Mrs. Shelley Part 5

CHAPTER VII.

"FRANKENSTEIN."

That a work by a girl of nineteen should have held its place in romantic literature so long is no small tribute to its merit; this work, wrought under the influence of Byron and Sh.e.l.ley, and conceived after drinking in their enthralling conversation, is not unworthy of its origin. A more fantastically horrible story could scarcely be conceived; in fact, the vivid imagination, piling impossible horror upon horror, seems to claim for the book a place in the company of a Poe or a Hoffmann. Its weakness appears to be that of placing such an idea in the annals of modern life; such a process invariably weakens these powerful imaginative ideas, and takes away from, instead of adding to, the apparent truth, and cannot fail to give an affectation to the work. True, it might add to the difficulty to imagine a different state of society, past or future, but this seems a _sine qua non_. The story of _Frankenstein_ begins with a series of letters of a young man, Robert Walton, writing to his sister, Mrs.

Saville in England, from St. Petersburg, where he is about to embark on a voyage in search of the North Pole. He is bent on discovering the secret of the magnet, and is deluded with the hope of a _never_ absent sun. When advanced some distance towards his longed-for goal, Walton writes of a most strange adventure which befalls them in the midst of the ice regions--a gigantic being, of human shape, being drawn over the ice in a sledge by dogs. Not many hours after this strange sight a fresh discovery was made of another man in another sledge, with only one living dog to it: this time the man was seen to be a European, whom the sailors tried to persuade to enter their ship.

On seeing Walton the stranger, speaking English, asked whither they were bound before he would consent to enter the ship. This naturally caused intense excitement, as the man, reduced to a skeleton, seemed to have but a short time to live. However, on hearing that the vessel was bound northwards, he consented to enter, and with great care he was restored for the time. In answer to an inquiry as to his object in thus exposing himself, he replied, "To seek one who fled from me." An affection springs up and increases between Walton and the stranger, till the latter promises to tell his sad and strange story, which he had hitherto intended should die with him.

This commencement leads to the story being told in the form (which might with advantage have been avoided) of a long narrative by the dying man. The stranger describes himself as of a Genevese family of high distinction, and gives an interesting account of his father and juvenile surroundings, including a playfellow, Elizabeth Lavenga, whom we encounter much later in his history. All his studies are pursued with zest, till coming upon the works of Cornelius Agrippa he is led with enthusiasm into the ideas of experimental philosophy; a pa.s.sing remark of "trash" from his father, who does not explain the difference between past and modern science, is not enough to deter him and prevent the fatal consequence of the study he persists in, and thus a pupil of Albertus Magnus appears in the eighteenth century. The effects of a thunderstorm, described from those Mary had recently witnessed, decided him in his resolution, for electricity now was the aim of his research. After having pa.s.sed his youth in his happy Swiss home with his parents and dear friends, on the death of his loved mother he starts for the University of Ingolstadt. Here he is much reprehended by the professors for his useless studies, until one, a Mr. Waldeman, sympathises with him, and explains how Cornelius Agrippa and others, although their studies did not bring the immediate fruit they expected, nevertheless helped on science in other directions, and he advises Frankenstein to pursue his studies in natural philosophy, including mathematics. The upshot of this advice is that two years are spent in intense study and thought, till he becomes thin and haggard in appearance. He is contemplating a visit to his home, when, making some fresh experiment, he finds that he has discovered the principle of life; this so overcomes him for a time that, oblivious of all else, he is bent on making use of his discovery. After much perplexing thought he determines to create a being superior to man, so that future generations shall bless him. In the first place, by the help of chemistry, he has to construct the form which is to be animated. The grave has to be ransacked in the attempt, and Frankenstein describes with loathing some of the details of his work, and shows the danger of overstraining the mind in any one direction--how the virtuous become vicious, and how virtue itself, carried to excess, lapses into vice.

The form is created in nervous fear and fever. Frankenstein being the ideal scientist, devoid of all feeling for art (whose ideas of it, indeed, might be limited to the elevation and section of a pot), without any ideal of proportion or beauty, reaches the point where he considers nothing but the infusion of life necessary. All is ready, and in the first hour of the morning he applies his fatal discovery.

Breath is given, the limbs move, the eyes open, and the colossal being or monster, as he is henceforth called, becomes animated; though copied from statues, its fearful size, its terrible complexion and drawn skin, scarcely concealing arteries and muscles beneath, add to the horror of the expression. And this is the end of two years work to the horrified Frankenstein. Overwhelmed by disgust, he can only rush from the room, and finally falls exhausted on his bed, only to wake to find his monster grinning at him. He runs forth into the street, and here, in Mary's first work, we have a reminiscence of her own infant days, when she and Claire hid themselves under the sofa to hear Coleridge read his poem, for the following stanza from the _Ancient Mariner_ might seem almost the key-note of _Frankenstein_:--

Like one who on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head, Because he knows a fearful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

Frankenstein hurries on, but coming across his old friend Henri Clerval at the stage coach, he recalls to mind his father, Elizabeth, his former life and friends. He returns to his rooms with his friend.

Reaching his door, he trembles, but opening it, finds himself delivered from his self-created fiend. His frenzy of delight being attributed to madness from overwork, Clerval induces Frankenstein to leave his studies, and, finally (after he had for months endured a terrible illness), to accompany him to his native village. Various delays occurring, they are detained too late in the year to pa.s.s the dangerous roads on their way home.

Health and peace of mind returning to some degree, Frankenstein is about to proceed on his journey homewards, when a letter arrives from his father with the fatal news of the mysterious death of his young brother. This event hastens still further his return, and gives a renewed gloomy turn to his mind; not only is his loved little brother dead, but the extraordinary event points to some unknown power. From this time Frankenstein's life is one agony. One after another all whom he loves fall victims to the demon he has created; he is never safe from his presence; in a storm on the Alps he encounters him; in the fearful murders which annihilate his family he always recognises his hand. On one occasion his creation wished to have a truce and to come to terms with his creator. This, after his most fearful treachery had caused the innocent to be sentenced as the perpetrator of his fearful deeds. On meeting Frankenstein he recounts the most pathetic story of his falling away from sympathy with humanity: how, after saving the life of a girl from drowning, he is shot by a young man who rushes up and rescues her from him. He became the unknown benefactor of a family for some period of time by doing the hard work of the household while they slept. Having taking refuge in a hovel adjoining a corner of their cottage, he hears their pathetic and romantic story, and also learns the language and ways of men; but on his wishing to make their acquaintance the family are so horrified at his appearance that the women faint, the men drive him off with blows, and the whole family leave a neigbourhood, the scene of such an apparition. After these experiences he retaliates, till meeting Frankenstein he proposes these terms: that Frankenstein shall create another being as repulsive as himself to be his companion--in fact, he desires a wife as hideous as he is. These were the conditions, and the lives of all those whom Frankenstein held most dear were in the balance; he hesitated long, but finally consented.

Everything now had to be put aside to carry out this fearful task--his love of Elizabeth, his father's entreaties that he should marry her, his hopes, his ambitions, go for nothing. To save those who remain, he must devote himself to his work. To carry out his aim he expresses a wish to visit England, and, with his friend Clerval, descends the Rhine, which is described with the knowledge gained in Mary's own journey, and the same route is pursued which she, Sh.e.l.ley, and Claire had taken through Holland, embarking for England from Rotterdam, and thence reaching the Thames. After pa.s.sing London and Oxford and various places of interest, he expresses a desire to be left for a time in solitude, and selects a remote island of the Orkneys, where an uninhabited hut answers the purpose of his laboratory. Here he works unmolested till his fearful task is nearly accomplished, when a fear and loathing possess his soul at the possible result of this second achievement. Although the demon already created has sworn to abandon the haunts of man and to live in a desert country with his mate, what hold will there be over this second being with an individuality and will of its own? What might be the future consequences to humanity of the existence of such monsters? He forms a resolution to abandon his dreaded work, and at that moment it is confirmed by the sight of his monster grinning at him through the window of the hut in the moonlight. Not a moment is lost. He tears his just completed work limb from limb. The monster disappears in rage, only to return to threaten eternal revenge on him and his; but the time of weakness is pa.s.sed; better encounter any evils that may be in store, even for those he loves, than leave a curse to humanity. From that time there is no truce. Clerval is murdered and Frankenstein is seized as the murderer, but respited for worse fate; he is married to Elizabeth, and she is strangled within a few hours. When goaded to the verge of madness by all these events, and seeing his beloved father reduced to imbecility through their misfortunes, he can make no one believe his self-accusing story; and if they did, what would it avail to pursue a being who could scale the Alps, live among glaciers, and pa.s.s unfathomable seas? There is nothing left but a pursuit till death, single-handed, when one might expire and the other be appeased--onward, with a deluding sight from time to time of his avenging demon. Only in sleep and dreams did Frankenstein find forgetfulness of his self-imposed torture, for he lived again with those he had loved; he endured life in his pursuit by imagining his waking hours to be a horrible dream and longing for the night, when sleep should bring him life. When hopes of meeting his demon failed, some fresh trace would appear to lead him on through habited and uninhabited countries; he tracks him to the verge of the eternal ice, and even there procures a sledge from the wretched and horrified inhabitants of the last dwelling-place of men to pursue the monster, who, on a similar vehicle, had departed, to their delight. Onwards, onwards, over the eternal ice they pa.s.s, the pursued and the pursuer, till consciousness is nearly lost, and Frankenstein is rescued by those to whom he now narrates his history; all except his fatal scientific secret, which is to die with him shortly, for the end cannot be far off.

The story is told; and the friend--for he feels the utmost sympathy with the tortures of Frankenstein--can only attempt to soothe his last days or hours, for he, too, feels the end must be near; but at this crisis in Frankenstein's existence the expedition cannot proceed northward, for the crew mutiny to return. Frankenstein determines to proceed alone; but his strength is ebbing, and Walton foresees his early death. But this is not to pa.s.s quietly, for the demon is in no mood that his creator should escape unmolested from his grasp. Now the time is ripe, and, during a momentary absence, Walton is startled by fearful sounds, and then, in the cabin of his dying friend, a sight to appal the bravest; for the fiend is having the death struggle with him--then all is over. Some last speeches of the demon to Walton are explanatory of his deed, and of his present intention of self-immolation, as he has now slaked his thirst to wreak vengeance for his existence. Then he disappears over the ice to accomplish this last task.

Surely there is enough weird imagination for the subject. Mary in this work not merely intended to depict the horror of such a monster, but she evidently wished also to show what a being, with no naturally bad propensities, might sink to when under the influence of a false position--the education of Rousseau's natural man not being here possible.

Some weak points, some incongruities, it would be unreasonable not to expect. Whether the _eternal_ light expected at the North Pole, if of the sun, was a misapprehension of the author or a Sh.e.l.leyan application of the word eternal (as applied by him to certain friendships, or duration of residence in houses) may be questioned.

The question as to the form used for the narrative has already been referred to. The difficulty of such a method is strangely exemplified in the long letters which are quoted by Frankenstein to his friend while dying, and which he could not have carried with him on his deadly pursuit. Mary's facility in writing was great, and having visited some of the most interesting places in the world, with some of the most interesting people, she is saved from the dreary dulness of the dull. Her ideas, also, though sometimes affected, are genuine, not the outcome of some fashionable foible to please a pa.s.sing faith or superst.i.tion, which ought never to be the _raison d'etre_ of a romance, though it may be of a satire or a sermon.

The last pa.s.sage in the book is perhaps the weakest. It is scarcely the climax, but an anticlimax. The end of Frankenstein is well conceived, but that of the Demon fails. It is ridiculous to conceive anyone, demon or human, having ended his vengeance, fleeing over the ice to burn himself on a funeral pyre where no fuel could be found.

Surely the tortures of the lowest pit of Dante's Inferno might have sufficed for the occasion. The youth of the auth.o.r.ess of this remarkable romance has raised comparison between it and the first work of a still younger romancist, the author of _Gabriel Denver_, written at seventeen, who died before he had completed his twentieth year.

While this romance was being planned during the latter part of the stay of the Sh.e.l.ley party in Switzerland, after their return from Chamouni, the diary gives us a charming idea of their life in their cottage of Montalegre. We have the books they read, as usual; and well did Mary, no less than Sh.e.l.ley, make use of that happy reading-time of life--youth. The Latin authors read by Sh.e.l.ley were also studied by Mary. We find her reading "Quintus Curtius," ten and twelve pages at a time; also on Sh.e.l.ley's birthday, August 4, she reads him the fourth book of Virgil, while in a boat with him on the lake. Also the fire-balloon is not forgotten, which Mary had made two or three days in advance for the occasion. They used generally to visit Diodati in the evening, after dinner, though occasionally Sh.e.l.ley dined with Byron, and accompanied him in his boat. On one occasion Mary wrote: "Sh.e.l.ley and Claire go up to Diodati; I do not, for Lord Byron did not seem to wish it." Rousseau, Voltaire, and other authors cause the time to fly, until their spirits are damped by a letter arriving from Sh.e.l.ley's solicitor, requiring his return to England. While in Switzerland Mary received some letters from f.a.n.n.y, her half-sister; these letters are interesting, showing a sweet, gentle disposition, very affectionate to both Sh.e.l.ley and Mary. One letter asks Mary questions about Lord Byron. There are also details as to the unfortunate state of the finances of G.o.dwin, who seemed in a perennial state of needing three hundred pounds. f.a.n.n.y also writes of herself, on July 29, 1816, as not being well--being in a state of mind which always keeps her body in a fever--her lonely life, after her sister's departure, with all the money anxieties, and her own dependence, evidently weighed upon her mind, and led to a state of despondency, although her letters would scarcely give the idea of a tragedy being imminent. She writes to Sh.e.l.ley and Mary that Mrs. G.o.dwin--mamma she calls her--tells her that she is the laughing-stock of Mary and Sh.e.l.ley, and the constant "beacon of their satire." She shows much affection for little William, as well as for his parents; but there is certainly no word in these letters showing more than sisterly and friendly feeling; no word showing jealousy or envy. Claire afterwards alleged that f.a.n.n.y had been in love with Sh.e.l.ley. Mr. Kegan Paul states the reverse most strongly. It is not easy to conceive how either should have been sure of the fact. Even Sh.e.l.ley's beautiful verses to her memory do not indicate any special reason for her sadness, as far as he was concerned.

Her voice did quiver as we parted, Yet knew I not that heart was broken From which it came, and I departed, Heeding not the words then spoken.

Misery--oh Misery!

This world is all too wide for thee.

From these lines we see that f.a.n.n.y was in a very depressed state of mind when her sister left England for her second Continental tour in 1816. This being two years from the time when Mary had first left her home, it does not seem probable that Sh.e.l.ley was to blame, or rather was the indirect cause of f.a.n.n.y's sadness. She felt herself generally useless and unneeded in the world, and this idea weighed her down.

CHAPTER VIII.

RETURN TO ENGLAND.

On leaving the Lake of Geneva on August 28, without having accomplished anything in the way of a settlement for Claire, but with pleasant reminiscences of Rousseau's surroundings, and the grandeur of the Alps, the party of three returned towards England by way of Dijon, and thence by a different route from that by which they had gone, returning by Rouvray, Auxerre, Fontainebleau, and Versailles. Here Mary and Sh.e.l.ley visited the palace and town, which a few years hence she would revisit under far different circ.u.mstances. Travelling--in those days so very unlike what it is in ours, when Europe can be crossed without being examined--allowed them to become acquainted with the towns they pa.s.sed through. Rouen was visited; but for some reason they were disappointed with the cathedral. Prom Havre they sailed for Portsmouth, when, with their usual fate, they encountered a stormy pa.s.sage of twenty-seven hours. It must have been a trying journey for them in more ways than one, for if there was any uncertainty as to Claire's position on leaving England, Mary could now no longer have been in any doubt. On arriving in England she proceeded, with Claire and her little William, with his Swiss nurse Elise, to Bath, where Claire pa.s.sed as Mrs. Clairemont. Sh.e.l.ley addressed her as such at 5 Abbey Churchyard, Bath. During this time Sh.e.l.ley was again house-hunting, while staying with Peac.o.c.k on the banks of the Thames; and Mary paid a visit to Peac.o.c.k at the same time, leaving little William to the care of Elise and Claire at Bath. From here Claire writes to Mary about the "Itty Babe's" baby ways, and how she and Elise puzzled and puzzled over the little night-gowns, or, quoting Albe, as they called Byron (it has been suggested a condensation of L.

B.), "they mused and coddled" without effect. Claire certainly did her best to take care of the baby, walking out with it, and so forth.

Now the three hundred pounds written of by f.a.n.n.y was falling due. Mary must also have been kept in great apprehension, as we see by a letter from Sh.e.l.ley to G.o.dwin, dated October 2, 1816, that the money was not forthcoming, as hoped. So the fatal Rhine gold is again helping to a tragedy, which the romantic prefer to impute to a still more fatal cause; for, so short a time after the 2nd as October 10, we find f.a.n.n.y already at Bristol, writing to G.o.dwin that she is about to depart immediately to the place whence she hopes never to return. On October 3 there is a long letter from her to Mary, written just after Sh.e.l.ley's letter had reached G.o.dwin, when she had read its contents on G.o.dwin's countenance as he perused it. Her letter is most clear-sighted, n.o.ble, and single-minded; she complains of Mary's way of exaggerating Mrs. G.o.dwin's resentment to herself, explaining that whatever Mrs. G.o.dwin may say in moments of extreme irritation to her, she is quite incapable of making the worst of Mary's behaviour to others. She shows Mary her own carelessness in leaving letters about for the servants to read, so that they and Harriet spread the reports she complains of rather than Mrs. G.o.dwin. She tells how she had tried to convince Sh.e.l.ley that he should only keep French servants, and she endeavours to persuade Mary how important it is that they should prevent bad news coming to G.o.dwin in a way to give a sudden shock, as he is so sensitive. She saw through certain subterfuges of Sh.e.l.ley, and wrote in a calm, affectionate way, trying to set everything right, with a wonderful clearness of vision; for everyone but herself--for herself there was no outlet but despair, no rest but the grave; she, the utterly unselfish one, was useless--all that remained was to smooth her way to the grave. Not for herself, but others, she managed to die where she was unknown, travelling for this purpose to Swansea, where only a few shillings remained to her, and a little watch Mary had brought her from Geneva. She wrote of herself in a letter she left, which neither compromised anyone nor indicated who she was, as one whose birth was unfortunate, but whose existence would soon be forgotten. Poor f.a.n.n.y! Is she not rather likely to be remembered as a type of self-abnegation? Certainly hers was not the nature to cause her sister a moment's jealous pang, even though her death called forth one of Sh.e.l.ley's sweetest lyrics.

There was nothing to be done. G.o.dwin paid a brief visit to the scene, and ascertained that all was too true. The door that had had to be forced, the laudanum bottle, and her letter told all that need be known. Sh.e.l.ley visited Bristol to obtain information; but there was no use in giving publicity to this fresh family sorrow--discretion was the only sympathy that could be shown. Mary bought mourning, and worked at it. Claire envied for herself f.a.n.n.y's rest; but life had to proceed, awaiting fresh events.

Work was the great resource. Mary was writing her _Frankenstein_.

She persisted with the utmost fort.i.tude in intellectual employment, as poor f.a.n.n.y wrote to Mary on September 26:--"I cannot help envying your calm, contented disposition, and the calm philosophical habits of life which pursue yon; or, rather, which you pursue everywhere; I allude to your description of the manner in which you pa.s.s your days at Bath, when most women would hardly have recovered from the fatigues of such a journey as you had been taking."

This is, indeed, the key-note of Mary's character, which, with her sensitive, retiring nature, enabled her to live through the stormy times of her life with equanimity.

Mary had Sh.e.l.ley's company through November, but at the beginning of December she writes to Sh.e.l.ley, who is again staying with Peac.o.c.k house-hunting. Mary tells him what she would _like_: "A house (with a lawn) near a river or lake, n.o.ble trees, or divine mountains"; but she would be content if Sh.e.l.ley would give her "a garden and absentia Claire." This is very different from her way of thinking of f.a.n.n.y, who, she says, might now have had a home with her. This expression occurs in a letter to Sh.e.l.ley when she was on the point of marrying him, and might have had f.a.n.n.y with her. Mary also speaks of her drawing lessons, and how (thank G.o.d!) she had finished "that tedious, ugly picture" she had been so long about. This points to that terrible way of teaching Art, by accustoming its students to hideousness and vulgarity, till Art itself might become an unknown quant.i.ty. Mary also tells, what is more interesting, that she has finished the fourth chapter, a very long one, of her _Frankenstein_, which she thinks Sh.e.l.ley will like. She wishes for his return. On December 13 Mary receives a letter from Sh.e.l.ley, who is with Leigh Hunt. On December 15, 1816, he is back with Mary at Bath, when a letter from Hookham, who had been requested by Sh.e.l.ley to obtain information about Harriet for him, brought further fatal news--for Harriet had now committed suicide, and had been found drowned in the Serpentine. Unknown, she was called Harriet Smith; uncared for, she had gone to her grave beneath the water--unloved, the lovely Harriet cared not to live. What may have happened, it is not for those who may not have been tried to question; of cause and effect it is not for us to judge; but that her memory must have been a haunting shadow to Sh.e.l.ley and to Mary no one would wish to think them heartless enough to deny. Surely the lovely "Lines," with no name affixed, must be the dirge to Harriet's fate, and Sh.e.l.ley's life's failure:--

The cold earth slept below; Above, the cold sky shone; And all around With a chilling sound, From caves of ice and fields of snow, The breath of night like death did flow Beneath the sinking moon.

The wintry hedge was black; The green gra.s.s was not seen; The birds did rest On the bare thorn's breast, Whose roots, beside the pathway-track, Had bound their folds o'er many a crack Which the frost had made between.

Thine eyes glowed in the glare Of the moon's dying light.

As a fen-fire's beam On a sluggish stream Gleams dimly, so the moon shone there; And it yellowed the strings of thy tangled hair, That shook in the wind of night.

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; The wind made thy bosom chill: The night did shed On thy dear head Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie Where the bitter breath of the naked sky Might visit thee at will.

These lines are dated 1815 by Mary in her edition, but she says she cannot answer for the accuracy of all the dates of minor poems.

The death of Harriet was necessarily quickly followed by the marriage of Sh.e.l.ley and Mary. The most sound opinions were ascertained as to the desirability of an early marriage, or of postponing the ceremony for a year after the death of Harriet; all agreed that the wedding ought to take place without delay, and it was fixed for December 30, 1816, at St. Mildred's Church in the City, where G.o.dwin and his wife were present, to their no little satisfaction, as described by Sh.e.l.ley to Claire. Mary notes her marriage thus in her diary: "I have omitted writing my journal for some time. Sh.e.l.ley goes to London, and returns; I go with him; spend the time between Leigh Hunt's and G.o.dwin's. A marriage takes place on the 30th December 1816. Draw. Read Lord Chesterfield and Locke."

No sooner was the marriage over than their one anxiety was to return to Bath; for now the time of Claire's trial was approaching, and on January 13 a little girl was born, not destined to remain long in a world so sad for some. Little Allegra, a child of rare beauty, was welcomed by Sh.e.l.ley and Mary with all the benevolence they were capable of, and Byron's duty to his child devolved, for the time at least, on Sh.e.l.ley.

During this period, Sh.e.l.ley's and Mary's chief anxiety was to welcome and care for the little children left by poor Harriet. They had been placed, before her death, under the care of a clergyman who kept a school in Warwick, the Rev. John Kendall, vicar of Budbrooke. Sh.e.l.ley had hoped that his marriage with Mary would remove all difficulty, and Mary was waiting to welcome Ianthe and Charles; but in this matter they were doomed to disappointment.

On January 8 a Bill was filed in the Court of Chancery, on the part of the infants Charles and Ianthe Sh.e.l.ley, John Westbrook, their maternal grandfather, acting on their behalf, praying that they might not be transferred to the care of their father, Percy Bysshe Sh.e.l.ley, who had deserted their mother; who was the author of _Queen Mab_, and an avowed atheist, who wrote against the inst.i.tution of marriage, and who had been living unlawfully with a woman whom Eliza Westbrook (as Sh.e.l.ley had written to her) might excusably regard as the cause of her sister's ruin. Sh.e.l.ley filed his answer on the 18th, denying the desertion of his wife, as she and he had separated with mutual consent, owing to various causes. He had wished for his children on parting with her, but left them with her at her urgent entreaty. He had given her two hundred pounds to pay her debts, and an allowance of a fifth of his income. As to his theological opinions, he understands that they are abandoned as not applicable to the case. His views on matrimony, he alleged, were only in accordance with the ideas of some of the greatest thinkers that divorce ought to be possible under various conditions.

Lord Eldon gave his judgment on March 27, 1817. In fifteen carefully worded paragraphs he showed his reasons for depriving Sh.e.l.ley of his children. He insists through all that it is Sh.e.l.ley's avowed and published opinions, as they affected his _conduct_ in life, which unfitted him to be the guardian of his children.

The wording in some pa.s.sages caused grave anxiety to Sh.e.l.ley and Mary (as shown in their letters) as to whether they would be deprived of their own children; and they were prepared to abandon everything, property, country, all, and to escape with the infants. The poem "To William" was written under this misapprehension, although when he left England in 1818, Sh.e.l.ley's chief reason, as given in his letter to G.o.dwin, was on account of his health. Undoubtedly the judgment, and all the trying circ.u.mstances they had been pa.s.sing through ever since their return from Geneva, helped to decide them in this determination.

Charles and Ianthe were finally placed under the care of Dr. and Mrs.

Hume, who were to receive two hundred pounds a year--eighty pounds settled on them by Westbrook, and one hundred and twenty pounds to be paid by Sh.e.l.ley for the charge. Sh.e.l.ley might see them twelve times a year in the presence of the Humes, the Westbrooks twelve times alone, and Sir Timothy and his family when they chose.

While these proceedings were progressing, Mary with Claire and the two children had moved to Marlow, having previously joined Sh.e.l.ley in London on January 26, as she feared to leave him in his depressed state alone. The intellectual society they met at Hunt's and at G.o.dwin's helped to pa.s.s over this trying period. One evening Mary saw together the "three poets"--Hunt, Sh.e.l.ley, and Keats; Keats not being much drawn towards Sh.e.l.ley, while Hazlitt, who was also present, was unfavourably impressed by his worn and sickly appearance, induced by the terrible anxieties and trials which be had recently pa.s.sed through. Horace Smith also proved a staunch friend: Sh.e.l.ley once remarked it was odd that the only truly generous wealthy person he ever met should be a stockbroker, and that he should write and care for poetry, and yet make money. In the midst of her anxieties, Mary Sh.e.l.ley enjoyed more social intercourse and amus.e.m.e.nt than before. We find her noting in her diary, in February, dining with the Hunts and Horace Smith, going to the opera of _Figaro_, music, &c. But now they had found their Marlow retreat--a house with a garden as Mary desired, not with a river view, but a shady little orchard, a kitchen garden, yews, cypresses, and a cedar tree. Here Mary was able to live unsaddened for a time; the Swiss nurse for the children, a cook and man-servant, sufficed for in-door and out-door work, and Mary, true to her name, was able to occupy herself with spiritual and intellectual employment, not to the neglect of domestic, as the succession of visitors entertained must prove; study, drawing, and her beloved work of _Frankenstein_ were making rapid progress. Nor could Mary have been indifferent to the woes of the poor, for Sh.e.l.ley would scarcely have been so actively benevolent as recorded during the residence at Marlow without the co-operation of his wife. While Sh.e.l.ley enquired into cases of distress and gave written orders for money, Mary dispensed the latter. Here G.o.dwin paid them his first visit, and the Hunts pa.s.sed a pleasant time. Sh.e.l.ley wrote his _Revolt of Islam_ under the Bisham Beeches, and Mary had the pleasure of welcoming her old friend Mr. Baxter, of Dundee, although his daughter Isabel, married to Mr. Booth, still held aloof. Peac.o.c.k, Horace Smith, and Hogg were also among the guests. We find constant references to G.o.dwin having been irritated and querulous with Mary or Sh.e.l.ley. A forced, unnatural, equanimity during one period of his life seems to have resulted in a querulous irritability later--a not unusual case--and he had to vent it on those who loved and revered him most, or in fact, on those who would alone endure it from amiability of disposition, a quality not remarkable in his second wife.

On May 14 we find Mary has finished and corrected her _Frankenstein_, and she decides to go to London and stay with her father while carrying on the negotiations with Murray whom she wishes to publish it. Sh.e.l.ley accompanies Mary for a few days at G.o.dwin's invitation, but returns to look after "Blue Eyes," to whom he is charged with a million kisses from Mary. But Mary returns speedily to Sh.e.l.ley and "Blue Eyes," having felt very restless while absent. She soon falls into a plan of Sh.e.l.ley's for partially adopting a little Polly who frequently spent the day or slept in their house, and Mary would find time to tell her before she went to bed whatever she or Sh.e.l.ley had been reading that day, always asking her what she thought of it.

Mary, who was expecting another child in the autumn, was not long idle after the completion of _Frankenstein_, but set to work copying and revising her _Six Weeks' Tour_. This work, begun in August, she completed after the birth of her baby Clara on September 2. In October the book was bought and published by Hookham.

She tells, in her notes on this year 1817, how she felt the illness and sorrows which Sh.e.l.ley pa.s.sed through had widened his intellect, and how it was the source of some of his n.o.blest poems, but that he had lost his early dreams of changing the world by an idea, or, at least, he no longer expected to see the result.

A letter from Mary to her husband, written soon after the birth of her baby, shows how anxious she was at that time about his health. It had been a positive pain to her to see him languid and ill, and she counselled him obtaining the best advice. Change being recommended by the physician, Mary has to decide between going to the seaside or Italy. With all the reasons for and against Italy, Mary asks Sh.e.l.ley to let her know distinctly his wish in the matter, as she can be well anywhere. One strong reason for their going to Italy is that Alba, as Allegra was then called, should join her father. Evidently the embarra.s.sment was too great to settle how to account for the poor child longer in England; and had not she a just claim upon Byron?

In another letter, September 28, Mary speaks of Claire's return to Marlow in a croaking state--everything wrong; Harriet's debts enormous. She had just been out for her first walk after the birth of Clara, and was surprised to find how much warmer it was out than in.