“Thank you, sir! God bless you, sir!”
Chapter 17: Italy, Summer 1818
Mary was astonished at her own folly and irresolution. Here she was—free, independent, able to go where she willed, clever, beautiful and in possession of ten thousand pounds. When she lived with Edmund, freedom had worn a very different aspect—freedom had beckoned her, sung to her, called her until she thought she might go mad with longing to escape. Instead, she lingered on in this boring provincial town, repenting of throwing away her lost opportunity to conquer London society on the wings of Shelley’s genius. The next moment, she was wondering how best to punish him and all his household.
Shelley sent her long, passionate letters twice a day, and that same irresolution made her hesitate between casting them into the fireplace unread, or reading them eagerly and dwelling on every word. In the end, she read them and then burned them.
He reiterated the arguments he made at their parting—they were intended for one another, but a malign Fate had kept them apart—they had tragically, mistakenly, pledged themselves to others—but, what of that? He lived for the pursuit of truth, so did she—why, therefore, live a life of falsehood? Why, secure in the knowledge of his love for her, should she be jealous of his wife?
“Surely our mutual situations compel us to disregard all considerations but that of the happiness of each other.”
His misery was so gratifying. “Comfort at least by your pity a heart torn by your indifference—lend me some aid to endure the trial you have brought upon me—one of blighted hopes—a life of loneliness.” How different from Edmund’s final, cold parting!
Of all the inducements operating in Shelley’s favour, the conviction of being wanted was not the least attractive. Edmund did not need her. Once, he professed to love her, but now he only tolerated her as a duty. Shelley said he needed her and his letters often included some bewitching poetry that breathed his despair.
Secondly, there was the consideration that Shelley’s wife was neither amiable nor happy. She had stolen Shelley away from his first wife—Claire confirmed it—it were only justice to visit the same fate on her.
If the drama had played out in London, perhaps Mary Crawford Bertram would have resisted. But she was in Italy, breathing the air of romance, under an Italian sky, her ears assailed nightly with Italian love songs strummed on the guitar, and—she was intensely lonely.
She resumed her early morning horseback excursions into the forest, re-visiting the glade where she and Shelley met. He was not there the first day, nor the second, and she feared he had forsaken the spot because of its melancholy associations. But on the third day, she saw him there, in his usual place above the waterfall, with his notebook.
Mary thought she would never forget, so long as she lived, the look which crossed Percy Shelley’s countenance when he looked up and beheld her. He looked as a man under sentence of execution might look when an angel flings open the door to his cell and tells him he is free. For a long moment, they looked at one another.
Her last remnants of pride and reserve prevented Mary from being the first to break the silence. Under no circumstances would she sue for terms—it was up to Shelley to confess his error, to beg her pardon.
But in this, once again, she was to find herself betraying her resolutions, for Shelley climbed down from his rocky perch, went up to her, reached up to take her hand, and said: “If your whole soul does not urge you to forgive me—if your entire heart does not open wide to admit me to its very centre—forsake me, never speak to me again.”
His beautiful eyes were filled with longing and despair. His countenance, his whole being, said, if you leave me again, I shall die. Mary exclaimed—she protested—she was, somehow, once again in his arms.
* * * * * * *
Mary and Shelley enjoyed a rapturous reunion and for a few weeks were exceedingly happy. Shelley’s verse poured from him like an overflowing stream, while Mary sketched her plans for launching him in London society. She would pay for a slim, handsome volume of his poetry, and distribute it to every person of taste and influence in town. He could dedicate the book to someone of high rank—perhaps to the new Royal princess, Adelaide.
After she established Shelley amongst the first ranks of poets, she would ask Edmund to divorce her. She could be Lady Shelley one day. She would gain everything she had wanted, by exchanging Edmund Bertram for Percy Shelley. She would be so powerful, so famous, so wealthy and so notorious, that no-one would dare turn their back on her again.
There was such a thing as destiny! And she had found hers, at long last! She would make him famous, and he would make her immortal, in his poetry.
Not long after their visit to Lucca, Mary was preparing to retire for the evening, when Madame Ciampi’s housemaid announced a visitor.
Shelley appeared—restless, agitated, uneasy. He began to speak, he paused, he wrung his hands and finally fell to his knees beside her.
“Good heavens, Shelley, whatever is the matter?”
“First, you must swear to me, Marina, persuade me of your constancy and love, for everything that I am about to do, and will suffer for our sakes, is with one aim in mind—that we might be together forever.”
“So dramatic, Shelley! Tell me the worst—now, I insist upon
