entrust him with the guardianship of these children.” - -But the Lord Chancellor refused to confide them to the odious -Westbrooks. He put them under the care of an Army doctor, named Hume, of -Brent End Lodge, Hanwell, who would place the boy, when seven years old, -at a good private school under the superintendence of an orthodox -clergyman. As to the little Ianthe, she would be brought up at home by -Mrs. Hume, who would see that she said her morning prayers, and asked a -blessing on her food. Mrs. Hume would also put into her hands improving -books, and, to a certain extent would encourage the reading of poetry, -Shakespeare for instance, if carefully Bowdlerized. The whole cost, one -hundred a year for each child. Mr. Shelley might visit them twelve times -a year, but in the presence of Dr. and Mrs. Hume. Mr. John Westbrook -might see them the same number of times, but, if he wished it, he might -see them without the Humes being present. - -This sentence was very bitter to Shelley. It sanctioned officially so to -say, and in reasonable and moderate formulas, his exile from the -community of civilized men. It was like a brevet of incurable folly. - - * * * - -While the case was being fought out, he had bought a house in the -pleasant little country town of Great Marlow. Ariel at last consented to -have a home like other people. One room, big enough for a village -ball-room, was fitted up as a library, and decorated with casts of Venus -and Apollo. There was a very big garden: in this during the spring and -summer of 1817 might be seen two babies, William and Clara Shelley, and -a third child of unusual beauty, Alba, daughter of Lord Byron and -Claire. Her father was said to be leading a wild life at Venice. Claire -received no news from him. - -Shelley’s recent trials had left their traces on his countenance. He was -thinner, more hectic, and stooped more than ever. A violent pain in his -side prevented him from sleeping, and the doctors, unable to cure it, -said it was “a nervous disorder.” - -His state of mind was despondent. Life had brought him so much -suffering, his good intentions had been repaid by such evil results, -that he had taken a horror of every sort of action. He felt an intense -but undefined desire to withdraw from the perilous throngs of men, men -whose reactions cannot be predicted, and who are swayed by such terrible -gusts of passion. The regeneration of the real world now appeared to him -so unrealizable that he no longer sought satisfaction therein for his -loves and hatreds, but looked for it in the more docile and malleable -world of the imagination. Subjects for poems, vague and shadow-like, -floated round him, which feeding on his sorrowful thoughts, gradually -took form at the expense of his powers of action. - -The aërial edifices, the crystalline palaces, which with their filmy -vapours had so long hidden from him the actual world, seemed to detach -themselves from earth and to float up as though drawn by an invisible -force. They did not melt away, but swaying with a gentle movement rose -in all their translucent glory to the high realms of pure Poetry. In the -place which they had occupied, Shelley now saw the world as it is, the -brown earth arduous to cultivate, the harsh faces of men, women full of -nerves and hysteria, the cruel and obstructive society from which he -longed to escape. - -The poem which occupied his thoughts the oftenest was the story of an -ideal Revolution. He did not want the scenes of bloodshed which ruined -for him the otherwise inspiring story of the French Revolution. He -wanted his Revolution to be the work of a pair of lovers. His personal -experience had taught him that only the love of a woman can inspire a -sublime courage. - -Laon and Cythna, two ideal anarchists, were to be the transfigured -portraits of himself and Mary. He would make them die at the stake, for -their ideas, as he would have liked to die himself, exchanging a last -kiss in the midst of the flames, a kiss so delicious that the agony -would become a sort of voluptuous refinement of ecstasy. For him love -did not attain its maximum unless he could associate it with thoughts -and sufferings shared in common. Now that he and Mary, married and -fairly well off, seemed about to begin an easier life, he desired to -escape from this somewhat commonplace happiness, and to live in -imagination the magnificent and perilous destiny which might have been -his in other lands and other ages. - -He passed his time among the little islands of the Thames where the -swans build their nests. Lying at the bottom of his boat completely -hidden by the high grasses, he sought his inspiration in gazing up at -the changing skies. The study of fleeting, interweaving colour and form -had always given him immense pleasure, and every day he felt more -strongly that his real mission in life was to seize the most transitory -shades of beauty, and to fix them for ever in words buoyant and -beautiful as themselves. - -The entire summer was given to this entrancing work. Then he was obliged -to go up to London. Money was getting scarce; he had so many mouths to -feed. Besides Mary and the children, Claire and Allegra were dependent -on him, and very often the entire Godwin household. His new friend, -Leigh Hunt, with a wife and five children, needed help. He had promised -Peacock a hundred a year so that he might go on writing his fine novels. -Charles Clairmont, who was nothing to him, had fallen in love when in -France with an ugly woman several years older than himself and of course -penniless; it was Shelley who provided the means for marriage. Just as -formerly, he had to go to the money-lenders in order to satisfy these -endless claims. “You’re a thoroughbred,” Godwin once told him, “whom the -horse-flies prevent from taking your spring.” - -Happily for him, Mary managed to bring him back to earth, and he forgave -her, seeing her now only as the Cythna of his poem. But she, an -over-anxious hostess, did not care for their too assiduous visitors, -such as Peacock, who dropped in every evening “without being asked,” and -drank up a whole bottle of wine. She wanted Shelley to find a purchaser -for the Marlow House which they had bought too hastily. She saw he -suffered from cold, and wished to take him away to a warmer climate, -perhaps to Italy. - -“Dearest love,” she wrote to him in London. . . . “Pray in your letters -do be more explicit! You have advertised the house, but have you given -Madocks any orders about how to answer applicants? And have you settled -yet for Italy or the sea? And do you know how to get money to convey us -there, and to buy the things that will be absolutely necessary before -our departure? And can you do anything for my father before you go? Or, -after all, would it not be as well to inhabit a small house by the -seashore where our expenses would be much less than they are at present? -You have not yet mentioned to Godwin your thoughts of Italy; but if you -determine soon, I would have you do it, as those 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 shivering over a fire and the garden looked cold and dismal, -but so soon as I got into the road I found to my infinite surprise that -the sun was shining and the air warm and delightful. - -“I wish Willy to be my companion in my future walks; to further which -plan will you send down if possible by Monday’s coach, a sealskin fur -hat for him? It must be a fashionable round shape, _for a boy_ mention -particularly, and have a narrow gold ribbon round it, that it may be -taken in if too large. . . . I am just now surrounded by babes. Alba is -scratching and crowing, William 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.” - -One source of annoyance to Mary was the presence of Alba in the house. -The neighbours had been told that she was the child of a lady in London -and had been sent to the country for her health, but anyone could see -from Claire’s behaviour that the child was hers. The pure-minded jumped -at once to the conclusion that Shelley was the father. The old -accusations of promiscuity again reared their heads, and Mary’s -prudishness suffered from it. One of the reasons for which she wished to -go to Italy was that the journey would enable them to take the little -girl out to Lord Byron. - -Shelley’s one wish also was to depart. The ties of family, of -friendship, of business, had raised round him intangible walls behind -which he was stifling. His will was rock-like, but life’s little waves, -perfidious and unconcerned, ate away at it ceaselessly. In England where -the highest legal dignity had taken from him his civic rights, he had -the sensation of standing always in the pillory. It seemed to him that -in flying from England, he would become again a free and aërial spirit, -that in a new country his life would be like a sheet of white paper on -which he could compose a new existence in the same way that he could -compose a poem. - -When their departure was fixed, Mary asked to have the children -baptized. She thought it was better for them to start in life by -observing the Rules of the Game. Shelley agreed, and at the same time -that William Shelley and Clara Everina Shelley were christened, Byron’s -daughter was christened too under the names of Clara Allegra. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - “QUEEN OF MARBLE AND OF MUD” - - -The clear sky of Italy, the constant cloudless sky. Once more the -caravan of three went down towards the lands of forgetfulness and -sunshine. The babies and nursemaids who this time went with it, were -hardly any drag on its rapid and whimsical progress. - -Milan was reached by way of the Mont Cenis, where the first halt was -made to await news of Byron to whom Shelley had written informing him of -the arrival of his daughter. Shelley passed his days in the Cathedral -reading the _Inferno_ and _Purgatorio_, in a solitary spot behind the -altar where the light of day beneath the storied window is yellow and -dim. Churches no longer inspired in him the horror they used to do. He -was surprised to find that since he had suffered so keenly, no place now -seemed to fit his feelings better or to be a finer background to the -greatness of human passions than a church. In the company of Dante, and -in the midst of a symphony of warm, rich colours, the Catholic religion -no longer seemed to be the invention of charlatans. - -Byron’s answer came. Nothing on earth would induce him to see Claire, -and he would leave at once any town to which she should come. As to the -child, he was willing to undertake the charge of its education, but his -possession must be absolute. Shelley considered that this condition was -cruel, and pleaded with Byron to soften it. But Byron, who above all -things dreaded scenes with Claire, refused to cede an iota. A Venetian -met in Milan gave tidings that the “English Lord” was leading a life of -debauchery, and keeping a whole harem. Such news was hardly reassuring -for Allegra’s education, and Shelley begged Claire to give up all idea -of help from Byron rather than let him have the child. As usual he -undertook to pay for everything himself. But Claire, proud of Allegra’s -birth, wanted to obtain for her all the advantages of it. She had every -confidence in Elise the Swiss nurse who had brought the baby up, and she -decided to send them both to Venice. In spite of Shelley’s affectionate -remonstrances Allegra was handed over to her father. - - * * * - -Disquieting news of the child soon came to trouble Claire. Byron had -only kept it a few weeks. At first very proud of its beauty and of -seeing it admired and made much of by the Venetians on the Piazza, he -soon tired of this and allowed Mrs. Hoppner, wife of the English Consul, -to take charge of it. Who was this Mrs. Hoppner? Elise wrote that she -was a very kind lady, but Claire began to suffer from terrible remorse. -During a whole year she had never been parted from the child for a -single hour. She adored it. Allegra was the only creature in the whole -world she could call her very own, since her family renounced her, and -her lover refused to see her. Shelley, unable to bear the sight of her -misery, offered to go with her to Venice. Mary consented to the -arrangement in spite of her dislike at seeing these two start on a -journey together. Paolo, the servant, who was energetic and seemed -reliable, went with them as courier. In order not to irritate Byron who -had forbidden Claire to enter any town where he might happen to be, it -was decided that she should stop at Padua and wait there the upshot of -Shelley’s embassy. But finding herself so near to Allegra, she could not -resist going on. She thought that by keeping her presence secret she -could manage to see the child, and so she and Shelley took a gondola and -went down the Brenta. They crossed the lagoon in the middle of the -night, in a violent storm of wind, rain and lightning, while in the -distance the lights of Venice shone dimly behind a curtain of mist. - -The next morning they went to the Hoppners who received them with -courtesy and kindness. Mrs. Hoppner sent at once for Elise and the baby. -She was much grown, was pale, and had lost a great deal of her -liveliness, but was as beautiful as ever. Then they had a long -conversation on the subject of Byron. The Hoppners, worthy people of -conventional ideas, young lovers much excited by all the intrigues going -on round them though humanized a little by Venetian indulgence, related -with many head-shakes: - -From the third day of his arrival Byron had provided himself, as he -liked to boast, with a gondola and a mistress. The mistress was Marianna -Segati, wife of a cloth-merchant, who was the poet’s landlord, for he -had let rooms to Byron in his house. A most imprudent proceeding, but -the cloth-business was doing badly. Marianna was twenty-two, had -splendid black eyes, and a delicious voice. Although belonging to the -middle classes, she was received by the aristocracy of Venice on account -of her singing. That she should lose her heart to the noble lord who was -as generous as he was handsome, and who lived under the same roof, was -as inevitable as are the simplest chemical reactions. As to the Merchant -of Venice, Byron was free with his ducats, and Venetian morals always -permitted _one_ lover. Mrs. Hoppner, a friendly little woman with -intelligent eyes, had told this story with that mixture of Christian -sorrow and mundane relish which the virtuous employ in talking of the -vicious. Her husband, with many hums and haws, added that this was not -all. The Venetian populace circulated a tale that somewhere in the city -the English Lord had a closed villa, in which, one Muse not sufficing -him, he had gathered together the whole Nine. A legendary history was -growing up concerning Byron, and the travelling British spoke with bated -breath of Nero and Heliogabalus. The lower classes adored him, and at -Carnival time the women took advantage of their masks and dominoes to -hook themselves on to his person. - -Such gossip was far from reassuring to Claire. She asked what ought she -to do? The Consul advised her above all things not to let Byron suspect -she was in Venice, for he often expressed his extreme horror of her -arrival. - -At three o’clock Shelley went to the Palazzo Mocenigo to call on Byron, -who was delighted to see him, Shelley being perhaps the only man in the -world with whom Byron would talk seriously and as crowned head to -crowned head. Even when told of the reason for Shelley’s journey, and -Claire’s great desire to see the child again, he remained calm and -reasonable. He said he understood perfectly Claire’s anxiety, but that -he could not send Allegra back to her, because the Venetians who already -accused him of capriciousness, would say he had grown tired of her. -However, he would think the matter over, and find some way to arrange -everything. On which, he invited Shelley to go for a ride with him along -the Lido. - -The gondola took them across the lagoon, and they disembarked on the -long, sandy island which defends Venice from the Adriatic. Nothing grows -here but sea-wrack and thistle. They found Byron’s horses waiting for -them. Shelley loved all wild and solitary places, and this gallop along -the edge of the sea was delightful to him. Only the knowledge that -Claire, at the Hoppners’, anxiously awaited his return, spoiled his -pleasure. - -Byron inveighed against the stupidity of the English. Those who came to -Venice persecuted him with their curiosity, and even offered money to -his servants to allow them to see his bedroom. Then he spoke of -Shelley’s own misfortunes with many protestations of friendship. “Had I -been in England at the time of the Chancery affair, I would have moved -heaven and earth to get you back your children.” - -This led him on to speak of the wickedness of humanity which he judged -to be infinite. “Men are filled with hatred of one another, to expect or -hope for anything else is the mark of the visionary.” - -“Why?” asked Shelley. “You appear to believe that man is the victim of -his instincts without being able to direct them. . . . My faith is quite -different. I think that our will creates our virtue. . . . And though -wickedness may be natural that does not prove it to be invincible.” - -Byron pointed out the patrician city that the setting sun suffused with -gold and sombre purple. “Let us get into the gondola again,” he said, “I -want to show you something.” When they had glided for some moments over -the lagoon, “Look over to the west. Don’t you hear the clang of a bell?” - -Shelley, looking, saw on a small island a windowless, deformed, and -dreary building, and on the top of it an open tower in which a bell -swung in black relief against the crimson sky. With the splash of the -oars seemed to mingle distant, stifled cries for help. - -“That,” Byron said, “is the madhouse. Every evening when I cross the -water at this hour, I hear the bell clanging the maniacs to vespers.” - -“No doubt that they may thank the Creator for his mercy towards them?” - -“Always the same Shelley!” laughed Byron. “Infidel and blasphemer! You -who can’t swim, beware of providence! But you spoke just now of -vanquishing our instincts. Does it not seem to you that this spectacle -rather is an image of our life? Conscience is the bell that calls us to -virtue. We obey it like the madmen without knowing why. Then the sun -sets, the bell stops, it is the night of death.” - -He looked towards Venice, which, huddled in the twilight, had become a -rose-tinged grey. - -“We Byrons,” said he, “die young . . . on my father’s side, and on my -mother’s as well. . . . It’s all the same to me, but I intend first to -enjoy my youth.” - - * * * - -The next day Shelley, who had come to Byron filled with forebodings, was -agreeably surprised to find him quite reasonable. He offered to lend -Shelley and Claire for two months a villa he owned at Este, and to allow -Allegra to go and stay there with her mother. Shelley joyfully accepted -this generous offer, and he wrote to Mary to come at once and join them: - - “I have been obliged to decide on all these things without you. - I have done for the best; and, my own beloved Mary, you must - soon come and scold me if I have done wrong, and kiss me if I - have done right, for I am sure I do not know which, and it is - only the event that will show. We shall at least be saved the - trouble of introduction, and have formed acquaintance with a - lady (Mrs. Hoppner) who is so good, so beautiful, so angelically - sweet, that were she as wise too, she would be quite a Mary, but - she is not very accomplished. Her eyes are like a reflection of - yours; her manners are like yours when you know and like a - person. . . . Kiss the blue-eyed darlings for me, and do not let - Willmouse forget me. Ca cannot recollect me.” - -Mary’s journey was slow and disagreeable. At Florence she was held up by -passport difficulties. The baby Clara, who was cutting her teeth, -suffered from heat, fatigue and the change of milk; when Este was -reached, she was dangerously ill. - -During fourteen days she remained in a state of fever. The doctor seemed -a stupid fellow, and Mary decided to go on to Venice that she might call -in a better one. At Fusina the Austrian custom-house officers stopped -them and attempted to prevent them from crossing the lagoon. Shelley, -who had gone to meet them at Padua, insisted with extraordinary violence -on passing, and rushed for a gondola. The baby had curious convulsive -twitchings of the eyes and mouth. During the voyage she was almost -unconscious. When the hotel was reached her condition was still more -alarming. Examined by a doctor, he said at once there was no hope. -Within an hour she died silently and without pain. - -Mary found herself standing in the hall of a strange inn with her dead -child in her arms. Mr. Hoppner came and took her and Shelley away to his -own house. The next morning Shelley carried the little corpse in a -gondola for burial on the Lido, and Mary tried to shake off her grief. -It was one of Godwin’s doctrines that only weak and cowardly natures -abandon themselves to sorrow, which could not last did we not feed it in -secret by finding a sort of painful vanity in our sufferings. His -daughter shared his ideas on this point. The day after little Ca was -buried, she wrote in her journal: - - “_Sunday, September 27._ Read fourth canto of _Childe Harold_. - It rains. Go to the Doge’s Palace, Ponte dei Sospiri, etc. Go to - the Academy with Mr. and Mrs. Hoppner, and see some fine - pictures, call at Lord Byron’s and see the Fornarina.” - - * * * - -The Fornarina was Byron’s latest mistress, a peasant woman with a face -of the fine antique Venetian type. “You will see how beautiful she is,” -Byron had told Shelley. “Very fine black eyes and the figure of a Juno, -wavy black hair which reflects the moonlight: one of those women who -would go to hell for love. I like that sort of animal, and I should -certainly have preferred Medea to any other woman in the world.” - -Certainly this beautiful baker’s wife was a strange sort of animal, and -quite untamable. She was so fierce that all the servants were terrified -of her, even Tita, the gigantic gondolier. She was jealous, -insupportable, and false as the devil, besides being perfectly -ridiculous from the moment she had insisted on replacing her veil and -shawl by fashionable gowns and hats with ostrich feathers. Byron flung -these into the fire every time he saw them, and then she went out and -bought others. But he put up with her follies because she amused him. He -liked her vivacity, her Venetian dialect, her violence. Her coarse and -animal nature was, he imagined, more of a rest to him than anything else -after intellectual labour. Thanks to her his poem advanced with a -splendid motion, with something of the wild and natural movement of the -sea or the passionate love of a woman. - -To the Shelleys, who were ultra-refined, this magnificent animal was -highly displeasing. They exchanged sorrowful glances. During the few -days they spent in Venice, Shelley became better acquainted with Byron’s -mode of life and he judged it with severity. The Poet admitted to his -orgies the lowest women picked up by his _gondolieri_ in the streets. -Then, despising himself, he decreed that man is despicable. His cynicism -now appeared to Shelley to be nothing but a graceful mask for his -sensuality. - -At length the Shelleys went back to Este, depressed by their return -there without their little girl. Yet the house was cheerful. In the -garden a vine-covered pergola led to a summer-house which Shelley made -his study. From thence you saw the ruins of the ancient castle of Este -in the foreground, then, like a green sea, Lombardy’s waveless plains, -on which cities and villages seemed like islands bounded by vaporous air -. . . in the distance many-domed Padua, a peopled solitude, and the -towers of Venice glittering in the sunshine against a sapphire sky. - -He worked hard. He had begun _Prometheus Unbound_, a lyrical drama on -the Book of Job. He tried to fix in verse light as wing-beats the -melancholy beauty of these autumn days. But no sooner had the -intoxicating joy of composition faded than he felt himself once more -alone and forgotten. It seemed to him that in the frail bark which -carried beneath an alien sky his group of youthful exiles Misery stood -at the helm. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - THE ROMAN CEMETERY - - -At the end of another month the villa must again be given up to Byron -and Allegra restored to him. The cold and rainy weather gave Shelley the -idea of pushing farther south. To feel happy he needed warmth and -sympathy. New climates and new places might cheat his sorrow. - -The road to Rome wound along among already reddening vineyards. At every -step the travellers passed teams of cream-coloured oxen of Virgilian -beauty. They went through Ferrara and Bologna, where they saw such -quantities of statues, pictures and churches that Shelley’s brain became -like the portfolio of an architect or a print-shop or a commonplace -book. Passing by the romantic cities of Rimini, Spoleto and Terni, they -reached the Campagna di Roma, an absolute solitude, yet picturesque and -charming. When they entered Rome an immense hawk was sailing in the air -over their heads. - -The majestic ruins of Rome impressed Shelley tremendously. The English -burying-place, under the pyramidal tomb of Cestius, appeared to him the -most beautiful and solemn cemetery he had ever seen. The wind whispered -in the leaves of the trees overhanging tombs which were mostly of women -and young people. If one were to die, it is there one might desire to -sleep. - -From Rome they went on to Naples, where they took rooms which looked -across the Villa Nazionali to the blue waters of the bay, for ever -changing and for ever the same. Vesuvius was in a state of eruption, and -day and night they saw volumes of smoke rolling up and fountains of -liquid fire. The black bituminous vapour and the fiery light were -reflected in the sea. The climate was that of an English spring, though -lacking a little that crescendo of sweetness which delights one in -England when April’s there. - -They went to Pompeii, to Salerno, to Pæstum, getting exquisite but -transitory glimpses, that leave in the memory dim white visions as of -some half-remembered dream. But, in spite of all this beauty, they were -not happy. They knew no one and their perpetual loneliness was hard to -bear. - -Basking in the splendid Italian sunshine they thought with longing of -Windsor, of Marlow, even of London. What was the use of all these -mountains, of all this blue sky without any friends? Social enjoyment, -in some form or other, is the Alpha and Omega of existence, and, no -matter how real or how beautiful the actual landscape may be, it -dwindles into smoke in the mind when one thinks of some familiar forms -of scenery, commonplace perhaps in themselves, but over which old -memories throw a delightful hue. - -In the streets they looked with envy at the workmen and even at the -beggars with whom other workmen and other beggars passed the time of -day. Shelley, who felt himself so full of affection for mankind, was -painfully surprised to find himself always alone in the midst of -multitudes. Mary disliked particularly being “a foreigner” where-ever -she went. She was at the beginning of a new pregnancy; Claire got on her -nerves insupportably. She had serious domestic troubles: The Italian -valet, Paolo, had seduced the Swiss nurse. Mary insisted he should marry -her, and when at last he consented to do so, it was to take his -departure immediately with his wife, vowing vengeance against Shelley. -Next Claire fell ill of a mysterious malady which Mary misunderstood. - -Discontented and tired of Naples they decided to return to Rome. A need -of constant change ate up their tranquillity; they were like a sick man -who for ever seeks a fresher, cooler place in the bed, and seeks in vain -since he takes with him his fever wherever he moves. The heat of the -southern spring had tired the little boy, “Willmouse,” his father’s -darling. The doctor advised them to take him northwards immediately to -Lucca. They were on the point of starting when he was seized with a -violent attack of dysentery. - -During sixty hours, Shelley held the child’s hand in his; he loved him -more and more. Willie was an affectionate, intelligent and sensitive -child. He had beautiful hair, fair and silky, a transparent complexion, -Shelley’s eyes, blue and animated. While he slept the Italian maids -would come on tiptoe in to the room to point him out one to the other. -Already in the convulsions of death, the doctor still hoped to save him. -He lived three days longer and then died at noon on a day of gorgeous -sunshine. He was buried in the Protestant cemetery which on his first -visit to Rome had so impressed Shelley by its loveliness and solemn -seclusion. The wind was still whispering in the leaves of the trees. -Near an ancient tomb in the sunny flower-starred grass, Shelley saw his -dead child disappear. - -Fanny . . . Harriet . . . Baby Clara . . . William. . . . It seemed to -him that he was surrounded by a pestilential atmosphere which infected -one after the other all those he had loved best. - - * * * - -The young couple, whom the gods thus amused themselves in persecuting, -had, so far, bravely borne the blows. But now Mary gave up the struggle. -Shelley took her away to a pleasant villa in the country, but she was -indifferent to everything. Always she saw little feet running over the -sands at Naples, heard delicious childish phrases expressing mingled -love and glee. Motionless, gazing away in a sort of torpor, she only -roused herself to talk of the tomb in Rome. She wanted for her beautiful -boy a block of white marble, and flowers. - -Godwin, hearing of her condition, and using “the privilege of a father -and a philosopher,” expostulated with her. She was putting herself quite -among “the commonalty and mob of her sex.” What did she need that she -had not? She possessed the husband of her choice, and all the goods of -fortune, and thereby the means of being useful to others. “But you have -lost a child, and all the rest of the world, and all that is beautiful, -and all that has a claim upon your kindness is nothing, because a child -of three years old is dead!” - -Shelley himself gently complained: - - “My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone, - And left me in this dreary world alone? - Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one— - But _thou_ art fled, gone down the dreary road - That leads to Sorrow’s most obscure abode.” - -As for him, he had his aërial refuges, and once safely shut therein the -lugubrious tragedies of his life seemed like absurd nightmares. He -occupied himself with _Prometheus_, a new presentation of the one and -only theme of his genius: the war of the Spirit against Matter, the war -of Free Man against the World. In it Jupiter becomes a sort of Lord -Castlereagh, the Titan another Shelley, a victim filled with hope and -confident in the ultimate triumph of Good. The cloudless skies, the -eddyings of the wild west wind, each and all were a pretext for singing -his faith filled with the optimism of despair, and which no misfortune -could quell. - -When the moment for Mary’s confinement was near, they went on to -Florence, in order to be within reach of a good doctor. But the best -doctor was Florence herself, a city in which solitude has no bitterness. -At Florence one lives with Dante; one sits by the side of Savonarola; -one watches Giotto pass by. In the churches Brunelleschi and Donatello -are still in friendly rivalry. The statues in the streets live with a -more intense life than anywhere else. On the Piazza di San Miniato, -Michael Angelo’s _David_ triumphantly challenges Bandinelli’s silly -_Neptune_ and clumsy _Hercules_. One suffers less from not knowing the -children who play near one, because one possesses the children of Della -Robbia. - -From the hill of San Miniato Shelley loved to gaze over the city. The -red roofs stood out sharply, the Arno rolled its yellow, rain-swollen -waters between the old houses, which seemed to huddle along the quays -and bridges like a crowd of human beings; in the distance the valley -touched a horizon of bluish hills. - -In the intellectual atmosphere of Florence, Mary began to take a new -interest in life. At the boarding-house she “mixed a little with the -people downstairs.” She got through the birth-time quickly and well. -When once more she found herself with a baby in her arms, she smiled for -the first time since the death of William. - -She had her son christened Percy Florence. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - “ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND” - - -Everything in life comes in series. One friend brings another. Mary and -Percy, after suffering so much from loneliness, suddenly found -themselves, without having sought it, the centre of a gay and pleasant -circle. - -Chance had worked the miracle. First of all Shelley had begun to suffer -again from the pain in his side. The wind from the Apennines, so -boisterous in Florence during the winter, tried him greatly, and the -doctor recommended Pisa as more sheltered. - -Tom Medwin, one of his cousins, came to join him there. Medwin had been -in a dragoon regiment in India, from which he was now retired with the -rank of Captain. He had literary aspirations, and on this account sought -the society of the only literary member of the family. He was a good -fellow, though a deadly bore, but he introduced to the Shelleys a -charming couple, the Williamses. - -Edward Williams, after three years in the Navy, had exchanged from that -branch of the service into the 8th Dragoon Guards, then quartered in -India, where he had made Medwin’s acquaintance. He had been obliged to -sell out, he always explained, because of his health. Frank, fearless, -quite without side, and interested in everything, the Shelleys liked him -extremely, and they found his wife charming. She was a very pretty woman -with much sweetness of manner, and an excellent musician. The two -couples became great friends and at last the Shelleys knew the delights -of informal visiting, of ungrudging admiration and praise, and of the -perfect confidence which makes the joy of any real friendship. - -The moment a social circle exists it attracts to its centre all the -lonely souls drifting round its circumference. Thus, came Taaffe, the -Irish count; Mavrocordato, the Greek prince; and an extraordinary -Italian priest with the diabolic and piercing eye of a Venetian -inquisitor. This was the reverend professor, Pacchiani, known as the -Devil of Pisa, abbé without religion, professor without a chair, amateur -of women and pictures, antiquary, pimp, dilettante, and go-between in -general. - -Always with some _palazzo_ or other to let, he would take his commission -from the tenant as well as from the landlord; he would warmly recommend -a teacher of Italian, and divide with him the price paid for the -lessons; to the rich Englishman passing through Venice he would give, in -strictest confidence, the address of a _marquese_ wishing to sell an -Andrea del Sarto. - -On familiar terms in every house the moment he had got his foot within -the door, he called Mary and her friend Jane, “la belle Inglese,” and -amused them by telling them tales of the great ladies of Pisa, to whom -he was father confessor and tame cat. - - * * * - -One of Pacchiani’s stories made a deep impression on Shelley. Count -Viviani, a great Florentine nobleman, had just married, for the second -time, a woman much younger than himself. By his first wife he had two -lovely daughters, and the new countess, jealous of their beauty, had -persuaded her husband to send them to Pisa and shut them up each in a -separate convent, until husbands were found who would take them without -dowries. The professor, who had known the _contessine_ since their -childhood, spoke with enthusiasm of their wit and beauty. The eldest in -particular was almost a genius. - -“Poverina!” said Pacchiani. “She pines like a bird in a cage. She sees -her youth slipping away unused, and she is made for love. Yesterday she -was watering some flowers in her cell—she has nothing else to love but -her flowers—‘Yes,’ she told them, ‘you were born to vegetate, but we, -thinking beings, we were created for action and not to wither away in -one place. . . .’ A miserable place too is that convent of St. Anna; at -this moment the poor inmates are shivering with cold, being allowed -nothing to warm them but a few ashes which they carry about in an -earthen vase. You would pity them.” - -This story reawoke in Shelley all his instincts of knight-errantry, -which the comforts of conjugal life had stilled during recent years. He -asked dozens of questions, and showed such hot indignation with the -Count, such interest in the fair victim, that Pacchiani could not resist -the pleasure—always delicious to an old man of his sort—of bringing -two young people together. He offered to take Shelley to the convent of -St. Anna. - -It was in all conscience a miserable place, a ruinous building situated -in an unfrequented street in the suburbs. The visitors crossed a gloomy -portal and the abbé went to find Emilia. Mephistopheles came back -accompanied by Gretchen. He had not exaggerated her beauty. Her black -hair was tied in a simple knot, after the manner of a Greek Muse. Her -faultless contour seemed the work of Praxiteles: the marble-like pallor -of her skin made more resplendent her large black eyes full of a sleepy -voluptuousness, in which certain Italian women surpass even Orientals. - -The moment she appeared in the sombre parlour, Shelley felt that he -loved her, and love with him was no desire of the flesh, but a need for -self-sacrifice to that which he adored. Ever at the back of his mind -dwelt his ideal of perfect physical beauty united to perfect spiritual -beauty, the myth of a lovely and persecuted woman whose knight he would -become, some Andromeda to whom he would play Perseus, some Princess for -whom he would be St. George; a myth which had always been the motive of -his love adventures, which had led him to run away with Harriet to save -her from her father, and to love Mary because she was unhappy. It was a -sentiment made up in proportions unknown to himself, of desire and pity, -which earthly perhaps in the beginning, had been so purified that it now -merely raised to the highest point his creative power in poetry. - -In Mary he had long believed this mystic love had been found. She fell -indeed as little short of a goddess as any woman may be. For the first -time, perhaps, the real woman coincided with the Shelleyan image of her. -Nevertheless, daily life with her had shown him traits quite -incompatible with divinity. Mary, mother of a family and housekeeper, -was a drier, a more practical Mary, than the loving and courageous young -girl of Skinner Street. What Shelley had been used to praise as her -diamond-like purity now seemed to him to partake of the coldness of ice, -while her jealousy had become inconceivably petty. Worst of all, he now -knew her too intimately to be able any longer to find in her a -quickening of his ideas. - -In the beautiful and mysterious Emilia, on the contrary, he could -incarnate his whole soul, because he knew nothing about her. At long -last, he discovered in this Italian convent, the adorable and fleeting -vision which he had pursued since boyhood, and which, every time that he -had thought to seize it, had vanished away, leaving him in presence of a -flesh-and-blood woman capable of wounding his sensitive soul. - -On coming into the parlour, Emilia addressed herself to a caged bird in -terms which appeared to Shelley the most poetic in the world: - -“Poor little bird, you are dying of languor! How I pity you! How much -you must suffer hearing the other birds calling to you, ere they depart -for warmer climes! But you are doomed, like me, to finish in this prison -your miserable life. . . . Ah, why can I not free you!” - -She was fond of improvising thus in Italian fashion all sorts of spoken -poems that did not fail in quality—nor in quantity either. But Shelley -saw in her true genius. He begged leave to come and call upon her again, -and to bring with him his wife and his sister-in-law. She graciously -gave her permission. - -When he described the visit to Mary, he made no secret of the sentiments -with which it had inspired him. Both of them were great readers of -Plato, and Mary was familiar with that love which is merely the -contemplation of supreme beauty. She would, however, have been better -pleased to see it awakened by a statue, or that Shelley, like Dante, had -never had the chance of speaking to his Beatrice. However, when Shelley -begged her to go with him to see the beautiful prisoner, she willingly -went. - -She admitted that Emilia was beautiful in a Greek statue style, and of -surprising eloquence, but at the bottom of her heart she felt that she -preferred the chaste reserve of the viaggetory Englishwoman to this too -effusive Italian genius. She thought that Emilia’s voice was over-loud, -that her gestures, if expressive, were wanting in grace, and that she -was most agreeable when she held her tongue—which was seldom. However, -Mary was careful not to let her real sentiments appear on the surface; -on the contrary she expressed for Emilia the warmest friendship. - -Claire, more impressionable than Mary, fell, like Shelley, an immediate -victim to Emilia’s charms. While Mary took the prisoner little presents, -books, a gold chain, Claire, who was poor, offered the only thing she -could give, namely, lessons in English. Emilia accepted with joy. An -endless correspondence began between the convent and Pisa, and it was -nothing but “Dear Sister!” “Adored Mary!” “_Sensible_ Percy! . . . _Caro -fratello!_” and even, in a mystic sense needless to say, “_Adorato -sposo!_” Strangely enough, “dear sister Mary” sometimes showed a slight -coldness. “But your husband tells me that this apparent coldness is only -the ashes which cover an affectionate heart.” - -The truth is, that Emilia was beginning to get on dear sister Mary’s -nerves, for Shelley was busy in raising round her one of those aërial -worlds into which he loved to escape. He was writing, in her honour, a -magnificent love-poem, which he intended to make as mysterious as -Dante’s _Vita Nuova_, or the _Sonnets_ of Shakespeare. - - “I never was attached to that great sect, - Whose doctrine is that each one should select - Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, - And all the rest, though fair and wise commend - To cold oblivion, though it is in the code - Of modern morals, and the beaten road - Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread, - Who travel to their home among the dead - By the broad highway of the world, and so - With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe - The dreariest and the longest journey go. - True love in this differs from gold and clay - That to divide is not to take away. - Love is like understanding that grows bright, - Gazing on many truths; ’tis like thy light - Imagination! . . . - Narrow - The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates . . . - One object, and one form.” - -He drew a picture of Emilia which was one long pæan to her beauty: - - “Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress - And her loose hair: and where some heavy tress - The air of her own speed has disentwined, - The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind.” - - “The brightness - Of her divinest presence trembles through - Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew - Embodied in the windless heaven of June, - Amid the splendour of winged stars, the Moon - Burns inextinguishably beautiful.” - - “Spouse! Sister! Angel! Pilot of the Fate - Whose course has been so starless! O too late - Beloved! O too soon adored by me!” - “Emily - A ship is floating in the harbour now. . . .” - -It was the most impassioned of invitations to set sail for some lovely -and impossible Elysian isle. There - - “We shall become the same, we shall be one - Spirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two? . . . - Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, - And our veins beat together. . . . - One hope within two wills, one will beneath - Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death, - One heaven, one hell, one immortality, - And one annihilation. Woe is me! - The winged words on which my soul would pierce - Into the height of Love’s rare Universe, - Are chains of lead around its flight of fire—— - I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!” - -Although Mary consoled herself by repeating that all these fine phrases -were addressed to the divine essence of Emilia and not a very pretty -girl with black eyes and black tresses, yet, at the same time, it was -vexing to see Shelley writing with such enthusiasm. Happily, he was so -engrossed by the ardour of composition that he had no time to go and see -the poem’s heroine. And while her platonic lover multiplied his aërial -metaphors, Emilia received from the Count, her father, a cynical -message. He had found a husband who would take her without a penny, and -he requested her to let him know whether she accepted. The gentleman in -question, a certain Biondi, was not attractive, and he inhabited a -distant castle, surrounded by swamps. Emilia had never seen him, nor was -she to see him before the wedding-day. Such Turkish customs were -supremely disgusting, yet what could she do? The Elfin king, married to -a very real Mary, could not, evidently, free her from her dungeon. Were -she to marry Biondi, this might be perhaps the beginning of a happier -life. And if she didn’t like the man, she would meet others she might -like, for _cavalieri sirventi_ are to be found even in the midst of a -swamp. - -Shelley had not finished his poem before he learnt that Emilia was -married. - - * * * - -Six months later Mary wrote to a friend: - - “Emilia has married Biondi; we hear that she leads him and his - mother—to use a vulgarism—a devil of a life. The conclusion of - our friendship, _à la Italiana_, puts me in mind of a nursery - rhyme which runs thus: - - ‘As I was going down Cranbourne Lane, - Cranbourne Lane was dirty, - And there I met a pretty maid - Who dropt to me a curtsy. - I gave her cakes, I gave her wine, - I gave her sugar-candy; - But oh! the little naughty girl, - She asked me for some brandy.’ - - “Now turn ‘Cranbourne Lane’ into Pisan acquaintances, which I am - sure are dirty enough, and ‘brandy’ into the wherewithal to buy - brandy, and you have the whole story of Shelley’s Italian - Platonics.” - -And Shelley added: “I cannot look at my poem! The person whom it -celebrates was a cloud instead of a Juno. . . . I think one is always in -love with something or other; the error—and I confess it is not easy -for spirits cased in flesh and blood to avoid it—consists in seeking in -a mortal image the likeness of what is, perhaps, eternal.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - THE CAVALIER’ SIRVENTE - - -During the early days which followed her departure from Venice, Claire -had received news of Allegra fairly often through the Hoppners. The -child suffered from the cold. She had become quiet and grave as a little -old woman. Mr. Hoppner thought it would be better to remove her from -Venice. But it was impossible to have a conversation to any purpose with -her father who was sinking deeper and deeper into debauchery. - -Some months went by without any news. Claire, very anxious, wrote letter -after letter to the Hoppners, who did not reply. Then she learnt that a -great change had taken place in Byron’s existence. It had begun by his -being seriously ill and obliged to keep his bed. Hoppner, who came to -chat with him, had told him that his love affairs, far from scandalizing -the Venetians any longer as he believed and hoped, now merely amused the -_conversazioni_ at his expense. He was spoken of as the prey of artful -trollops who stole from him, tricked him, and then made fun of him in -their Venetian dialect. Don Juan fell into a red-hot rage, and instantly -all the priestesses of the Palazzo Mocenigo were turned out of doors, -and sent back, each to her midden. - -The moment he was well, he was seen again at the Venetian receptions, -which he had so long forsaken. Thus he met the beauty of the season, a -lovely blonde, seventeen years of age, just married to a noble -greybeard, the Count Guiccioli. The Pilgrim admired the lady’s figure, -her bust and arms in particular. The very first day he slipped into her -hand, as he took leave, a note which she adroitly concealed. It was an -assignation. She came. He who said he adored her was a great Poet, -young, handsome, highly born, and rich. Though surrounded by all that -makes life desirable, she instantly gave herself to him without a -struggle. - -A few days later, the Count took his wife to Ravenna, and Teresa begged -Byron to go too. “The charmer forgets that a man may be whistled -anywhere _before_ but that _after_—a journey in an Italian June is a -conscription, and therefore she should have been less liberal in Venice, -or less exigent at Ravenna.” The notion of romantic and constant love -was odious to him. He did not budge, and was rather proud of his -strength of mind. - -From Ravenna she wrote again that she was very ill, and, where an appeal -to love had failed, an appeal to pity succeeded. Don Juan set off, but -not without stopping at Ferrara and other towns on the way, to sample -the local beauties. Although making a show of indifference and even of -boredom, he was very glad to join Teresa. Intelligent women such as Lady -Byron or Claire got on his nerves: he had too great a contempt for the -sex to ask from a mistress intellectual companionship. The bakers’ wives -and other wantons of Venice were of a species too far below him. But the -Countess Guiccioli united a restful and affectionate stupidity with the -elegance of a well-born woman. She kept and held without too much -trouble this Everlasting Rover. Don Juan now played the part of a -faithful and devoted sick-nurse. “Were I to lose her,” he wrote, “I -should lose a being who has run great risks for my sake, and whom I have -every reason to love—but I must not think this possible. I do not know -what I _should_ do were she to die, but I ought to blow my brains out, -and I hope that I should.” - -When his conquering Conquest had to leave Ravenna for Bologna, he -followed. He had become the classic _cicesbeo_: “But I can’t say I don’t -feel the degradation of it. Better to be an unskilful Planter, an -awkward settler, better to be a hunter, or anything, than a flatterer of -fiddlers and fan carrier of a woman . . . and now I am _cavalier’ -sirvente_! By the holy! It’s a strange sensation.” - - * * * - -Claire was told all this story, and that Byron had sent orders for -Allegra to be brought to Bologna. The idea that her child was to live in -the house of Byron’s new mistress, who would have no reasons for loving -her and possibly some for hating her, terrified Claire. She wrote a -passionate letter asking to have her back. Byron replied: - - “I disapprove so completely of the way children are brought up - in the Shelley household that I should think in sending my - daughter to you I was sending her into a hospital. Is it not so? - Have they _reared_ one?—Either she will go to England or I - shall put her into a convent. But the child shall not quit me - again to perish of starvation and green fruit, or be taught to - believe that there is no Deity.” - -On receiving this letter, Claire notes in her caustic way: “Letter from -Albé concerning green fruit and God”; but she wept over it too. Allegra -in a convent of Italian nuns, who have no notion of cleanliness and no -love for children, seemed to her a frightful idea. She sent despairful, -violent, almost insolent letters to Byron, who wrote to complain of her -to Shelley, and to inform him that for the future he should refuse all -correspondence with her. - - “I have no conception,” Shelley answered, “of what Claire’s - letters to you contain, and but an imperfect one on the subject - of her correspondence with you at all. One or two of her - letters, but not lately, I have indeed seen; but as I thought - them extremely childish and absurd, and requested her not to - send them, and she afterwards told me she had written and sent - others in the place of them, I cannot tell if those which I saw - on that occasion were sent you or not. I wonder, however, at - your being provoked at what Claire writes, though that she - should write what is provoking is very probable. You are - conscious of performing your duty to Allegra, and your refusal - to allow her to visit Claire at this distance you consider to be - part of that duty. That Claire should wish to see her is - natural. That her disappointment should vex her, and her - vexation make her write absurdly, is all in the usual order of - things. But, poor thing, she is very unhappy and in bad health, - and she ought to be treated with as much indulgence as possible. - The weak and the foolish are in this respect the kings—they can - do no wrong.” - - * * * - -He himself had need of a similar loftiness of soul, to rise above the -women’s quarrels which distracted his household. Mary grew more and more -short-tempered. Godwin overwhelmed her with requests for money, to which -Shelley had decided no longer to reply. He had already given her father -nearly five thousand pounds without any results and had gained, at this -high price, a chastened wisdom and a painful knowledge of Godwin’s ugly -soul. As the bitter reproaches which the Philosopher now showered on -Mary turned her milk, Shelley informed him that for the future he would -intercept and suppress all letters likely to upset her: “Mary has not, -nor ought she to have, the disposal of money. If she had, poor thing, -she would give it all to you. Such a father—I mean a man of such high -genius—can be at no loss to find subjects on which to address such a -daughter. . . . I need not tell you that the neglecting entirely to -write to your daughter from the moment that nothing could be gained by -it, would admit of but one interpretation.” - -Mary, worried about her father, Claire, worried about her child, got -terribly on each other’s nerves, and their common admiration for the -only man of the household was far more an obstacle to a good -understanding than a help. Mary did all she knew to make Claire perceive -she was unwanted, and once more Claire as before had to recognize it. An -old lady of the English colony found her a place as governess in -Florence, Shelley took her thither, and left her in the family of -Professor Bojti. - -He wrote her long and loving letters, but though these were quite -innocent he did not show them to Mary, and he asked Claire not to -mention them when she wrote to her sister, although such a want of -frankness was little to his taste. His early conception of love had been -of a unity of ideas and actions so perfect that any explanation was -quite uncalled for between lovers. But life had taught him that -perfection is not to be had, and something short of it must be accepted. -There are certain persons for whom pure Truth is a poison. Mary could -not take it except in very diluted doses. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - A SCANDALOUS LETTER - - -On the 16th September, 1820, R. B. Hoppner wrote from Venice to Lord -Byron: - - “MY DEAR LORD, - - “. . . You are surprised, and with reason, at the change of my - opinion respecting Shiloh; it certainly is not that which I once - entertained of him; but if I disclose to you my fearful secret, - I trust, for his unfortunate wife’s sake, if not out of regard - to Mrs. Hoppner and me, that you will not let the Shelleys know - that we are acquainted with it. This request you will find so - reasonable that I am sure you will comply with it, and I - therefore proceed to divulge to you what indeed on Allegra’s - account it is necessary that you should know, as it will fortify - you in the good resolution you have already taken never to trust - her again to her mother’s care. - - “You must know then that at the time the Shelleys were here - Claire was with child by Shelley: you may remember to have heard - that she was constantly unwell, and under the care of a - Physician, and I am uncharitable enough to believe that the - quantity of medicine she then took was not for the mere purpose - of restoring her health. I perceive too why she preferred - remaining alone at Este, notwithstanding her fear of ghosts and - robbers, to being here with the Shelleys. - - “Be this as it may, they proceeded from here to Naples, where - one night Shelley was called up to see Claire who was very ill. - His wife, naturally, thought it very strange that he should be - sent for; but although she was not aware of the nature of the - connection between them she had had sufficient proof of - Shelley’s indifference, and of Claire’s hatred for her: besides - as Shelley desired her to remain quiet she did not dare to - interfere. - - “A Mid-wife was sent for, and the worthy pair, who had made no - preparation for the reception of the unfortunate being she was - bringing into the world, bribed the woman to carry it to the - Pieta, where the child was taken half an hour after its birth, - being obliged likewise to purchase the physician’s silence with - a considerable sum. During all the time of her confinement Mrs. - Shelley, who expressed great anxiety on her account, was not - allowed to approach her, and these beasts, instead of requiting - her uneasiness on Claire’s account by at least a few expressions - of kindness, have since increased in their hatred of her, - behaving to her in the most brutal manner, and Claire doing - everything she can to engage her husband to abandon her. - - “Poor Mrs. Shelley, whatever suspicions she may entertain of the - nature of their connection, knows nothing of their adventure at - Naples, and as the knowledge of it could only add to her misery, - ’tis as well that she should not. This account we had from - Elise, who passed here this summer with an English lady who - spoke very highly of her. She likewise told us that Claire does - not scruple to tell Mrs. Shelley that she wishes her dead, and - to say to Shelley in her presence that she wonders how he can - live with such a creature. . . . - - “I think after this account you will no longer wonder that I - have a bad opinion of Shelley. His talents I acknowledge, but I - cannot concur that a man can be as you say ‘crazy against - morality’ and have honour. I have heard of honour among thieves, - but there it means only interest, and though it may be to - Shelley’s interest to cut as respectable a figure as he can with - the opinions he publickly professes, it is clear to me that - honour does not direct any one of his actions. - - “I fear my letter is written in a very incoherent style, but as - I really cannot bring myself to go over this disgusting subject - a second time; hope you will endeavour to comprehend it as it - stands. . . . - - “Adieu, my dear Lord, Believe me, Ever your——faithful Servant, - - “R. B. HOPPNER.” - _Byron to Hoppner._ - “MY DEAR HOPPNER, - - “Your letters and papers came very safely, though slowly, - missing one post. The Shiloh story is true no doubt though Elise - is but a sort of _Queen’s evidence_. You remember how eager she - was to return to them, and then she goes away and abuses them. - Of the facts, however, there can be little doubt; it is just - like them. You may be sure that I keep your counsel. - - “Yours ever and truly, - “BYRON.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - LORD BYRON’S SILENCE - - -Shelley, invited by Lord Byron to come to Ravenna so that they might -discuss important matters, found the Pilgrim in brilliant fettle. He -looked in splendid health; for the reign of the Guiccioli had rescued -him from the degrading libertinage of Venice. Fletcher himself had grown -fatter, as the shadow increases in proportion with the body which throws -it. - -The Palazzo Guiccioli was a splendid affair, the household mounted on a -royal scale. On the marble staircase Shelley met with every kind of -animal making himself at home. Eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five -cats, an eagle, a parrot, and a falcon quarrelled together and made it -up as it suited them. There were ten horses in the stables. - -Byron welcomed him with great friendliness, and the night was passed in -reading and discussing Byron’s poems. The new cantos of _Don Juan_ -appeared admirable to Shelley. His contact with Byron’s genius always -reduced him to despair. Beside the solid structure of Byron’s verse, his -own seemed strangely fragile. He told Byron he ought to write a poem -which would be for his time what the _Iliad_ was for the Greeks. But -Byron affected to despise posterity, and to take no interest in poetry -except at a thousand guineas the canto. - -Once again Shelley, the Ascetic, was obliged to adapt himself to the -habits and customs of Byron the Magnificent. They got up at mid-day, -they breakfasted at two, and worked until six in the evening. They rode -from six to eight, dined, and spent the night talking until six o’clock -next morning. - -Byron did not talk merely of poetry. From the very first day, and with -the most friendly air in the world, he posted Shelley up in the -scandalous stories circulating about him amongst the English in Italy. -In spite of having promised the Hoppners not to give them away, he -showed Shelley the letter containing the calumnies of Elise. He -declared, of course, that he had never given the smallest credence to -the ridiculous tale, but that the Hoppners should have been so ready to -believe it was to Shelley a heart-breaking blow. He wrote immediately to -Mary. - - _Shelley to Mary Shelley._ - “RAVENNA, _Aug. 7, 1821_. - - “Lord Byron has told me of a circumstance that shocks me - exceedingly, because it exhibits a degree of desperate and - wicked malice, for which I am at a loss to account. When I hear - such things, my patience and my philosophy are put to a severe - proof, whilst I refrain from seeking out some obscure hiding - place, where the countenance of man may never meet me more. It - seems that Elise, actuated either by some inconceivable malice - for our dismissing her, or bribed by my enemies, or making - common cause with her infamous husband, has persuaded the - Hoppners of a story so monstrous and incredible that they must - have been prone to believe any evil to have believed such - assertions upon such evidence. Mr. Hoppner wrote to Lord Byron - to state this story as the reason why he declined any further - communications with us, and why he advised him to do the same. - Elise says that Claire was my mistress; that is very well, and - so far there is nothing new; all the world has heard so much, - and people may believe or not believe as they think good. She - then proceeds to say that Claire was with child by me; that I - gave her most violent medicine to procure abortion; that this - not succeeding she was brought to bed, and that I immediately - tore the child from her and sent it to the Foundling Hospital—I - quote Mr. Hoppner’s words—and this is stated to have taken - place in the winter after we left Este. In addition, she says - that I treated _you_ in the most shameful manner; that I - neglected and beat you, and that Claire never let a day pass - without offering you insults of the most violent kind, in which - she was abetted by me. - - “As to what Reviews and the world says, I do not care a jot, but - when persons who have known me are capable of conceiving of - me—not that I have fallen into a great error, as would have - been the living with Claire as my mistress—but that I have - committed such unutterable crimes as destroying or abandoning a - child, and that my own! Imagine my despair of good! - - “Imagine how it is possible that one of so weak and sensitive a - nature can run further the gauntlet through this hellish society - of men! _You_ should write to the Hoppners a letter refuting the - charge, in case you believe, and know, and can prove that it is - false, stating the grounds and proofs of your belief. I need not - dictate what you should say, nor, I hope, inspire you with - warmth to rebut a charge which you only can effectually rebut. - If you will send the letter to me here, I will forward it to the - Hoppners.” - - _Mary Shelley to Shelley._ - “MY DEAR SHELLEY, - - “Shocked beyond measure as I was, I instantly wrote the - enclosed. If the task be not too dreadful, pray copy it for me. - I cannot. - - “Read that part of your letter which contains the accusation. I - tried, but I could not write it. I think I could as soon have - died. I send also Elise’s last letter: enclose it or not as you - think best. - - “I wrote to you with far different feeling last night, beloved - friend. Our barque is indeed ‘tempest-tost,’ but love me, as you - have ever done, and God preserve my child to me, and our enemies - shall not be too much for us. - - “Adieu, dearest! Take care of yourself—all yet is well. The - shock for me is over, and I now despise the slander; but it must - not pass uncontradicted. I sincerely thank Lord Byron for his - kind unbelief. - - “P.S. Do not think me imprudent in mentioning Claire’s illness - at Naples. It is well to meet facts. They are as cunning as - wicked. I have read over my letter; it is written in haste, but - it were as well that the first burst of feeling should be - expressed.” - - _Mary Shelley to Mrs. Hoppner._ - “PISA, AUG. 10, 1821. - - “After a silence of nearly two years, I address you again, and - most bitterly do I regret the occasion on which I now - write. . . . - - “I write to defend him to whom I have the happiness to be - united, whom I love and esteem beyond all living creatures, from - the foulest calumnies; and to you I write this, who were so - kind, and to Mr. Hoppner, to both of whom I indulged the - pleasing idea that I have every reason to feel gratitude. This - is indeed a painful task. Shelley is at present on a visit to - Lord Byron at Ravenna, and I received a letter from him to-day, - containing accounts that make my hand tremble so much that I can - hardly hold the pen. - - “He says Claire was Shelley’s mistress, that . . . Upon my word, - I solemnly assure you that I cannot write the words. I send you - a part of Shelley’s letter that you may see what I am now about - to refute, but I had rather die than copy anything so vilely, so - wickedly false, so beyond all imagination fiendish. - - “But that you should believe it! That my beloved Shelley should - stand thus slandered in your minds—he, the gentlest and most - humane of creatures—is more painful to me than words can - express. Need I say that the union between my husband and myself - has ever been undisturbed? Love caused our first - imprudence—love which, improved by esteem, a perfect trust one - in the other, has increased daily and knows no bounds. . . . - - “Those who know me well believe my simple word—it is not long - ago that my father said, in a letter to me, that he had never - known me utter a falsehood—but you, easy as you have been to - credit evil, who may be more deaf to truth—to you I swear by - all that I hold sacred upon heaven and earth, by a vow which I - should die to write if I affirmed a falsehood—I swear by the - life of my child, by my blessed beloved child, that I know the - accusation to be false. But I have said enough to convince you, - and you are not convinced? Repair, I conjure you, the evil you - have done by retracting your confidence in one so vile as Elise, - and by writing to me that you now reject as false every - circumstance of her infamous tale. - - “You were kind to us, and I will never forget it; now I require - justice. You must believe me, and do me, I solemnly entreat you, - the justice to confess that you do so.” - -Shelley showed this letter to Byron and asked for the address of -Hoppner, but Byron begged to be allowed to send it himself. - -“The Hoppners,” he said, “had extracted a promise from me not to speak -to you of this affair; in openly confessing that I have not kept my -promise I must observe some form. That is why I wish to send the letter -myself. My observations, besides, will give more weight to it.” - -Shelley readily consented and gave the letter to his host. Mary never -received an answer. - - * * * - -The important question that Byron wished to discuss with Shelley was the -fate of Allegra in case he—Byron—should leave Ravenna. Countess -Guiccioli wished to go to Switzerland; Byron, who preferred Tuscany, -begged Shelley to write to the Countess to describe life in Florence and -Pisa in such attractive fashion that she would agree to go to one or the -other. - -Shelley had never seen his friend’s mistress, but he was so used to be -asked to intervene in the affairs of his acquaintance that he did not -hesitate to write the letter asked, and it was so vigorous that it -carried the day. It was suddenly decided that Byron and the Countess -should join the Shelleys at Pisa. As to Allegra, Byron agreed to take -her also. Claire not being there, he saw no reason for not doing so. - -Before leaving Ravenna, Shelley went to see the child at the Convent of -Bagna-Cavallo. He found her taller, but also more delicate and paler. -Her lovely black hair fell in curls over her shoulders. She appeared in -the midst of her companions as a being of a finer and nobler race. A -kind of contemplative seriousness seemed to overlie her former vivacity. - -She was shy at first, but Shelley having given her a gold chain which he -brought from Ravenna, she became more friendly. She led him to the -convent garden, running and skipping so quickly that he could scarcely -follow her; she showed him her little bed, her chair. He asked her what -he should say to her mama. - -“Che mi manda un baccio e un bel vestituro.” - -“E come voi il vestituro sia fatto?” - -“Tutte di seta e d’oro.” - -And to her father: - -“Che venga farmi un visitino e che porta seco la mammina.” - -A difficult message to transmit to her noble father. - -The dominant trait of the child seemed to Shelley to be vanity. Her -education was defective, but she could recite a great many prayers by -heart, spoke of Paradise, dreamed of it, and knew long lists of saints. -This was the sort of training that Byron desired. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII - - MIRANDA - - -Great excitement such as travelling royalties always arouse reigned in -the Pisan circle at the expected arrival of the Pilgrim. Mary, at -Shelley’s request, had taken for him the Palazzo Lanfranchi, stateliest -on the Lung’ Arno. Helped by the Williamses, she had done what she could -to put this ancient palace in order. The vanguard arrived in the persons -of the Guiccioli and her father, Count Gamba; the Shelleys gave them a -cordial welcome. The Countess was an agreeable surprise. “She is a very -pretty, sentimental, innocent Italian,” Shelley wrote, “who, if I know -anything of human nature and my Byron, will hereafter have plenty of -opportunity to repent her rashness.” - -When Don Juan himself followed, all Pisa was at the windows to see the -English Devil and his menagerie. The procession was well worth seeing; -five carriages, six men-servants, nine horses, dogs, monkeys, peacocks, -and ibises, all in line. The Shelleys were a little anxious as to what -Byron would think of the palazzo, but fortunately it pleased him. He -said he liked these old places dating back to the Middle Ages. In -reality it dated to the sixteenth century, and was said to have been -built from designs by Michael Angelo, but the noble lord always mixed up -hopelessly architectural styles. The dark and damp cellars in particular -delighted him. He spoke of them as dungeons and subterranean cells, and -had cushions taken down so that he might sleep there. - -He became at once the social centre of the Pisan circle, while Shelley -remained its moral centre. Byron was visited from curiosity and -admiration; Shelley from sympathy. Shelley got up early and read Goethe, -Spinoza or Calderon until midday; then he was off to the pine-woods, -where he worked in solitude until evening. Byron got up at midday and, -after a light breakfast, went for a ride, or to practise -pistol-shooting. In the evening he visited the Guiccioli, and coming -home at eleven, would often work until two or three in the morning. Then -in a state of feverish cerebral excitement, he would go to bed, sleep -badly, and remain in bed half the following day. - -The English in Pisa made a dead set at him. Even the most Puritan -amongst them could not be severe on an authentic lord who brought to -them on foreign soil so delightful an epitome of London’s Vanity Fair. -The pleasure he took in giving scandal, what was it but a mark of -orthodox respect? If indifference is justly considered an offence, -surely defiance must be accepted as a token of humility? And was it not -patent that he could not exist without going into society, paying court -to women, accepting dinners and returning them? He met with the greatest -indulgence. But when he tried to win the same for Shelley, the -resistance was thoroughly British. In society Shelley was bored and did -not hide it. In questions of morality it was easy to guess that he put -the Spirit before the Letter, that he believed in Redemption rather than -in Original Sin. Faith in the perfectibility of man is naturally the -most heinous of crimes, since if believed in, it would force one to work -for man’s perfectibility. The mere smell of it makes society fly to arms -for its destruction. All “nice” women treated the Shelleys as pariahs -and outcasts. - -Shelley laughed at this, preferring a thousand times the cool fresh air -of night to the hot and smoky atmosphere of card-rooms. But Mary -hankered to go everywhere. There was a certain Mrs. Beauclerc, gayest of -English ladies in Pisa, who gave balls, “being afflicted,” as Byron -said, “with a litter of seven daughters all at the age when these -animals are obliged to waltz for their livelihood.” Mary’s fixed idea -was to be invited to one of these balls. “Everybody goes to them,” she -said. Shelley, distressed, looked up at the sky, “Everybody! Who is this -mythical monster? Have you ever seen it, Mary?” - -To win the favour of “everybody” she even went to Church Service, but -the parson preached against Atheists, and kept looking at her in such a -marked manner that, in spite of her desire to conform, her dignity as a -wife prevented her from ever going again. - -All these social worries, balls and dinner parties, seemed to Shelley of -an incredible vulgarity. When he was a boy of twenty, he had judged -fashionable life as criminal, now it appeared to him contemptible, which -was much more serious. To escape from Mary’s absurd reproaches and -regrets, he would take refuge with the Williamses. There he found anew -the harmonious and affectionate atmosphere that was essential to him. -Edward Williams had a gay, generous nature in which there was nothing -petty. Jane’s grace and sweetness, the gentleness of her movements, the -soothing beauty of her voice, were as reposeful and pleasant as some -delightful garden. Perhaps in his youth she would have pleased Shelley -less. Then he dreamed always of heroic qualities in women, but to-day he -asked from them the gift of forgetfulness rather than courage and -strength. - -Jane sang, and her voice carried him momentarily away from his tragic -memories, and the chilly rectitude of his home. Just as formerly, when -Harriet wounded him, and he read in Mary’s eyes all the consolation they -promised him, so now he contemplated in Jane’s an image of the Antigone -whom he had surely known and loved in a previous existence. - -But he no longer considered it necessary to destroy in order to rebuild, -to abandon Mary in order to fly with Jane. She was married to a good -fellow, whose friend he wished loyally to remain, and it was necessary -also to consider the feelings of Mary, poor unhappy woman. He was in -love with Jane, but it was an immaterial love, without hope, and almost -without desire. - -She lent herself cleverly to the romantic business, would pass her hand -through his hair, smooth his forehead, try to cure his sadness by her -personal magnetism. She and her husband were as a marvellous fountain of -friendship, at which a poet, weary of suffering, could cool his fever. -Jane and Edward were Ferdinand and Miranda, the splendid, princely -couple, and Shelley was their faithful Ariel. . . . Round the happy -lovers flitted a captive and guardian Spirit serving their will and -doing his spiriting gently. - -The Williamses had often spoken to Shelley of one of their friends, -Trelawny, an extraordinary man, corsair and pirate, who at twenty-eight -had already led a life of adventure all the world over, on land as well -as on sea. He now desired ardently to be admitted to the Pisa circle, -and he overwhelmed the Williamses with letters: “If I come, shall I be -able to know Shelley? Above all, shall I be able to know Byron? Is it -possible to approach him?” - -Williams, in daily intercourse with the two Poets, no longer held them -in any awe, so he replied with a touch of impatience, “Of course you -will see them. Shelley is the simplest of men. . . . As to Byron, that -will depend entirely on yourself.” - -Trelawny reached Pisa late one evening and went at once to the Tre -Palazzi on the Lung’ Arno where the Williamses and the Shelleys lived on -different stories under the same roof. He and the Williamses were in -animated conversation when he perceived in the passage near the open -door a pair of glittering eyes steadily fixed on his. Jane going to the -doorway laughingly said, “Come in, Shelley, it’s only our friend Tre -just arrived.” - -Shelley glided in, blushing like a girl, and holding out his two hands -gave the sailor’s a warm pressure. Trelawny looked at him with surprise. -It was hard to believe that this flushed and artless face could be that -of the genius and rebel, reviled as a monster in England, and whom the -Lord Chancellor had deprived of his rights as a father. Shelley, on his -side, admired Trelawny’s bold, wild face, raven-black moustache, -handsome half-Arab type. Both of them were so astounded they could find -nothing to say. To relieve their embarrassment Jane asked Shelley what -book he had in his hand. - -His face brightened and he answered briskly: “Calderon’s _Magico -Prodigioso_. I am translating some passages in it.” - -“Oh, read it to us!” - -Immediately Shelley, shoved off from the shore of commonplace incidents -that could not interest him, began to translate from the open book, in -so masterly a manner with such perfection of form that Trelawny no -longer doubted his identity. - -A dead silence followed the reading. Trelawny looked up and seeing no -one asked, “Where is he?” - -“Who?” said Jane. “Shelley? Oh, he comes and goes like a spirit no one -knows when or where.” - -The next day it was Shelley himself who took Trelawny to call on Byron. -Here the surroundings were very different. A large marble hall, a giant -staircase, powdered footmen and surly dogs. Trelawny, like every one -else, saw in Byron’s external appearance all the traits with which -imagination endows genius, but the great man’s conversation struck him -as commonplace. He seemed too to be playing a part, and an out-of-date -one—that of a rake-hell of the Regency. He told stories about actors, -boxers and hard-drinkers, and of how he had swum the Hellespont. Of this -exploit he was very proud. - -At three the horses were brought round. After riding for a couple of -hours, the party dismounted at a small _podere_, pistols were sent for, -a cane was stuck into the ground behind the house and a piece of money -placed in a slit at the top of the cane. Byron, Shelley and Trelawny -fired at fifteen paces, and their firing was pretty equal. Each time the -cane or the coin was hit by one or the other. Trelawny was pleased to -see that despite his feminine appearance, Shelley could hold his own -with men. - -On the way back they talked poetry, and Trelawny cited a couplet from -_Don Juan_ as an example of felicitous rhyming. Byron, won over, brought -his horse round to trot beside him. - -“Confess now,” said he, “you expected to find me a Timon of Athens or a -Timur the Tartar, and you’re surprised to find a man of the world—never -in earnest—laughing at all things mundane?” - -Then he muttered as to himself: - - “The world is a bundle of hay, - Mankind are the asses who pull.” - - * * * - -Trelawny returned with Shelley and Mary. “How different Byron is to -anything one expects of him!” said he. “There’s no mystery about him at -all. On the contrary he talks too freely, and says things he had much -better not say. He seems as jealous and impulsive as a woman, and maybe -is more dangerous.” - -“Mary,” said Shelley, “Trelawny has found out Byron already. How stupid -we were—how long it took us.” - -“The reason is,” said Mary, “that Trelawny lives with the living, and we -live with the dead.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII - - THE DISCIPLES - - -The sailor who had come to Pisa to admire two great men found that it -was he, on the contrary, who was admired by them. It is true that when -Trelawny was absent, Byron said of him: “If we could get him to wash his -hands and not to tell lies, we might make a gentleman of him,” but when -he was present Byron treated him with the greatest respect. Like all -artists, Byron and Shelley wrote in order to console themselves for not -living, and a man of action appeared to these two men of dreams as a -strange and enviable phenomenon. - -Shelley consulted Trelawny as to nautical terms, and drew with him, on -the sandy shores of the Arno, keels, sails, and sea-charts. “I’ve missed -my vocation,” said he. “I ought to have been a sailor.” - -“A man who neither smokes nor swears can never be a sailor,” Trelawny -told him. - -Byron, an imaginary corsair, would have liked to learn from a real -corsair the ways and customs of the brotherhood, and did his utmost in -Trelawny’s company to talk in cynical and bravado fashion. Trelawny, -quick to perceive his influence over Byron, tried to make use of it in -the service of Shelley. - -“You know,” said he as they rode together one day, “that you might help -Shelley a good deal at small cost by a friendly word or two in your next -work, such as you have given to other writers of much less merit.” - -“All trades have their secrets,” Byron answered. “If we crack up a -popular author, he repays us in the same coin, capital and interest. But -Shelley! A bad investment. . . . Who reads the Snake? . . . Besides, if -he cast off the slough of his mystifying metaphysics, he would want no -puffing.” - -“But why do your London friends treat him so cavalierly? They rarely -notice him when they meet him at your place. Yet he is as well-born and -bred as any of them. What are they afraid of?” - -Byron smiled and whispered in Trelawny’s ear: - -“Shelley is not a Christian.” - -“Are they?” - -“Ask them.” - -“If I met the Devil at your table,” said Trelawny, “I should treat him -as a friend of yours.” - -The Pilgrim looked at him keenly to see if there were a double meaning, -then moving his horse up nearer said in a low voice of admirably acted -fear and respect: - -“The Devil is a Royal Personage.” - - * * * - -With the Williamses, Trelawny was more outspoken. The three of them -formed the chorus to the tragedy; knowing they were not made for the -chief parts, they took pleasure in commenting the acting of those who -were. - -“One might imagine,” said Trelawny, “that Byron is jealous of Shelley. -Yet Murray is obliged to call on the police to protect his premises -every time he publishes a new canto of _Childe Harold_, while poor -Shelley hasn’t got ten readers. Byron has high birth, riches, beauty, -glory, love . . .” - -“Yes,” Williams interrupted, “but Byron is the slave to his passions and -to any woman who is at all decided. Shelley in his nutshell of a boat -floats in mid-stream on the Arno, and refuses to let it carry him away. -His ideas are well-grounded, he holds a doctrine. Byron is incapable of -holding one for two consecutive hours. He is well aware of this, and -can’t forgive himself for it. You see it in the triumphant tone in which -he speaks of Shelley’s misfortunes.” - -“Byron,” said Jane, “is a spoiled child, but neither he nor Shelley -understands men. Shelley loves them too much, and Byron not enough.” - -“What’s so terrible about Shelley,” said Trelawny, “is that he has not -the smallest instinct of self-preservation. . . . The other day when I -was diving in the Arno, he said he so much regretted not being able to -swim. ‘Try,’ said I. ‘Put yourself on your back, and you’ll float to -begin with.’ - -“He stripped and jumped in without the smallest hesitation. He sank to -the bottom and lay there like a conger-eel, not making the least -movement to save himself. He would have drowned if I had not instantly -fished him out.” - -Jane sighed, knowing how much the thought of suicide haunted Shelley’s -mind. He often repeated that nearly every one he had loved had died in -this way. - -“Yet he doesn’t seem unhappy?” - -“No, because he lives in his dreams. But in real life don’t you think he -suffers from the impossibility of spreading his ideas, from his books -that don’t sell, from his unhappy home life? Death must often appear to -him like the awakening from a nightmare.” - -“He believes in a future life,” said Trelawny. “Those who call him an -Atheist don’t know him. He has often told me that he thinks the French -philosophy of the eighteenth century false and pernicious. Plato and -Dante have overcome Diderot for him. All the same he doesn’t regret his -attitude towards established religion. . . . ‘Why,’ I asked him, ‘do you -call yourself an Atheist? It annihilates your chances in this world.’ -‘It is a word of abuse,’ said he, ‘to stop discussion, a painted Devil -to frighten fools. I used it to express my abhorrence of superstition. I -took it up as a knight takes up a gauntlet, in defiance of injustice. -The delusions of Christianity are fatal to genius and originality; they -limit thought.’” - -Thus spoke the chorus in unanimity, and did not perhaps perceive that -their adoration of Shelley fed and grew on his misfortunes. We are more -inclined to love that which we can pity than that which we must admire. -Man finds in the spectacle of unmerited failure flattering arguments -which explain his own ill-luck. The blend of admiration and compassion -is one of the surest recipes for love. It would have needed much -humility of mind for Williams and Trelawny to have the same affection -for the brilliant Byron that they had for poor dear Shelley. - -While the disciples discoursed in this fashion, the Master worked in the -pine-woods outside Pisa. There the sea-winds had thrown down one of the -pines, which now hung suspended over a deep pool of glimmering water. -Under the lee of the trunk, and nearly hidden, sat the Poet like some -wild thing, the way to his retreat pointed out by quantities of -scattered papers, covered with the scrawls of unfinished poems. - -When in his day-dreaming he forgot everything, even the dinner hour, -Mary and Trelawny would go off to find him. Tre had constituted himself -_cavalier’ sirvente_ to the forsaken lady, and paid her court in corsair -fashion which she, in her honest woman-way, found very amusing. - -The loose sand and hot sun soon knocked her up. She sat down under the -cool canopy of the pines and Trelawny continued the Poet-chase alone. He -found him at last, but so absorbed by some inner vision, that to avoid -startling him, Trelawny drew his attention first by the crackling of the -pine-needles. He picked up an Æschylus, a Shakespeare, then a scribbled -paper: “To Jane with a guitar”: but he could only make out the two first -lines: - - “Ariel to Miranda. Take - This slave of music. . . .” - -He hailed him, and Shelley, turning his head, answered faintly, “Hello! -Come in.” - -“Is this your study?” Trelawny asked. - -“Yes,” he answered, “and these trees are my books—they tell no lies. In -composing, one’s faculties must not be divided: in a house there is no -solitude: a door shutting, a footstep heard, a bell ringing, a voice, -causes an echo in your brain, and dissolves your visions. - -“Here you have the river rushing by you, the birds chattering . . . - -“The river flows by like Time, and all the sounds of Nature -harmonize. . . . It is only the human animal that is discordant and -disturbs me. Oh, how difficult it is to know why we are here, a -perpetual torment to ourselves and to every living thing!” - -Trelawny interrupted to tell him that his wife was waiting for him at -the edge of the wood. He started up, snatched up his scattered books and -papers and thrust them into his hat and jacket pockets, sighing, “Poor -Mary! hers is a sad fate. She can’t bear solitude, nor I society—the -quick coupled with the dead.” - -He began to proffer excuses to her, but she, either to hide her emotions -or form a Godwinesque lack of any, began in a bantering tone: “What a -wild goose you are, Percy! If my thoughts have strayed from my book, it -was to the Opera, and my new dress from Florence, and especially to the -ivy wreath so much admired for my hair, and not to you, you silly -fellow! When I left home my satin slippers had not arrived. These are -serious matters. . . .” - -But in Mary’s pleasantries there was always a note which rang false. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV - - II SAMUEL XII. 23 - - -Byron, after promising Shelley to bring Allegra to Pisa, arrived without -her, and Claire, who had come expressly from Florence to wait about the -city in the hopes of seeing the child, was horribly alarmed on learning -she had been left in the convent of Bagna-Cavallo. Her Italian friends -gave her a sinister description of this convent, set down in the middle -of the marshes of the Romagna, and in the most unhealthy climate. The -nuns—Capucins—ignored hygiene, fed the children disgracefully, and did -not warm them at all. Claire could not see a fire without thinking of -her poor little darling who never saw or felt a cheerful blaze. - -This high-spirited young woman was brought, through maternal anguish, to -an abnegation that was sublime. She wrote to Byron that she would -renounce ever seeing Allegra again so long as she lived, if he would -consent to put her in a good English School. “I can no longer resist,” -she said, “the internal inexplicable feeling which haunts me that I -shall never see her any more.” - -Byron made no reply. There was some talk amongst Claire’s friends of -rescuing Allegra by stratagem, but Shelley begged her to have patience. -While agreeing with her as to Byron’s cruelty, he disapproved of -thoughtless violence. . . . “Lord Byron is inflexible and you are in his -power. Remember, Claire, when you rejected my earnest advice, and -checked me with that contempt which I had never merited from you at -Milan and how vain is now your regret! This is the second of my -sibylline volumes. If you wait for the third, it may be sold at a still -higher price.” - -He called upon Byron to plead Claire’s cause, but the moment Byron heard -her name he gave an impatient shrug of the shoulders. “Oh, women can’t -exist without making scenes!” Shelley told him what Claire had heard -about the unsuitability of the convent. “What do I know about it?” he -said. “I have never been there.” Then, when Claire’s anguish and her -fears were described to him, a smile of malicious satisfaction passed -over his face. - -“I had difficulty in restraining myself from knocking him down,” said -Shelley afterwards at Lady Mountcashell’s. “I was furious but I was -wrong. He can no more help being what he is than that door can help -being a door.” - -But old Mr. Tighe told him, “You are quite wrong in your fatalism. If I -were to horsewhip that door it would still remain a door, but if Lord -Byron were well horsewhipped my opinion is he would become as humane as -he is now inhumane. It’s the subserviency of his friends that makes him -the insolent tyrant he is.” - -On hearing of Shelley’s failure, Claire fell into such despair that Mary -and Shelley would not allow her to return to Florence alone amongst -strangers. They were going to spend the summer at the sea with the -Williamses and they invited her to go with them. - -Shelley looked forward with eagerness to this plan. Williams and he had -consulted Trelawny about a boat, and he was having one built for them at -Genoa by Captain Roberts, a friend of his. They had already christened -her the _Don Juan_ in honour of Byron, who had also commissioned Roberts -to build him a schooner with a covered-in deck; the _Bolivar_. - -Shelley and Williams saw themselves masters of the Mediterranean. Their -wives were less enthusiastic. While the two young men drew charts of the -bay upon the sand, Mary and Jane walked together, philosophized, and -picked violets by the road-side. - -“I hate this boat!” said Mary. - -“So do I,” Jane agreed. “But it’s no use saying anything, it would do no -good and merely spoil their pleasure.” - -So as to put their projects into action, two houses were necessary at -the seaside. They thought of the Bay of Spezzia. Shelley and Williams -hunted for these houses along its shores in vain. Lord Byron, who wished -to join them, must have a palazzo, but he was obliged to give up the -idea at once, since even two fishermen’s houses were not to be had. -Williams and his wife determined to make one last search; to distract -Claire from her troubles they took her with them. - -They had left Pisa but a few hours when Lord Byron wrote to Shelley that -he had received bad news of Allegra. An epidemic of typhus had broken -out in the Romagna. The nuns had taken no preventative measures. The -child, already weak and tired, had caught the fever. She was dead. “I do -not know,” he added, “that I have anything to reproach in my conduct and -certainly nothing in my feelings and intentions towards the dead. But it -is a moment when we are apt to think that, if this or that had been done -such events might have been prevented—though every day and hour shows -us that they are the most natural and inevitable. I suppose that Time -will do his usual work—Death has done his.” - -The Shelleys went to call on him. He was paler than usual, but as calm -as ever. - -Two days later the Williamses and Claire came back from their -expedition. Shelley, fearing some act of violence on her part if she -were told of her misfortune while in Byron’s neighbourhood, resolved to -say nothing to her so long as they remained in Pisa. - -Williams had not found the two furnished houses he sought. Along the -entire coast there was but one house to let, a big unfurnished and -abandoned building known as the Casa Magni at Lerici, with a veranda -facing the sea and almost over it. - -Shelley, who desired above all things to get Claire out of Pisa, decided -to take the Casa Magni. The two households must live together. -Inconvenient? That didn’t matter. No furniture? Furniture could be sent -from Pisa. When Shelley was really determined on a thing, nothing could -resist him. “I go forward,” said he, “until I am stopped. But nothing -ever does stop me.” - -The Custom House officials, the boatmen, raised scores of difficulties. -Shelley brushed them aside by the sheer force of a will-power that takes -no notice of the outside world, and in a few days the two families were -settled in at the seaside. - - * * * - -Casa Magni has been a Jesuit convent. It was a white house standing -almost in the sea, and backing against a forest. A terrace, supported on -arches, overhung the superb Bay of Spezzia. The ground floor was unpaved -and uninhabitable, being reached by the waves when the sea was rough. It -was used simply for storing boat-gear and fishing tackle. The single -storey over this was divided into a large hall or saloon, and four small -bedrooms which opened from it: two for Shelley and Mary, one for the -Williamses and one for Claire. The accommodation was scanty, and the -first evening depressing. Down below the waves beat against the rocks -with a mournful persistency. The Williamses and Shelleys could think of -nothing but Claire, and she, with no idea of the dreadful truth, -imagined they were annoyed at having her there with them in a house -which was obviously too small. She said so, and offered to go back to -Florence. Every one cried out against this. Jane whispered something to -Mary, and the two withdrew to the Williamses’ room. Shelley joined them. -Claire went towards the room after a moment or two: she found them in -eager conversation which instantly ceased as they saw her. Then before a -single word had been uttered, she said: - - “Allegra is dead?” - -The next day she wrote Byron a terrible letter, which he returned to -Shelley complaining of Claire’s harshness towards him, and begging -Shelley to let her know he would allow her to make any arrangements she -liked for the burial of their child. - -She replied with a sombre irony that for the future she left everything -to him, and that all she asked was a portrait of Allegra and a piece of -her hair. Byron became surprisingly pliable, sent almost at once a very -pretty miniature and a dark curl. Claire took leave of her friends at -Casa Magni, and went back to Florence to live amongst strangers, who, -knowing nothing of her grief, could do nothing to revive it. - -Byron decided to have his daughter buried in England, in the church of -Harrow-on-the-Hill, where he had been at school, and to place on the -wall above the grave a marble tablet with the words: - - TO THE MEMORY OF ALLEGRA - DAUGHTER OF GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON - DIED AT BAGNA-CAVALLO, THE 20TH APRIL, 1822. - AGED FIVE YEARS AND SIX MONTHS. - - I shall go to her, but she - shall not return to me. - II Sam. xii. 23. - -But the Rector of Harrow and the church-wardens considered it immoral to -admit into their church the body of an illegitimate child, more -particularly if the epitaph disclosed the name of the father. Allegra -was therefore buried outside the church, and with no inscription, which -was of course the proper thing to do. - -Lord Byron, who had never set foot inside the convent of Bagna-Cavallo -while Allegra was alive, went to visit it some time after the child’s -death, for now his regrets lent it a romantic and sentimental interest, -inspired him with a fine meditation on death and on himself: “I shall go -to her, but she shall not return to me.” - -The second Samuel was quite right. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV - - THE REFUGE - - -Shelley was charmed with Casa Magni. He liked the wild solitude of the -place, the forest behind the house, the rocky and wooded bays and the -fisherman’s poor villages. - -But Mary felt lost and unhappy. Again pregnant, anxious, irritable, she -would have much preferred to live in a city near a good doctor. She -thought the peasantry uncouth and hateful, their _Genovese_ jargon -disgusted her as much as the dialect of Tuscany had pleased her. The -presence of Jane Williams, so appreciated by her at Pisa, began to get -on her nerves. Housekeeping in common is for women the acid test. There -were stupid quarrels over servants and frying pans. Shelley spoke too -warmly of Jane’s perfection, and wrote her too divine serenades. - -To all Mary’s grumblings he replied with his usual sweetness. With the -utmost tenderness he caressed and consoled her. “Poor Mary,” he said of -her, “it is the curse of Tantalus to be endowed with such fine -qualities, and yet unable to excite the sympathy indispensable to their -application to domestic life.” - -He knew he could not change her, that her physical condition explained a -good deal of her peevishness, which he bore with patient affection. What -she constantly reproached him with was his complete indifference to the -things that other men thought worth while. She still admired him as much -as ever, in him alone she found the strength on which to lean. But why -could he never use this strength to his own advantage? He seemed to have -no notion of his own interests. His personality was not in his own eyes -what theirs is for men in general, something strictly limited by -definite boundaries; no, his poured outwards in a sort of luminous -fringe melting into that of his friends, and even into that of perfect -strangers. As to the customs and cares of human societies he continued -to ignore them. - -Every month he went to Leghorn to draw his allowance. He brought back a -bagful of _scudi_ which he emptied out upon the floor. Then with the -fire-shovel he gathered the coins together in a heap, which he flattened -out into a sort of cake with his foot. Always with the shovel he cut the -cake into two parts. One was for Mary: rent and housekeeping. The other -half was again divided into two, of which one went to Mary as pin-money, -and the other remained for Percy. But Mary knew what was meant by “for -Percy”: it was for Godwin despite all vows, for Claire, for the -Hunts. . . . - -One day Captain Roberts was expected over to luncheon from Genoa. -Conscious that their anchorite way of living would not suit ordinary -mortals, there was considerable commotion at the villa, but -notwithstanding the bother and turmoil the three women, as is woman’s -wont, seemed to enjoy it. The visitor came and he was most anxious to -see the Poet of whom he had heard so much, but Shelley had disappeared. -They sat down to table without him. Suddenly one of the trio of ladies -cried out, “Oh my gracious!” and Mary, turning round, saw Shelley -completely naked crossing the room, and trying to hide behind the -maid-servant. - -“Percy, how dare you!” she cried, which was imprudent, for Shelley, -considering himself unjustly attacked, abandoned his refuge and came up -to the table to explain. The ladies covered their faces with their -hands. Yet he was good to look at, his hair full of seaweed, his slender -body wet and scented with the salt of the sea. - -But the daughter of William Godwin had a horror of such unconventional -happenings. - - * * * - -Shelley and Williams waited for their boat with the impatience of -schoolboys, and the moment a strange sail, coming from the direction of -Leghorn, doubled the point of Lerici, they rushed down to the beach. - -After Allegra’s death Shelley had written to Roberts to change the name -of his boat from the _Don Juan_ to the _Ariel_. Everything which -reminded him of Byron was now hateful to him. Great therefore was his -surprise and anger, when on the arrival of his little yacht, he saw -painted in enormous letters in the middle of the mainsail: _Don Juan_. -Byron, told of the change of name, had forced Roberts, in spite of -Shelley’s orders, to print the sign of the Devil upon the Platonic bark. -Armed with hot water, soap and brushes, Shelley and Williams set to work -to wash out the infamy from their poor boat. They had no success. They -tried turpentine, which failed equally. Then they consulted specialists, -who were of opinion that a bit of sail would have to be cut clean out -and a new piece inserted; nothing short of this could mend the case. -Shelley had the operation performed at once. - -The Genoese captain who had sailed the boat to Lerici, said that she -sailed and worked well, but was a ticklish boat to manage. Shelley and -Williams, enthusiastic but incompetent yachtsmen, had insisted on having -her built to a design made by a naval officer for Williams, before he -left England. The lovely sweeping lines of the model enchanted them, but -the boat when built to plan required a couple of tons of iron ballast to -bring her down to her bearings, and even then was very crank in a -breeze. - -The two owners of the _Ariel_ determined to man her themselves, with the -help of Charles Vivian, a young sailor. Shelley was awkward as a woman -in all things appertaining to boats, but full of good intentions. He -tangled himself up in the rigging, read Sophocles while trying to steer, -and several times just missed falling overboard. But never in his life -had he been so happy. When Trelawny saw his seamanship, he took Williams -by the arm and advised him to add to the crew a Genoese accustomed to -the coast. Williams was hurt . . . three seasoned sailors such as they -. . . and was he not Captain? And had he not Shelley? - -“Shelley! You’ll never do any good with him until you shear the wisps of -hair that hang over his eyes, heave his Greek Poets overboard, and -plunge his arms up to the elbow in a tar-bucket.” - -The _Ariel_ drew too much water to be run on shore at Casa Magni, so -Williams with the aid of a carpenter built a tiny dinghy of basketwork, -covered with tarred canvas. It was a fragile toy which upset at a touch. -The Poet was delighted with it, although it capsized continually, and -gave him many a ducking. - -One evening, as he dragged the skiff out from the house, he saw Jane and -her two children on the sands. He invited her to bring them for a row. -“With careful stowage,” said he, “there is room for us all in my barge.” -She squatted in the bottom of the frail skiff with her babies, and the -gunwale sank to within six inches of the water; a puff of wind, the -smallest movement of any one of them, and it must cant over, fill, and -glide from under them. - -Jane understood that Percy intended to float on the water near the -shore, but he, proud to show a lovely woman how well he sculled, bent to -his oars, and they were soon out on the blue waters of the bay. Then, -shipping the oars, he fell into a deep reverie. Jane was seized with the -most awful terror. There was no eye watching them, no boat within a -mile, the shore was fast receding, the water deepening, and the Poet -dreaming. She made several remarks, but they met with no response. - -Suddenly he raised his head, his face brightened as with a bright -thought, and he exclaimed, joyfully, “Now let us together solve the -great mystery!” - -Had Jane uttered a cry, her children were lost. Shelley might made a -sudden movement, the bark would capsize, the waters wrap them round as a -winding-sheet. . . . Suppressing her terror, she answered promptly, “No, -thank you, not now, I should like my dinner first and so would the -children. . . . And look, there is Edward coming on shore with Trelawny -. . . they’ll be so surprised at our being out at this time, and Edward -says this boat is not safe.” - -“Safe!” cried the Poet, “I’d go to Leghorn or anywhere in her.” - -Jane felt that the Angel of Death, who always attended the Poet on the -water, now spread his wings and vanished. - -“You haven’t yet written the words for the Indian air,” she said -carelessly. - -“Yes, I have,” he answered, “but you must play me the air again, and -I’ll try and make the thing better.” - -Meanwhile he had paddled his cockleshell into shallow water; as soon as -Jane saw the sandy bottom, she snatched up her babies, and clambered out -so hurriedly that the punt was turned over and the Poet pinned down -underneath it. He rose with it on his back, like a hermit-crab in any -old empty shell. - -“Jane, are you mad?” cried her husband, surprised at her lubberly way of -getting out of a boat. “Had you waited a moment, we would have hauled -the boat up.” - -“No, thank you. Oh, I have escaped the most dreadful fate! Never will I -put my foot in that horrid coffin again. ‘Solve the great mystery!’ -. . . Why, he is the greatest of all mysteries! Who can predict what he -will do? . . . He is seeking after what we all avoid—death. I wish we -were away. I shall always be in terror.” - -But the Poet’s boyish face wore its accustomed innocent and radiant -expression. During this glorious summer, nothing seemed able to mar his -joy. Of an evening he liked to go sailing in the _Ariel_ by moonlight. -Mary sitting at his feet, her head against his knees, remembered how she -had sat thus on the stormy cross-channel journey ten years ago. Ten -years . . . what quantities of things had happened in ten years. How -much subtler, crueller, and more treacherous Life had been, than either -of them had then imagined. - -Sitting in the stern, Jane sang an Indian serenade, accompanying it on -the guitar, while Shelley gazed up into the dark blue sky of June, where -the moon burned inextinguishably beautiful, suffusing the -mountain-clouds with intolerable brilliancy. His mind was emptied of -thought, his senses annihilated in a delicious ecstasy, his soul clipt -in a net woven of dew-beams, seemed to be floating on waves of love and -odour and deep melody. He walked again among the splendid visions, the -crystalline palaces, the iridescent vapours, which during so long a time -had appeared to him the sole reality. He knew to-day that there existed -another universe, a harsh and inflexible one but in these higher -regions, only animated by the liquid and undulating sweetness of song, -by the invisible movement of luminous spheres, in these regions the -jealousy of women, money-worries, political quarrels, appeared so -infinitely petty that they could hot touch his wild, sweet, -incommunicable happiness. He would have liked to swoon away in -ravishment while saying with Faust to the passing moment, “Verweile -doch! Du bist so schön.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI - - ARIEL SET FREE - - -For a long time, Shelley had wished to bring out to Italy his friends -the Hunts, to whom their creditors and political enemies gave a hard -life in England. He offered to pay the journey, but he would not be -able, naturally, to support them and their seven children. He had talked -so much about this to Byron that he had obtained from him a promise to -found with Hunt a liberal newspaper to be published in Italy, and which -would enjoy copyright of all Byron’s works, a privilege sufficient in -itself to assure the success of the newspaper, and to make Hunt’s -fortune. It was a very generous offer on Byron’s part, who had nothing -to gain by the association with Hunt, but a good deal to lose. He did -more, however; he would allow the Hunts to occupy the ground floor of -the Palazzo Lanfranchi, which Shelley on his side undertook to furnish. -Everything being thus settled, the whole Hunt tribe set out. - -After incredible difficulties and delays they arrived at Leghorn by the -end of June, 1822. Trelawny on the _Bolivar_ was waiting for them in the -harbour. Shelley and Williams arrived on the _Ariel_, scudding into port -in fine style. Shelley was inexpressibly delighted to see Hunt, and set -off with him and the tribe for Pisa. Williams remained at Leghorn to -await the return of his friend when they would sail home together. - -Unfortunately Hunt’s immediate contact with Byron was far from pleasant. -Although Byron considered Hunt’s political ideas extreme, nevertheless -he had a sort of protective affection for him, considering him an honest -writer, a good father and husband, a decent sort of fellow. But he had -never been able to endure Hunt’s wife, whom he considered a dowdy and -disagreeable woman as impertinent as she was silly. Marianne Hunt was a -type of the equalitarian who can never for a moment forget inequalities. -To show that she was not impressed by Byron’s wealth and position, she -treated him with an insolence that a chimney-sweep would not have -tolerated. With the kind-hearted and charming Countess Guiccioli she put -on the airs and graces of an outraged British matron. - -Byron remained courteous, but became glacial. At the end of twenty-four -hours he could endure no more. Seven disorderly children romped up and -down the Palazzo, spoiling everything. “A Kraal of Hottentots, dirtier -and more mischievous than Yahoos.” He looked with disgust on such human -vermin, and put his big bull-dog to guard the staircase: “Don’t let any -little cockneys pass our way!” he told him and patted his head. - -Already he was sick of the newspaper. - -Shelley, who should have left the same day, could not forsake Hunt -without having settled the business. He got round Byron, lectured -Marianne, consoled poor Hunt, and delayed his departure from day to day -until everything was arranged. His tenacity always triumphed over -Byron’s haughty lassitude. - -He obtained the promise that the first number of the new paper should -have the copyright of _The Vision of Judgment_ which Byron had recently -finished. This would give Hunt a first-rate send-off. - -Williams, waiting at Leghorn, grew impatient and testy. Never before, he -complained, had he been separated from his wife for so many days. -Shelley sent him letter after letter to explain the delay. - -The July heat was suffocating; “_le soleil d’ltalie au rire -impitoyable_.” The peasants stopped working in the fields from ten to -five. There was a water shortage, and processions of priests carried -round miraculous statues and prayed for rain. - -On the morning of the 8th, Trelawny and Shelley arrived from Pisa. They -went to Shelley’s bank, made purchases for the housekeeping at Casa -Magni, and then the two friends and Williams went down to the harbour. -Trelawny wanted to accompany the _Ariel_ on the _Bolivar_. The sky was -clouding over, and a light wind blowing in the direction of Lerici. -Captain Roberts predicted a storm. Williams, who was in a hurry to be -off, declared that in seven hours they would be at home. - -At midday Shelley, Williams, and Charles Vivian were on board the -_Ariel_. Trelawny on the _Bolivar_ was getting ready too. The guard-boat -boarded them to overhaul their papers: “La barchetta _Don Juan_? Il -capitano Percy Shelley? Va bene.” - -Trelawny, who had not got his port-clearance, tried to brazen it out. -The officer of the Health Office threatened him with fourteen days’ -quarantine. He proposed to go instantly and obtain the clearance papers, -but Williams, fretting and fuming, would not hear another word. There -was no more time to be lost. It was two o’clock already, and there was -so little wind they would have great difficulty in reaching home before -night. - -Between two and three o’clock the _Ariel_ sailed out of harbour almost -at the same moment with two feluccas. Trelawny re-anchored sullenly, -furled his sails, and with the ship’s glass watched the progress of -their friends. His Genovese mate said to him, “They should have sailed -this morning at three or four a.m. instead of three p.m. She is standing -too much in-shore; the current will fix her there.” - -Trelawny replied, “She will soon have the land-breeze.” - -“Maybe she will soon have too much breeze,” remarked the mate. “That -gaff top-sail is foolish in a boat with no deck and no sailor on -board. . . . Look at those black lines and the dirty rags hanging on -them out of the sky, look at the smoke on the water! The Devil is -brewing mischief.” - -Standing on the end of the mole Captain Roberts also kept the boat in -view. When he could see her no longer, he got leave to ascend the -lighthouse-tower whence he could again discern her about ten miles out -at sea. A storm was visibly coming from the Gulf, and he perceived that -the _Ariel_ was taking in her top-sail. Then the haze of the storm hid -her completely. - -In the harbour it was oppressively sultry. The heaviness of the -atmosphere and an unwonted stillness benumbed the senses. Trelawny went -to his cabin and fell asleep in spite of himself. He was aroused by -noises overhead: the men were getting up a chain cable to let go another -anchor. There was a general stir amongst the shipping, getting-down -yards and masts, veering out cables, letting-go anchors. It was very -dark. The sea looked as solid and smooth as a sheet of lead and was -covered with an oily scum: gusts of wind swept over it without ruffling -it, and big drops of rain fell on its surface rebounding as if they -could not penetrate it. Fishing-craft under bare poles rushed by in -shoals running foul of the ships in the harbour. But the din and hubbub -made by men and their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced by the -crashing voice of a thunder-squall that burst right overhead. - -When twenty minutes later the horizon was in some degree cleared, -Trelawny and Roberts looked anxiously seaward in the hopes of descrying -Shelley’s boat amongst the many small craft scattered about. No trace of -her was to be seen. - - * * * - -On the other side of the bay two women waited for news. Mary was uneasy -and depressed. The excessive heat of the summer frightened her. It was -during such a summer that little Willie had died, and she looked at the -baby in her arms with terror. He seemed certainly in the best of health, -nevertheless, standing on the terrace gazing on one of the most lovely -views in the world, she was oppressed with wretchedness. Her eyes kept -filling with tears she knew not why. “Yet,” thought she, “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.” - -On the Monday, Jane had a letter from her husband dated Saturday. He -said that Shelley was still detained at Pisa, “but if he should not come -by Monday, I will come in a felucca, and you may expect me on Thursday -evening at furthest.” This Monday was the fatal Monday, the day of the -storm. - -But Mary and Jane never imagined for a moment that the _Ariel_ could -have put to sea in such weather. On Tuesday it rained all day, and the -sea was calm. On Wednesday the wind was fair from Leghorn, and several -feluccas arrived thence. The skipper of one of these said that the -_Ariel_ had sailed on the Monday, but neither Jane nor Mary believed -him. Thursday was another day of fair wind, and the two women kept -continuous watch from the terrace. Every instant they hoped to see the -tall sails of the little boat double the promontory. At midnight they -were still watching and still without any sight of the boat, and they -began to fear—not the truth—but that some illness, some disagreeable -occurrence, had detained their husbands in Leghorn. As the hours went -on, Jane became so miserable that she determined to hire a boat next day -and go to Leghorn herself. But next day brought with it a heavy sea and -a contrary wind. No boatman would venture out. - -At midday came letters. There was one from Hunt for Shelley. Mary opened -it trembling all over. Hunt said: “Pray write to tell us how you got -home, for they say that you had bad weather after you sailed on Monday, -and we are anxious.” - -The letter fell from her hands. Jane picked it up, read it, and said, -“Then it is all over!” - -“No, my dear Jane, 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.” - -The road from Lerici to Leghorn passes by Pisa. They stopped at Lord -Byron’s house to see if there was any news. They knocked at the door, -and some one called out “Chi è?” for it was already late in the evening. -It was the Guiccioli’s maid. Lord Byron was in bed, but the Countess, -all smiles, came down to meet them. On seeing the terrifying aspect of -Mary’s face, very white, looking like marble, she stopped astonished. - -“Where is he? Sapete alcuna cosa di Shelley?” said Mary. Byron who -followed his _dama_ knew nothing more than that Shelley had left Pisa -the preceding Sunday, and had sailed on Monday in bad weather. - -It was now midnight, but refusing to rest the two women went on to -Leghorn, which they reached at two o’clock in the morning. Their -coachman took them to the wrong inn where they found neither Trelawny -nor Captain Roberts. They threw themselves dressed on their beds and -waited for daylight. At six o’clock they visited all the inns of the -town one after the other, and at the _Globe_ Roberts came down to them -with a face which told them that the worst was true. They learned from -him all that occurred during that agonizing week. - -Yet hope was not entirely extinct. The _Ariel_ might have been blown to -Corsica, or Elba, or even farther. They sent a courier from tower to -tower along the coast as far as Nice to know if anything had been seen -or found, and at 9 a.m. they quitted Leghorn for Casa Magni. Trelawny -went with them. At Via Reggio they were told that a punt, a water-keg, -and some bottles had been cast up on the beach. Trelawny went to look at -them and recognized the little skiff of the _Ariel_. But there was the -possibility that, finding it cumbersome in bad weather, they had thrown -it overboard. - -When Jane and Mary reached home, the village was holding high festival. -The noise of dancing, laughing and singing kept them awake the whole -night through. - - * * * - -Five or six days later Trelawny, who had promised a reward to any of the -coastguard who should send him news, was called to Via Reggio where a -body had been washed up by the sea. It was a corpse terrible to look -upon, for the face and hands and those parts of the body not protected -by the clothes had been eaten away by the fish. But the tall slight -figure, the jacket, the volume of Sophocles in one pocket and Keats’ -poems in the other, doubled back as if the reader, in the act of -reading, had hastily thrust it away, were all too familiar to Trelawny -to leave a doubt on his mind that this mutilated body was any other than -Shelley’s. Almost at the same time the corpse of Williams was found not -far off, more mutilated still, and three weeks later a third body was -found, that of Charles Vivian, the sailor boy, about four miles from the -other two. It was a mere skeleton. - -Trelawny had the remains buried temporarily in the sand to preserve them -from the sea, and galloped off towards Casa Magni. - -At the threshold of the house he stopped. There was no one to be seen -. . . a lamp burned in the big room . . . perhaps the two widows were -suggesting to one another new grounds for hope. . . . Trelawny thought -of his last visit there. Then the two families had all been on the -terrace overhanging a sea so calm and clear that every star was -reflected in the waters. Williams had cried “Buona notte!” and Trelawny -had rowed himself on board the _Bolivar_ at anchor in the bay. From afar -he had listened to Jane singing some merry tune to the accompaniment of -her guitar. Shelley’s shrill laugh had pierced the quiet night, and -Trelawny had looked back with regret on a set of human beings who had -seemed to him the happiest and most united in the whole world. - -His reverie was broken by a shriek from the nurse Caterina, as crossing -the hall she saw him in the doorway. He went upstairs and unannounced -entered the room where Mary and Jane sat waiting. He could not speak a -word. Mary Shelley’s hazel eyes fixed themselves on his with a terrible -intensity. She cried out: “Is there no hope?” Trelawny, without -answering, left the room, and told the servant to take the children to -the two poor mothers. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII - - LAST LINKS - - -Mary wished to have Shelley buried near their little boy in the Roman -cemetery which he had thought so beautiful, but the sanitary laws -forbade that bodies once buried in quicklime on the sands, should be -transferred elsewhere. Trelawny suggested, therefore, that the remains -should be burned on the shore, according to the custom of the ancient -Greeks. When the day was fixed for this ceremony, he sent word to Byron -and Hunt, who wished to be present, and came himself on the _Bolivar_. -The Tuscan authorities had provided a squad of soldiers armed with -mattocks and spades. - -The remains of Williams were dug out first. Standing round on the loose -sand that scorched their feet his friends watched the soldiers at work -and waited with curiosity and horror the first appearance of the body. A -black silk handkerchief was pulled out, then some shreds of linen, a -boot with the bone of the leg and the foot in it, then a shapeless mass -of bones and flesh. The limbs separated from the trunk on being touched. -The soldiers performed their work with long-handled tongs, nippers, -poles, with iron hooks, spikes, and divers other tools all resembling -implements of torture. - -“Is that a human body?” exclaimed Byron. “Why, it’s more like the -carcase of a sheep!” - -He was greatly moved, and tried to hide his emotion, which he thought -maudlin and unmanly, under an air of indifference. When they were -lifting the skull, “Stop a moment, let me see the jaw,” he said. “I can -recognize by the teeth anyone with whom I have talked. I always watch -the mouth, it tells me what the eyes try to conceal.” - -A funeral pyre had been prepared, Trelawny applied the fire, and the -materials being dry and resinous the pine-wood flamed furiously, and the -heat drove the spectators back. The body and skull, burning fiercely, -gave the flames a silvery and wavy look of indescribable brightness and -purity. When the heat was a little diminished Byron and Hunt threw on to -the fire frankincense, salt and wine. - -“Come,” said Byron suddenly, “let us try the strength of these waters -that drowned our friends. . . . How far out do you think they were when -their boat sunk?” - -Perhaps mingled with his grief was the thought that he, who had swum the -Hellespont, would not have let himself be drowned in this less dangerous -sea. - -He stripped, went into the water, and swam out. Trelawny and Hunt -followed him. When they turned to look back at the pyre it seemed a mere -little glittering patch upon the sand. - - * * * - -The ceremony was repeated next day for Shelley, who had been buried in -the sand, nearer to Via Reggio, between the sea and a pine-wood. - -The weather was glorious. In the strong sunlight, the yellow sands and -the deep violet sea made a wonderful contrast. Above the trees, the -snow-capped Appenines paved the sky with a cloudy and marmoreal -background such as Shelley would have loved. All the children of the -country-side were gathered round to witness so unusual a spectacle, but -not a word was spoken among them. Byron himself was silent and -thoughtful. “Ah, Will of iron! This then is all that remains of your -splendid courage. . . . Like Prometheus you defied Jupiter, and behold -. . .” - -The soldiers dug for nearly an hour without finding the exact place. -Suddenly a dull hollow sound following the blow of a mattock warned them -that the iron had struck a skull. Byron shuddered. He thought of Shelley -during the storm on Lake Leman, whose crossed arms, heroic yet impotent, -had seemed to him at the time an accurate symbol of his life. “How -brutally mistaken men have been about him! He was without exception the -_best_ and least selfish man I ever knew. And as perfect a gentleman as -ever crossed a drawing-room.” - -The body had been covered with lime, which had almost completely -carbonized it. Once more incense, oil and salt were thrown upon the -flames, and more wine was poured over Shelley’s dead body than he had -ever consumed during life. The intense heat made the atmosphere -tremulous and wavy. At the end of three hours the heart, which was -unusually big, remained unconsumed. Trelawny snatched it from the fiery -furnace, burning his hand severely in doing so. The frontal bone of the -skull where it had been struck by the mattock fell off, and the brains -literally seethed, bubbled and boiled as in a cauldron for a very long -time. - -Byron could not face this scene. As on the previous day he stripped and -swam to the _Bolivar_, which was anchored in the bay. Trelawny gathered -together the fragments of bone and human ashes, and placed them in an -oaken casket lined with black velvet, which he had brought with him. - -The village children, looking on with all their eyes, told each other -that from these bones, once they reached England, the dead man would -come to life. - - * * * - -Now to tell what became of the other actors in this story. - -Sir Timothy Shelley lived to the age of ninety-one, dying in 1844. He -made Mary a small allowance, but she had to promise not to publish her -husband’s posthumous poems, nor any biography of him so long as the old -baronet lived. At his death, Percy Florence came into the title and the -fortune, Harriet’s son Charles having died in his eleventh year. - -A common misfortune had united the two widows, Mary and Jane. For a long -time they lived together in Italy, and afterwards in London. Shelley’s -friends were so faithful to them that Trelawny asked the hand of Mary in -marriage, and a little later Hogg, the sceptic, asked the hand of Jane. -Mary refused, saying that she thought Mary Shelley so pretty a name she -wished to have it on her tombstone. Jane accepted, but then had to -confess she had never been married to Williams. She still had a husband -somewhere in India. This did not trouble Hogg, and freed them both from -any ceremony. They never left each other, and lived under decorous -appearances. Although Hogg was accurate and a hard worker, he was -considered mediocre at the Bar, where he pleaded without warmth or -eloquence. Towards the end of his life he became a timorous, -disillusioned old gentleman, reading Greek and Latin all day long to -kill time and cheat his immense boredom. - -Claire remained on the Continent, was a governess in Russia, and at the -death of Sir Timothy inherited the twelve thousand pounds left her by -Shelley, and was freed from poverty. - -The older they grew the more these three women quarrelled amongst -themselves. Jane declared to everyone that during the last months at -Casa Magni Shelley had loved her alone. These assertions repeated to -Mary exasperated her so much that she refused to see Jane again. Little -by little Miranda became an old woman, a trifle deaf, but always -charming. Her eyes would still sparkle when she spoke of the Poet. - -During many years Claire occupied herself in writing a book in which she -intended to point out, by the examples of Shelley, Byron and herself, -how necessary it is to have only conventional ideas on the question of -love. But, having had a mental illness, she was obliged to give up work -during a long period. She passed the end of her life in Florence, where -she became a Roman Catholic and occupied herself in charities. - -One day in the spring of 1878 a young man searching for documents on -Byron and Shelley came to ask her for reminiscences of them. When he -pronounced these two names, there appeared beneath the old lady’s -wrinkles one of those smiles, girlish yet full of promises, which had -made her so fascinating at eighteen. - -“Come,” she said, “I suppose you are as crass as most men, and think -that I loved Byron?” - -Then, as he looked at her with surprise: - -“My young friend,” said she, “no doubt you will know a woman’s heart -better some day. I was dazzled, but that does not mean love. It might -perhaps have grown into love, but it never did.” - -There was a silence. The visitor, hesitating a little, asked: - -“Have you never loved, Madame?” - -A delicate blush suffused the withered cheeks, and this time she made no -reply, gazing on the ground. - -“Shelley?” he murmured. - -“With all my heart and soul,” she replied, without raising her eyes. - -Then with a charming coquetry she gave him a tap on the cheek with her -closed fan. - - - - THE END - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Minor changes to spelling and punctuation have been made silently to -achieve consistency. - -[The end of _Ariel (A Shelley Romance)_ by Maurois, André (Emile Salomon - Wilhelm Herzog), and Ella D’Arcy (translator)] - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARIEL *** - -***** This file should be named 64118-0.txt or 64118-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - https://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/1/1/64118/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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