A Call to Arms

shrugged. He wished he had at least read some of Shelley’s poetry. It would surely tell him more of the man than mere gossip could. But his own tastes in that direction had advanced only slowly, so that hitherto he had remained devoted above all to the Milton of his schoolroom. Through Henrietta he had read Coleridge, and with her Keats, but Shelley had not so far engaged him.

Elizabeth had not objected to suppering with the Shelleys, however. Elizabeth’s pleasure was her journal, and it had often been her lament that its pages were full of things that no one could have the least interest in but herself. Not that she harboured literary ambitions; rather was she occasionally in despair of being, at no longer five and twenty, without anything more to record than domestic trifles. If only she could write of her time at the workhouse, or in the hovels of Warminster Common, her memoir might stand as something of real consequence. But good works were one thing. To itemize the meanness and dissipation of rural life in a lady’s journal was quite another. Italy had seen her able to write infinitely more interesting pages already, but of the countryside and art; of people, her entries were as yet restricted. Save in the case of her brother, whose progress she noted with anxious attention — and of Henrietta, whom she missed so much more than any but her journal knew, sometimes through tear marks rather than ink.

At nine o’clock they took a carriage to Shelley’s lodgings, for although it was not far, Elizabeth had been at pains to dress and Hervey had no wish to take the edge off her success by chancing to their feet. When they arrived at number 300 Via del Corso they found their host agitated. ‘I am very glad to meet you, Miss Hervey,’ Shelley replied, after Hervey’s introduction. ‘But my wife is unwell, I’m afraid, and makes her regrets. We shall go instead to Signora Dionigi’s. She holds a conversazione this evening. It will be very diverting.’

Now Hervey was troubled. ‘But we do not know Signora Dionigi.’

‘That will not matter in the least. The signora likes nothing more than to meet new people.’

Elizabeth, whose face was suffused by a colour far from her usual, assured their host that they would be delighted to go to the signora’s. ‘For in truth, Mr Shelley, we have not been much in company these past months.’

Hervey did not care for the idea of this conversazione, which sounded like nothing so much as the flummery of some ageing widow’s salon. Even the black humour which could descend on him of an evening might be preferable. But he could not deny his sister her diversion, even if he himself had no inclination for festive company.

Signora Marianna Dionigi was no dilettante, however. Ageing she might be, but she was also a painter of some distinction, an antiquary of impressive learning, and therefore unlikely to be seduced by worthless flattery. She was tall, upright. Her face, to Hervey’s mind, was a little too farded, but her features were very fine. Her dress was distinctly Italian rather than French. Above all she had kind eyes. She took Elizabeth’s arm and introduced her to the room, first in French, then in English. Elizabeth’s shot silk was perhaps a little out of place among the dresses of the foreign ladies, but it did not matter greatly, for Hervey observed that she was as handsome in essentials as any in the room, and with expert assistance might outshine at least half of them.

For a quarter of an hour before supper began, Shelley tried in vain to engage Hervey in conversation, to draw from him some response to a question of fact, or some opinion on this or that. Perhaps, he thought, it was that Hervey watched too keenly for his sister, or that the liveliness of the company made it difficult for him to be at ease. At any rate, Shelley saw enough not to persist, and, with the utmost politeness, left him to himself as they made for the dining room. There, Hervey was relieved to find a table from which the guests helped themselves, so that he was able to slip unnoticed into the library. He had no appetite, and he could pass an hour or so pleasurably there now Elizabeth was at her ease and engaged in conversation.

But he was not long allowed his solitude, for Signora Dionigi was an attentive hostess, and she sought him out after a while. ‘May I bring you some wine, Mr Hervey?’ she asked, in French.

Hervey had in his hand a book of engravings of Roman antiquities. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, signora. I did not wish to appear—’

The signora smiled the more. ‘Mr Hervey, we do not follow a formula at these gatherings. I had rather you took your pleasure in a book if it were not to be had elsewhere.’

‘You are very kind, signora. I am not averse to company as a rule, but …’

‘It is your business alone, Mr Hervey. We Romans are not nearly so constrained by obligation.’

Now Hervey smiled, gratified by her discernment. ‘Thank you, signora. And yes, I should like a little wine, if I may.’

The signora despatched her attendant. ‘Have you known Mr Shelley long?’ she asked, now in English.

‘We met only this morning, signora.’

‘But you admire his poetry.’

He hesitated. ‘I am very much afraid that I have never read any of it.’

‘Would you like to?’

He had expected a tone of surprise, of disapproval even. The signora was indeed the most considerate of hostesses, as well as attentive. ‘I would of course, madam.’ So obliging had been her reply that he could not have said otherwise.

She took a small volume from the drawer of a writing desk. ‘Here, Mr Hervey. You will see what a great poet is our friend Mr Shelley. Do not hurry: he will repay proper study. Join us only if you feel inclined. That should be the way with conversazione.’

Hervey bowed in appreciation. He truly felt disinclined to the gaiety of the room next door, and the signora had sensed it. And he did wish to read a little of Shelley’s poetry, for he had a mind that it might tell him something of the man. Their time together that morning, although short, had endeared the poet to him to an uncommon degree.

Half an hour passed, perhaps more, during which Hervey was interrupted only by a manservant bringing him champagne. And from the first moments with Alastor — ‘the demon spirit of solitude’ — he recognized that the poetry stood comparison to any he had read. Equal, certainly, to Coleridge and Keats in the pleasure the words themselves gave, and equal in some respects even to Milton in heroic invention. He did not know how much it truly told him of the man, however. It seemed, in fact, to speak most aptly to his own condition — and so well, that he found himself reading lines aloud, twice over:

‘… wildly he wandered on,

‘Day after day a weary waste of hours,

‘Bearing within his life the brooding care

‘That ever fed on its decaying flame.’

And he marvelled at the poet’s economy in describing what he himself could barely admit.

‘And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair

‘Sered by the autumn of strange suffering

‘Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand

‘Hung like dead bone within its withered skin;’

He shivered, almost, as he spoke this last.

‘Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone—’

But it was Shelley himself who spoke the culminating lines:

‘As in a furnace burning secretly,

‘From his dark eyes alone.’

Hervey looked up.

‘You approve of my philosophy, Captain Hervey?’ asked the poet, smiling with some pride.

‘I am no longer captain, as I explained this morning. And I should have to read much more before I were able to make any worthy remark.’ Even as he spoke, Hervey heard the stuffed shirt and inwardly he groaned.

But Shelley seemed only diverted by his reserve, and by what he considered to be further evidence of