The Life and Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Volume Ii Part 4

Perhaps it may be of some use to you if I give you my opinion of _Castruccio_. I think there are parts of high genius, and that your two females are exceedingly interesting; but I am not satisfied.

_Frankenstein_ was a fine thing; it was compressed, muscular, and firm; nothing relaxed and weak; no proud flesh. _Castruccio_ is a work of more genius; but it appears, in reading, that the first rule you prescribed to yourself was, I will let it be long. It contains the quant.i.ty of four volumes of _Waverley_. No hard blow was ever hit with a woolsack! Mamma desires me to remember her to you in the kindest manner, and to say that she feels a deep interest in everything that concerns you. She means to take the earliest opportunity to see Mrs.

Williams, both as she feels an earnest sympathy in her calamity, and as she will be likely to learn a hundred particulars respecting the dispositions and prospects of yourself and Jane, which she might in vain desire to learn in any other quarter. You asked Mamma for some present, a remembrance of your mother. She has reserved for you a ring of hers, with f.a.n.n.y Blood's hair set round with pearls.

You will, of course, rely on it that I will send you the letters you ask for by Peac.o.c.k's parcel. Miss Curran's address is Hotel de Dusseldorf Rue Pet.i.ts St. Augustin, a Paris.--Believe me, ever your most affectionate Father,

WILLIAM G.o.dWIN.

My last letter was dated 11th October.

_Journal, November 10._--I have made my first probation in writing, and it has done me much good, and I get more calm; the stream begins to take to its new channel, insomuch as to make me fear change. But people must know little of me who think that, abstractedly, I am content with my present mode of life. Activity of spirit is my sphere.

But we cannot be active of mind without an object; and I have none. I am allowed to have some talent--that is sufficient, methinks, to cause my irreparable misery; for, if one has genius, what a delight it is to be a.s.sociated with a superior! Mine own Sh.e.l.ley! the sun knows of none to be likened to you--brave, wise, n.o.ble-hearted, full of learning, tolerance, and love. Love! what a word for me to write! yet, my miserable heart, permit me yet to love,--to see him in beauty, to feel him in beauty, to be interpenetrated by the sense of his excellence; and thus to love singly, eternally, ardently, and not fruitlessly; for I am still his--still the chosen one of that blessed spirit--still vowed to him for ever and ever!

_November 11._--It is better to grieve than not to grieve. Grief at least tells me that I was not always what I am now. I was once selected for happiness; let the memory of that abide by me. You pa.s.s by an old ruined house in a desolate lane, and heed it not. But if you hear that that house is haunted by a wild and beautiful spirit, it acquires an interest and beauty of its own.

I shall be glad to be more alone again; one ought to see no one, or many; and, confined to one society, I shall lose all energy except that which I possess from my own resources; and I must be alone for those to be put in activity.

A cold heart! Have I a cold heart? G.o.d knows! But none need envy the icy region this heart encircles; and at least the tears are hot which the emotions of this cold heart forces me to shed. A cold heart! yes, it would be cold enough if all were as I wished it--cold, or burning in the flame for whose sake I forgive this, and would forgive every other imputation--that flame in which your heart, beloved, lay unconsumed. My heart is very full to-night.

I shall write his life, and thus occupy myself in the only manner from which I can derive consolation. That will be a task that may convey some balm. What though I weep? All is better than inaction and--not forgetfulness--that never is--but an inactivity of remembrance.

And you, my own boy! I am about to begin a task which, if you live, will be an invaluable treasure to you in after times. I must collect my materials, and then, in the commemoration of the divine virtues of your Father, I shall fulfil the only act of pleasure there remains for me, and be ready to follow you, if you leave me, my task being fulfilled. I have lived; rapture, exultation, content--all the varied changes of enjoyment--have been mine. It is all gone; but still, the airy paintings of what it has gone through float by, and distance shall not dim them. If I were alone, I had already begun what I had determined to do; but I must have patience, and for those events my memory is bra.s.s, my thoughts a never-tired engraver.

France--Poverty--A few days of solitude, and some uneasiness--A tranquil residence in a beautiful spot--Switzerland--Bath--Marlow--Milan--the Baths of Lucca--Este--Venice--Rome--Naples--Rome and misery--Leghorn--Florence--Pisa--Solitude--The Williams'--The Baths--Pisa: these are the heads of chapters, and each containing a tale romantic beyond romance.

I no longer enjoy, but I love. Death cannot deprive me of that living spark which feeds on all given it, and which is now triumphant in sorrow. I love, and shall enjoy happiness again. I do not doubt that; but when?

These fragments of journal give the course of her inward reflections; her letters sometimes supply the clue to her outward life, _au jour le jour_.

MARY Sh.e.l.lEY TO CLARE CLAIRMONT.

_20th December 1822._

MY DEAR CLARE--I have delayed writing to you so long for two reasons.

First, I have every day expected to hear from you; and secondly, I wished to hear something decisive from England to communicate to you.

But I have waited in vain for both things. You do not write, and I begin to despair of ever hearing from you again. A few words will tell you all that has been done in England. When I wrote to you last, I think that I told you that Lord Byron had written to Hanson, bidding him call upon Whitton. Hanson wrote to Whitton desiring an interview, which Whitton declined, requesting Hanson to make his application by letter, which Hanson has done, and I know no more. This does not look like an absolute refusal, but Sir Timothy is so capricious that we cannot trust to appearances.

And now the chapter about myself is finished, for what can I say of my present life? The weather is bitterly cold with a sharp wind, very unlike dear, _carissima_ Pisa; but soft airs and balmy gales are not the attributes of Genoa, which place I daily and duly join Marianne in detesting. There is but one fireplace in the house, and although people have been for a month putting up a stove in my room, it smokes too much to permit of its being lighted. So I am obliged to pa.s.s the greater part of my time in Hunt's sitting-room, which is, as you may guess, the annihilation of study, and even of pleasure to a great degree. For, after all, Hunt does not like me: it is both our faults, and I do not blame him, but so it is. I rise at 9, breakfast, work, read, and if I can at all endure the cold, copy my Sh.e.l.ley's MSS. in my own room, and if possible walk before dinner. After that I work, read Greek, etc., till 10, when Hunt and Marianne go to bed. Then I am alone. Then the stream of thought, which has struggled against its _argine_ all through the busy day, makes a _piena_, and sorrow and memory and imagination, despair, and hope in despair, are the winds and currents that impel it. I am alone, and myself; and then I begin to say, as I ever feel, "How I hate life! What a mockery it is to rise, to walk, to feed, and then go to rest, and in all this a statue might do my part. One thing alone may or can awake me, and that is study; the rest is all nothing." And so it is! I am silent and serious. Absorbed in my own thoughts, what am I then in this world if my spirit live not to learn and become better? That is the whole of my destiny; I look to nothing else. For I dare not look to my little darling other than as--not the sword of Damocles, that is a wrong simile, or to a wrecked seaman's plank--true, he stands, and only he, between me and the sea of eternity; but I long for that plunge! No, I fear for him pain, disappointment,--all, all fear.

You see how it is, it is near 11, and my good friends repose. This is the hour when I can think, un.o.btruded upon, and these thoughts, _malgre moi_, will stain this paper. But then, my dear Clare, I have nothing else except my nothingless self to talk about. You have doubtless heard from Jane, and I have heard from no one else. I see no one. The Guiccioli and Lord Byron once a month. Trelawny seldom, and he is on the eve of his departure for Leghorn....

Marianne suffers during this dreadfully cold weather, but less than I should have supposed. The children are all well. So also is my Percy, poor little darling: they all scold him because he speaks loud _a l'Italien_. People love to, nay, they seem to exist on, finding fault with others, but I have no right to complain, and this unlucky stove is the sole source of all my _dispiacere_; if I had that, I should not tease any one, or any one me, or my only one; but after all, these are trifles. I have sent for another _ingeniere_, and I hope, before many days are elapsed, to retire as before to my hole.

I have again delayed finishing this letter, waiting for letters from England, that I might not send you one so barren of all intelligence.

But I have had none. And nothing new has happened except Trelawny's departure for Leghorn, so that our days are more monotonous than ever.

The weather is drearily cold, and an eternal north-east whistles through every crevice. Percy, however, is far better in this cold than in summer; he is warmly clothed, and gets on.

Adieu. Pray write. My love to Charles; I am ashamed that I do not write to him, but I have only an old story to repeat, and this letter tells that.--Affectionately yours,

MARY Sh.e.l.lEY.

_Journal, December 31._--So this year comes to an end. Sh.e.l.ley, beloved! the year has a new name from any thou knewest. When spring arrives leaves you never saw will shadow the ground, and flowers you never beheld will star it; the gra.s.s will be of another growth, and the birds sing a new song--the aged earth dates with a new number.

Sometimes I thought that fortune had relented towards us; that your health would have improved, and that fame and joy would have been yours, for, when well, you extracted from Nature alone an endless delight. The various threads of our existence seemed to be drawing to one point, and there to a.s.sume a cheerful hue.

Again, I think that your gentle spirit was too much wounded by the sharpness of this world; that your disease was incurable, and that in a happy time you became the partaker of cloudless days, ceaseless hours, and infinite love. Thy name is added to the list which makes the earth bold in her age and proud of what has been. Time, with unwearied but slow feet, guides her to the goal that thou hast reached, and I, her unhappy child, am advanced still nearer the hour when my earthly dress shall repose near thine, beneath the tomb of Cestius.

It must have been at about this time that Mary wrote the sad, retrospective poem ent.i.tled "The Choice."

THE CHOICE.

My Choice!--My Choice, alas! was had and gone With the red gleam of last autumnal sun; Lost in that deep wherein he bathed his head, My choice, my life, my hope together fled:-- A wanderer here, no more I seek a home, The sky a vault, and Italy a tomb.

Yet as some days a pilgrim I remain, Linked to my orphan child by love's strong chain; And, since I have a faith that I must earn, By suffering and by patience, a return Of that companionship and love, which first Upon my young life's cloud like sunlight burst, And now has left me, dark, as when its beams, Quenched in the might of dreadful ocean streams, Leave that one cloud, a gloomy speck on high, Beside one star in the else darkened sky;-- Since I must live, how would I pa.s.s the day, How meet with fewest tears the morning's ray, How sleep with calmest dreams, how find delights, As fireflies gleam through interlunar nights?

First let me call on thee! Lost as thou art, Thy name aye fills my sense, thy love my heart.

Oh, gentle Spirit! thou hast often sung, How fallen on evil days thy heart was wrung; Now fierce remorse and unreplying death Waken a chord within my heart, whose breath, Thrilling and keen, in accents audible A tale of unrequited love doth tell.

It was not anger,--while thy earthly dress Encompa.s.sed still thy soul's rare loveliness, All anger was atoned by many a kind Caress or tear, that spoke the softened mind.-- It speaks of cold neglect, averted eyes, That blindly crushed thy soul's fond sacrifice:-- My heart was all thine own,--but yet a sh.e.l.l Closed in its core, which seemed impenetrable, Till sharp-toothed misery tore the husk in twain, Which gaping lies, nor may unite again.

Forgive me! let thy love descend in dew Of soft repentance and regret most true;-- In a strange guise thou dost descend, or how Could love soothe fell remorse,--as it does now?-- By this remorse and love, and by the years Through which we shared our common hopes and fears, By all our best companionship, I dare Call on thy sacred name without a fear;-- And thus I pray to thee, my friend, my Heart!

That in thy new abode, thou'lt bear a part In soothing thy poor Mary's lonely pain, As link by link she weaves her heavy chain!-- And thou, strange star! ascendant at my birth, Which rained, they said, kind influence on the earth, So from great parents sprung, I dared to boast Fortune my friend, till set, thy beams were lost!

And thou, Inscrutable, by whose decree Has burst this hideous storm of misery!

Here let me cling, here to the solitudes, These myrtle-shaded streams and chestnut woods; Tear me not hence--here let me live and die, In my adopted land--my country--Italy.

A happy Mother first I saw this sun, Beneath this sky my race of joy was run.

First my sweet girl, whose face resembled _his_, Slept on bleak Lido, near Venetian seas.

Yet still my eldest-born, my loveliest, dearest, Clung to my side, most joyful then when nearest.

An English home had given this angel birth, Near those royal towers, where the gra.s.s-clad earth Is shadowed o'er by England's loftiest trees: Then our companion o'er the swift-pa.s.sed seas, He dwelt beside the Alps, or gently slept, Rocked by the waves, o'er which our vessel swept, Beside his father, nurst upon my breast, While Leman's waters shook with fierce unrest.

His fairest limbs had bathed in Serchio's stream; His eyes had watched Italian lightnings gleam; His childish voice had, with its loudest call, The echoes waked of Este's castle wall; Had paced Pompeii's Roman market-place; Had gazed with infant wonder on the grace Of stone-wrought deities, and pictured saints, In Rome's high palaces--there were no taints Of ruin on his cheek--all shadowless Grim death approached--the boy met his caress, And while his glowing limbs with life's warmth shone, Around those limbs his icy arms were thrown.

His spoils were strewed beneath the soil of Rome, Whose flowers now star the dark earth near his tomb: Its airs and plants received the mortal part, His spirit beats within his mother's heart.

Infant immortal! chosen for the sky!

No grief upon thy brow's young purity Entrenched sad lines, or blotted with its might The sunshine of thy smile's celestial light;-- The image shattered, the bright spirit fled, Thou shin'st the evening star among the dead.

And thou, his playmate, whose deep lucid eyes, Were a reflection of these bluest skies; Child of our hearts, divided in ill hour, We could not watch the bud's expanding flower, Now thou art gone, one guileless victim more, To the black death that rules this sunny sh.o.r.e.

Companion of my griefs! thy sinking frame Had often drooped, and then erect again With shows of health had mocked forebodings dark;-- Watching the changes of that quivering spark, I feared and hoped, and dared to trust at length, Thy very weakness was my tower of strength.

Methought thou wert a spirit from the sky, Which struggled with its chains, but could not die, And that destruction had no power to win From out those limbs the soul that burnt within.

Tell me, ye ancient walls, and weed-grown towers, Ye Roman airs and brightly painted flowers, Does not his spirit visit that recess Which built of love enshrines his earthly dress?-- No more! no more!--what though that form be fled, My trembling hand shall never write thee--dead-- Thou liv'st in Nature, Love, my Memory, With deathless faith for aye adoring thee, The wife of Time no more, I wed Eternity.

'Tis thus the Past--on which my spirit leans, Makes dearest to my soul Italian scenes.

In Tuscan fields the winds in odours steeped From flowers and cypresses, when skies have wept, Shall, like the notes of music once most dear, Which brings the unstrung voice upon my ear Of one beloved, to memory display Past scenes, past hopes, past joys, in long array.

Pugnano's trees, beneath whose shade he stood, The pools reflecting Pisa's old pine wood, The fireflies beams, the aziola's cry All breathe his spirit which can never die.

Such memories have linked these hills and caves, These woodland paths, and streams, and knelling waves Past to each sad pulsation of my breast, And made their melancholy arms the haven of my rest.

Here will I live, within a little dell, Which but a month ago I saw full well:-- A dream then pictured forth the solitude Deep in the shelter of a lovely wood; A voice then whispered a strange prophecy, My dearest, widowed friend, that thou and I Should there together pa.s.s the weary day, As we before have done in Spezia's bay, As though long hours we watched the sails that neared O'er the far sea, their vessel ne'er appeared; One pang of agony, one dying gleam Of hope led us along, beside the ocean stream, But keen-eyed fear, the while all hope departs, Stabbed with a million stings our heart of hearts.

The sad revolving year has not allayed The poison of these bleeding wounds, or made The anguish less of that corroding thought Which has with grief each single moment fraught.

Edward, thy voice was hushed--thy n.o.ble heart With aspiration heaves no more--a part Of heaven-resumed past thou art become, Thy spirit waits with his in our far home.