“I had thought that the father always received the children in the event of a separation,” replied Mary, “and undoubtedly in such a circumstance as you describe. That was why I was consulting Mr. Longdill—I went to ask him, was there any precedent where a mother retained control of her children. He said he could give me no encouragement on that head. But what of your case? Did you prevail? If your wife had a lover, how could she have retained control of your children?”
Shelley looked away. “It was not Harriet who brought the suit for custody. By then, Harriet had destroyed herself. She was always of a melancholic temperament. Her lover abandoned her, and in her despair she drowned herself.”
“Ah! It is very tragic.”
Shelley nodded. “Thank you, but the blow, while shocking at first, was lessened by the reflection that I had nothing to reproach myself with.” He slid down from the fence and lay down in a dry patch of long grass, folding his arms behind his head. “I can hardly regret the chivalric impulse which led me to propose marriage to Harriet,” he said with a sigh, “but I was determined to conduct my life by the principles of truth and integrity, so that when I came to realize she did not fill my heart with an all-consuming passion, it was best that we part. The consequences have been, to me, severe.”
Mary was on the point of remarking that the consequences were rather more severe for the late Mrs. Shelley, when her companion continued: “I look back with wonder at my youthful self—at the hopes I cherished for the reformation of England, for the emancipation of the Irish, for the rights and dignity of the common man—all of these things I was to accomplish with the eloquence of my pen and the conviction of my beliefs! But instead, I have spent all my time scrambling for sustenance, my heart lacerated and torn with vain regrets. I sent my dreams into the world, like paper boats bobbing on the stream, and there they all foundered and sank!”
“No, no, do not say so. You are still young. You have not even begun your career. As long as you have breath and spirit within you, you can write—”
“I write nothing, and probably shall write no more. My motive was never the desire for mere fame; and if I were to continue to write, I fear that I should desire it. Fame is nothing to me. The reviews and journals attack me, but I value neither the fame they can give me nor the fame they take away.”
Mary wondered if he only deceived himself, or if he fancied he was deceiving her, with his protestations.
“Speaking for myself, I rather desire to leave a name behind me,” she said, slipping gracefully from her seat. “Do not you? Do not we all?”
Shelley drew her arm within his and they resumed their walk. “I once sought something nobler and better,” he sighed. “I am—I intended to be—a prophet and a reformer. The reform of the world, my dear Mrs. Crawford, begins with the reform of that most elemental of all social institutions—marriage. No-one with an ounce of humanity would deny that it is women who are most disadvantaged by our social institutions. The chattel and plaything of men, dependent on others for their very bread, poorly educated—how sublime life would be if men and women could meet on a basis of equality!”
In the strength of his convictions and the fire of his eloquence, Shelley soared above the ridiculous conventions of the English, and for that day at least, Mary soared with him. The hypocrisies and restrictions of the past—they were not worth a regret—she cast off the power she had allowed them—she defied their dominion over her happiness.
Their talk, their imaginings were so elevated that they scarcely seemed to trod the ground. Returning to the Casa Ciampi was like awakening from an enchanted dream. Mary discovered her desire to defy convention was a little shaken when she encountered the piercing eye of her landlady. She had wept in Shelley’s arms, he had bared his soul in return, and there hovered around them the intimacy of lovers.
Inviting Shelley up to her apartments was an act of rebellion. She had brought her Celtic harp with her to Italy, and he was very anxious to hear her play and she did not object to obliging him. While she played some melancholy Irish airs, he lay stretched out on the floor, his arms folded behind his head and his eyes closed, which did not please her, as she rather liked to be looked at—her graceful attitude, her fair arm extended, her fingers moving delicately across the strings. She knew she looked exceedingly well when playing a harp.
When she finished, Shelley was absolutely still, so unmoving that she wondered if he had fallen asleep. Then his eyes fluttered open, and he let out a long sigh. “I think my soul left my body for a time, and flew amongst the clouds.”
He appeared to be trembling slightly when he stood up, and was struggling for speech.
“My dear Madam, will you do me the very great honour of casting your eye over this—”
And he drew out from inside his shirt a small volume, and pressed it into her hand.
“It is a poem I wrote about looking for… looking for my other self, the mate of my soul.” He kissed her hand and departed.
Mary sat up late to read the poem, entitled Alastor. Poetry, she knew, should not be read swiftly, but her eyes nevertheless flew across the page as she looked anxiously for confirmation that Shelley’s talents might entitle him to a greater renown than he had so far attained. She was encouraged; she found no ideas to disgust or outrage public opinion and the writing showed great
