The Life and Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Volume Ii Part 29

No more was ever said, but this was enough, even to those who did not know all, to reveal a long history of endurance.

Clare came, and more than once, to stay at Field Place, but her excitability and eccentricity had so much increased as, at times, to be little if at all under her own control, and after one unmistakable proof of this, it was deemed (by those who cared for Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley) desirable that she should go and return no more.

She died at Florence in 1878.

Mary Sh.e.l.ley's strength was ebbing, her nervous ailments increased, and the result was a loss of power in one side. Life at Field Place had had to be abandoned on grounds of health (not her own), and Sir Percy Sh.e.l.ley had purchased Bos...o...b.. Manor for their country home, antic.i.p.ating great pleasure from his mother's enjoyment of the beautiful spot and fine climate. But she became worse, and never could be moved from her house in Chester Square till she was taken to her last resting-place. She died on the 21st of February 1851.

She died, "and her place among those who knew her intimately has never been filled up. She walked beside them, like a spirit of good, to comfort and benefit, to lighten the darkness of life, to cheer it with her sympathy and love."

These, her own words about Sh.e.l.ley, may with equal fitness be applied to her.

Her grave is in Bournemouth Churchyard, where, some time after, her father and mother were laid by her side.

As an author Mary Sh.e.l.ley did not accomplish all that was expected of her.

Her letters from abroad, both during her earlier and later tours, the descriptive fragments intended for her father's biography, and above all her notes on Sh.e.l.ley's works, are indeed valuable and enduring contributions to literature. But it was in imaginative work that she had aspired to excel, and in which both Sh.e.l.ley and G.o.dwin had urged her to persevere, confident that she could achieve a brilliant success. None of her novels, however, except _Frankenstein_, can be said to have survived the generation for which they were written. Only in that work has she left an abiding mark on literature. Yet her powers were very great, her culture very extensive, her ambition very high.

The friend whose description of her has been quoted in an earlier chapter tries to account for this. She says--

I think a partial solution for the circ.u.mscribed fame of Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley as a writer may be traced to her own shrinking and sensitive retiringness of nature. If, as Thackeray, perhaps justly, observes, "Persons, to succeed largely in this world, must a.s.sert themselves,"

most a.s.suredly Mary Sh.e.l.ley never tried that path to distinction....

I never knew, in my life, either man or woman whose whole character was so entirely in harmony: no jarring discords--no incongruous, anomalous, antagonistic opposites met to disturb the perfect unity, and to counteract one day the impressions of the former. Gentleness was ever and always her distinguishing characteristic. Many years'

friendship never showed me a deviation from it. But with this softness there was neither irresolution nor feebleness....

Many have fancied and accused her of being cold and apathetic. She was no such thing. She had warm, strong affections: as daughter, wife, and mother she was exemplary and devoted. Besides this, she was a faithful, unswerving friend.

She was not a mirthful--scarcely could be called a cheerful person; and at times was subject to deep and profound fits of despondency, when she would shut herself up, and be quite inaccessible to all. Her undeviating love of truth was ever acted on--never swerved from. Her worst enemy could never charge her with falsification--even equivocation. Truth--truth--truth--was the governing principle in all the words she uttered, the thoughts and judgments she expressed. Hence she was most intolerant to deceit and falsehood, in any shape or guise, and those who attempted to practise it on her aroused as much bitter indignation as her nature was capable of....

It is too often the case that authors talk too much of their writings, and all thereunto belonging. Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley was the extremest reverse of this. In fact, she was almost morbidly averse to the least allusion to herself as an auth.o.r.ess. To call on her and find her table covered with all the accessories and unmistakable traces of _book-making_, such as copy, proofs for correction, etc., made her nearly as nervous and unselfpossessed as if she had been detected in the commission of some offence against the conventionalities of society, or the code of morality....

I really think she deemed it unwomanly to print and publish; and had it not been for the hard cash which, like so many of her craft, she so often stood in need of, I do not think she would ever have come before the world as an auth.o.r.ess....

Like all raised in supremacy above their fellows, either mentally or physically, Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley had her enemies and detractors. But none ever dared to impugn the correctness of her conduct. From the hour of her early widowhood to the period of her death, she might have married advantageously several times. But she often said, "I know not what temptation could make me change the name of Sh.e.l.ley."

But the true cause lay deeper still, and may afford a clue to more puzzles than this one. What Mary G.o.dwin might have become had she remained Mary G.o.dwin for six or eight years longer it is impossible now to do more than guess at. But the free growth of her own original nature was checked and a new bent given to it by her early union with Sh.e.l.ley. Two original geniuses can rarely develop side by side, certainly not in marriage, least of all in a happy marriage. Two minds may, indeed, work consentaneously, but one, however unconsciously, will take the lead; should the other preserve its complete independence, angles must of necessity develop, and the first fitness of things disappear. And in a marriage of enthusiastic devotion and mutual admiration, the younger or the weaker mind, however candid, will shirk or stop short of conclusions which, it instinctively feels, may lead to collision. On the other hand, strong and p.r.o.nounced views or peculiarities on the part of one may tend to elicit their exact opposite on the part of the other; both results being equally remote from real independence of thought. However it may be, either in marriage or in any intellectual partnership, it is a general truth that from the moment one mind is penetrated by the influence of another, its own native power over other minds has gone, and for ever. And Mary parted with this power at sixteen, before she knew what it was to have it. When she left her father's house with Sh.e.l.ley she was but a child, a thing of promise, everything about her yet to be decided. Sh.e.l.ley himself was a half-formed creature, but of infinite possibilities and extraordinary powers, and Mary's development had not only to keep pace with his, but to keep in time and tune with his. Sterne said of Lady Elizabeth Hastings that "to have loved her was a liberal education." To love Sh.e.l.ley adequately and worthily was that and more--it was a vocation, a career,--enough for a life-time and an exceptional one.

Every reader of the present biography must see too that in Mary Sh.e.l.ley's case physical causes had much to do with the limit of her intellectual achievements. Between seventeen and twenty-five she had drawn too largely on the reserve funds of life. Weak health and illness, a roving unsettled life, the birth and rearing, and then the loss, of children; great joys and great griefs, all crowded into a few young years, and coinciding with study and brain-work and the constant call on her nervous energy necessitated by companionship with Sh.e.l.ley, these exhausted her; and when he who was the beginning and end of her existence disappeared, "and the light of her life as if gone out,"[23] she was left,--left what those eight years had made her, to begin again from the beginning all alone. And n.o.bly she began, manfully she struggled, and wonderfully, considering all things, did she succeed. No one, however, has more than a certain, limited, amount of vitality to express in his or her life; the vital force may take one form or another, but cannot be used twice over. The best of Mary's power spent itself in active life, in ministering to another being, during those eight years with Sh.e.l.ley. What she gained from him, and it was much, was paid back to him a hundredfold. When he was gone, and those calls for outward activity were over, there lay before her the life of literary labour and thought for which nature and training had pre-eminently fitted her. But she could not call back the freshness of her powers nor the wholeness of her heart. She did not fully know, or realise, then, the amount of life-capital she had run through. She did realise it at a later time, and the very interesting entry in her journal, dated October 21, 1838, is a kind of profession of faith; a summary of her views of life; the result of her reflections and of her experience--

_Journal, October 21._--I have been so often abused by pretended friends for my lukewarmness in "the good cause," that I disdain to answer them. I shall put down here a few thoughts on this subject. I am much of a self-examiner. Vanity is not my fault, I think; if it is, it is uncomfortable vanity, for I have none that teaches me to be satisfied with myself; far otherwise--and, if I use the word disdain, it is that I think my qualities (such as they are) not appreciated from unworthy causes. In the first place, with regard to "the good cause"--the cause of the advancement of freedom and knowledge, of the rights of women, etc.--I am not a person of opinions. I have said elsewhere that human beings differ greatly in this. Some have a pa.s.sion for reforming the world, others do not cling to particular opinions. That my parents and Sh.e.l.ley were of the former cla.s.s makes me respect it. I respect such when joined to real disinterestedness, toleration, and a clear understanding. My accusers, after such as these, appear to me mere drivellers. For myself, I earnestly desire the good and enlightenment of my fellow-creatures, and see all, in the present course, tending to the same, and rejoice; but I am not for violent extremes, which only bring on an injurious reaction. I have never written a word in disfavour of liberalism: that I have not supported it openly in writing arises from the following causes, as far as I know--

That I have not argumentative powers: I see things pretty clearly, but cannot demonstrate them. Besides, I feel the counter-arguments too strongly. I do not feel that I could say aught to support the cause efficiently; besides that, on some topics (especially with regard to my own s.e.x) I am far from making up my mind. I believe we are sent here to educate ourselves, and that self-denial, and disappointment, and self-control are a part of our education; that it is not by taking away all restraining law that our improvement is to be achieved; and, though many things need great amendment, I can by no means go so far as my friends would have me. When I feel that I can say what will benefit my fellow-creatures, I will speak; not before.

Then, I recoil from the vulgar abuse of the inimical press. I do more than recoil: proud and sensitive, I act on the defensive--an inglorious position. To hang back, as I do, brings a penalty. I was nursed and fed with a love of glory. To be something great and good was the precept given me by my Father; Sh.e.l.ley reiterated it. Alone and poor, I could only be something by joining a party; and there was much in me--the woman's love of looking up, and being guided, and being willing to do anything if any one supported and brought me forward--which would have made me a good partisan. But Sh.e.l.ley died and I was alone. My Father, from age and domestic circ.u.mstances, could not _me faire valoir_. My total friendlessness, my horror of pushing, and inability to put myself forward unless led, cherished and supported--all this has sunk me in a state of loneliness no other human being ever before, I believe, endured--except Robinson Crusoe.

How many tears and spasms of anguish this solitude has cost me, lies buried in my memory.

If I had raved and ranted about what I did not understand, had I adopted a set of opinions, and propagated them with enthusiasm; had I been careless of attack, and eager for notoriety; then the party to which I belonged had gathered round me, and I had not been alone.

It has been the fashion with these same friends to accuse me of worldliness. There, indeed, in my own heart and conscience, I take a high ground. I may distrust my own judgment too much--be too indolent and too timid; but in conduct I am above merited blame.

I like society; I believe all persons who have any talent (who are in good health) do. The soil that gives forth nothing may lie ever fallow; but that which produces--however humble its product--needs cultivation, change of harvest, refreshing dews, and ripening sun.

Books do much; but the living intercourse is the vital heat. Debarred from that, how have I pined and died!

My early friends chose the position of enemies. When I first discovered that a trusted friend had acted falsely by me, I was nearly destroyed. My health was shaken. I remember thinking, with a burst of agonising tears, that I should prefer a bed of torture to the unutterable anguish a friend's falsehood engendered. There is no resentment; but the world can never be to me what it was before. Trust and confidence, and the heart's sincere devotion are gone.

I sought at that time to make acquaintances--to divert my mind from this anguish. I got entangled in various ways through my ready sympathy and too eager heart; but I never crouched to society--never sought it unworthily. If I have never written to vindicate the rights of women, I have ever befriended women when oppressed. At every risk I have befriended and supported victims to the social system; but I make no boast, for in truth it is simple justice I perform; and so I am still reviled for being worldly.

G.o.d grant a happier and a better day is near! Percy--my all-in-all--will, I trust, by his excellent understanding, his clear, bright, sincere spirit and affectionate heart, repay me for sad long years of desolation. His career may lead me into the thick of life or only gild a quiet home. I am content with either, and, as I grow older, I grow more fearless for myself--I become firmer in my opinions. The experienced, the suffering, the thoughtful, may at last speak unrebuked. If it be the will of G.o.d that I live, I may ally my name yet to "the Good Cause," though I do not expect to please my accusers.

Thus have I put down my thoughts. I may have deceived myself; I may be in the wrong; I try to examine myself; and such as I have written appears to me the exact truth.

Enough of this! The great work of life goes on. Death draws near. To be better after death than in life is one's hope and endeavour--to be so through self-schooling. If I write the above, it is that those who love me may hereafter know that I am not all to blame, nor merit the heavy accusations cast on me for not putting myself forward. I cannot do that; it is against my nature. As well cast me from a precipice and rail at me for not flying.

The true success of Mary Sh.e.l.ley's life was not, therefore, the intellectual triumph of which, during her youth, she had loved to dream, and which at one time seemed to be actually within her grasp, but the moral success of beauty of character. To those people--a daily increasing number in this tired world--who erect the natural grace of animal spirits to the rank of the highest virtue, this success may appear hardly worth the name. Yet it was a very real victory. Her nature was not without faults or tendencies which, if undisciplined, might have developed into faults, but every year she lived seemed to mellow and ripen her finer qualities, while blemishes or weaknesses were suppressed or overcome, and finally disappeared altogether.

As to her theological views, about which the most contradictory opinions have been expressed, it can but be said that nothing in Mrs. Sh.e.l.ley's writings gives other people the right to formulate for her any dogmatic opinions at all. Brought up in a purely rationalistic creed, her education had of course, no tinge of what is known as "personal religion," and it must be repeated here that none of her acts and views were founded, or should be judged as if they were founded on Biblical commands or prohibitions. That the temper of her mind, so to speak, was eminently religious there can be no doubt; that she believed in G.o.d and a future state there are many allusions to show.[24] Perhaps no one, having lived with the so-called atheist, Sh.e.l.ley, could have accepted the idea of the limitation, or the extinction of intelligence and goodness. Her liberality of mind, however, was rewarded by abuse from some of her acquaintance, because her toleration was extended even to the orthodox.

Her moral opinions, had they ever been formulated, which they never were, would have approximated closely to those of Mary Wollstonecraft, limited, however, by an inability, like her father's, _not_ to see both sides of a question, and also by the severest and most elevated standard of moral purity, of personal faith and loyalty. To be judged by such a standard she would have regarded as a woman's highest privilege. To claim as a "woman's right" any licence, any lowering of the standard of duty in these matters, would have been to her incomprehensible and impossible. But, with all this, she discriminated. Her standard was not that of the conventional world.

At every risk, as she says, she befriended those whom she considered "victims to the social system." It was a difficult course; for, while her acquaintance of the "advanced" type accused her of cowardice and worldliness for not a.s.serting herself as a champion of universal liberty, there were more who were ready to decry her for her friendly relations with Countess Guiccioli, Lady Mountcashel, and others not named here; to say nothing of Clare, to whom much of her happiness had been sacrificed.

She refrained from p.r.o.nouncing judgment, but reserved her liberty of action, and in all doubtful cases gave others the benefit of the doubt, and this without respect of persons. She would not excommunicate a humble individual for what was pa.s.sed over in a man or woman of genius; nor condemn a woman for what, in a man, might be excused, or might even add to his social reputation. Least of all would she secure her own position by shunning those whose case had once been hers, and who in their after life had been less fortunate than she. Pure herself, she could be charitable, and she could be just.

The influence of such a wife on Sh.e.l.ley's more vehement, visionary temperament can hardly be over-estimated. Their moods did not always suit or coincide; each, at times, made the other suffer. It could not be otherwise with two natures so young, so strong, and so individual. But, if forbearance may have been sometimes called for on the one hand, and on the other a charity which is kind and thinks no evil, it was only a part of that discipline from which the married life of geniuses is not exempt, and which tests the temper and quality of the metal it tries; an ordeal from which two n.o.ble natures come forth the purer and the stronger.

The indirect, unconscious power of elevation of character is great, and not even a Sh.e.l.ley but must be the better for a.s.sociation with it, not even he but must be the n.o.bler, "yea, three times less unworthy" through the love of such a woman as Mary. He would not have been all he was without her sustaining and refining influence; without the constant sense that in loving him she loved his ideals also. We owe him, in part, to her.

Love--the love of Love--was Sh.e.l.ley's life and creed. This, in Mary's creed, was interpreted as love of Sh.e.l.ley. By all the rest she strove to do her duty, but, when the end came, that survived as the one great fact of her life--a fact she might have uttered in words like his--

And where is Truth? On tombs; for such to thee Has been my heart; and thy dead memory Has lain from (girlhood), many a changeful year, Unchangingly preserved, and buried there.

_F. D. & Co._

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.

POSTSCRIPT

Since this book was printed, a series of letters from Harriet Sh.e.l.ley to an Irish friend, Mrs. Nugent, containing references to the separation from Sh.e.l.ley, has been published in the New York _Nation_. These letters, however, add nothing to what was previously known of Harriet's history and life with Sh.e.l.ley. After November 1813 the correspondence ceases. It is resumed in August 1814, after the separation and Sh.e.l.ley's departure from England. Harriet's account of these events--gathered by her at second-hand from those who can, themselves, have had no knowledge of the facts they professed to relate--embodies all the slanderous reports adverted to in the seventh chapter of the present work, and all the gratuitous falsehoods circulated by Mrs. G.o.dwin;--falsehoods which Professor Dowden, in the Appendix to his _Life of Sh.e.l.ley_, has been at the trouble directly to disprove, statement by statement;--falsehoods of which the Author cannot but hope that an amply sufficient, if an indirect, refutation may be found in the present Life of Mary Sh.e.l.ley.

ERRATA