Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and Her Daughter Mary Shelley

by Charlotte Gordon

  Percy turned a year old on November 12. Ruddy-cheeked and independent, he was strong enough for his mother to enjoy parties and receive guests without fussing too much about his health. That winter Mary and Shelley broke from their customary isolation, venturing into society. In part this was because without Claire, Mary could simply be Mrs. Shelley, as opposed to a disreputable member of a ménage à trois, but it was also because neither husband nor wife was sufficient company for the other anymore. Both needed new people and new stimulation.

  Early in December, Mary’s life was enlivened by a glamorous stranger, a prince, twenty-nine-year-old Alexander Mavrocordato. The black-haired, dark-eyed Greek was in exile and on a mission to raise an army to free his country from the Turks. No cause could have been more appealing to both the Shelleys—freedom for the land of Plato and Homer, the cradle of philosophy and poetry—but Mary was particularly moved. Mavrocordato seemed like a character from a romantic novel, the kind of hero Mary had always longed to meet. Mary herself was unlike any woman Mavrocordato had ever encountered. She was small and very English, but unlike most English people, she was interested in Greece and knew quite a bit about its history. Although she was reserved and rarely smiled, she was attractive—in fact, very attractive. It was almost a year and a half since William had died, and as Mary recovered, she had started to pay more attention to her appearance. She brought out the silk shawls she had bought in Livorno and asked Peacock to send her combs to pin up her hair. The current fashion of high waists and puffed sleeves flattered her womanly figure; at age twenty-three, after four children, she was no longer the slight girl Shelley had fallen in love with. She had a horror of vulgarity and did not like to call attention to her appearance, wearing quiet colors, pale pink, light blue, and off-white. Despite the Italian sun, her skin was still fair and clear. Unlike Shelley, she had not started to go gray. Her hair shone like copper.

  When she told Mavrocordato that she was interested in learning modern Greek, the prince was delighted to offer his services, visiting Mary almost every day during the winter of 1821. She usually received him alone, and in a letter to Claire she exclaimed that he was “much to my taste, gentlemanly—gay learned and full of talent & enthusiasm for Greece.” The contrast between Mavrocordato and her husband could not have been more pronounced. Shelley was gaunt, sensitive, and restless; Mavrocordato radiated health and vigor. He was a soldier, short and stocky, with a thick mustache and a hearty appetite. However, there was little opportunity for the situation to become complicated or for feelings to run too deep, as Mavrocordato was called back to Greece in April to lead an army of ten thousand men raised by his cousin. He and Mary stayed in touch by letter, but neither made any attempt to advance the relationship.

  The same week Mary met her prince, Shelley was introduced to the beautiful young Teresa Viviani, the daughter of Pisa’s governor, at a soiree. Tall, with a swanlike neck and a tragic air, the eighteen-year-old possessed an allure that entranced both Shelleys; she was a Renaissance virgin with raven locks and alabaster skin, just like the maiden Shelley had imagined in The Revolt of Islam. When she appeared in public, she maintained a melancholy silence and cast down her eyes when spoken to. Almost immediately, Teresa singled out Shelley as a man who would sympathize with her, and Shelley was buoyant at being seen as a hero once again.

  It did not take Teresa long to reveal the source of her sorrow. Her evil stepmother had imprisoned her in a convent, she said in hushed tones, close to tears. Granted, this convent was the most exclusive school in Pisa. It was almost next door to her family’s palazzo, and it allowed Teresa to come and go as she pleased, attend parties and concerts, and parade along the Arno with her friends; but both Shelleys were too enthralled to notice these details. Her story was like Mary’s! A lovely, sensitive girl at the mercy of an evil stepmother! Mary went to visit Teresa every day and gave her two caged birds to keep her company.

  Shelley decided that Teresa seemed too prosaic a name for such a gorgeous creature and renamed her Emilia. Before long, he began to cherish romantic fantasies about her. Here was another young girl he could rescue. Here was a young woman he could love. He felt alive once more. Not since William’s death had he felt so vital, so inspired, and he recorded his feelings in a new poem with the Greek title Epipsychidion (“about a little soul”). He dedicated this work to “the noble and unfortunate Lady, Emilia,” reiterating his endorsement of free love in lines that would become famous among later generations, but that critics of Shelley’s own generation savaged for their “immorality”:

  I never was attached to that great sect,

  Whose doctrine is, that each one should select

  Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,

  And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend

  To cold oblivion…

  For Shelley, however, the point of these words was not sex. Nor was it promiscuity. It was freedom, discovery, openness to change, creativity, and vitality. He threw himself into this new relationship with ardor, never consummating it, but dreaming of what it would be like to have “union” with the fair “Emilia,” and then writing about it in lush, highly adorned verse. She had brought him back to life; she would be his new muse. He was a poet once again. Not once did he realize that this was a familiar pattern, that this is what had happened before, first with Harriet and then with Mary: He had felt lost, consumed with self-doubt and in despair. Enter a young woman who seemed to embody hope, who, he believed, could guide him back to life, and then, when she could no longer take away his suffering, he became disillusioned, at a loss, ready to meet a new potential savior.

  Meanwhile, the maiden launched her own campaign. First she worked on separating Shelley from Mary, complaining to Shelley that Mary was cold to her. She also sent Mary barbed little notes laced with backhanded compliments; in one, she “confessed” that Shelley had told her Mary’s apparent iciness was “only the ash which covers an affectionate heart.”

  When she was with Shelley, Teresa/Emilia confided her secrets and wept tragic tears, which sent him into a frenzy—if only he could save this beautiful girl, fold her to his heart, and confess his undying affection. By January, Mary understood that Teresa was toying with her husband, but she was herself so deeply involved with the prince that she did not interfere. What did hurt, though, was the finished Epipsychidion, in which he described his marriage to Mary as “a death of ice,” whereas in a blissful encounter with “Emily,” she wraps her arms around him and their two hearts entwine as one.

  Only later did Mary confess that she had felt “a good deal of discomfort.” At the time, she hid her feelings, worried that if she pressed Shelley, he might think she was sabotaging his freedom and abandon her. She was also wary of complaining in letters, even to close friends, in case the public got wind of yet more scandal. Already people in Pisa were gossiping about how often Shelley and Teresa were seen together. However, that spring, the affair came to an abrupt end when Teresa’s family put a stop to Shelley’s visits, announcing her engagement to an eminently suitable young man. Poised to take her first steps into adulthood, “Emilia” promptly faded back into Teresa, a proper young Pisan lady. Shelley witnessed her bustling about doing errands in preparation for her wedding, just like any other bourgeois young lady. Disguised, he called her “a cloud instead of a Juno.”

  For both Shelleys, a different relationship had also begun that winter, one that at first seemed quite ordinary compared to those with the prince and Teresa. Medwin’s friends Jane and Edward Williams had arrived in Pisa in January 1821 to visit Medwin, but also to have their second illegitimate child. Theirs was a romantic story. Jane, like Mary, had been a rule breaker. She had run away from the husband she had been forced to marry at age sixteen, and the following year, she fell in love with the already married Edward and eloped with him to Geneva. Here was a couple about their own age who had also braved social conventions. It seemed impossible for them not to like one another. However, at first Mary was disappo
inted in Jane. For all of her rebellious ways, the twenty-two-year-old beauty was actually quite traditional. She preferred to arrange flowers, sing madrigals, and play with her toddler rather than engage in political debates about Greek freedom or write a novel, which were Mary’s chosen activities that spring.

  Shelley did not pay much attention to Jane and Edward in the beginning, as he was still obsessed with Emilia and was also dealing with a loss that, to him, felt ominous: twenty-six-year-old John Keats had died in February. Of a broken heart, Shelley thought, mistakenly believing that the young poet had suffered an embolism after hearing that the Quarterly had savaged his work. The true cause of the poet’s death was tuberculosis. Shelley’s misapprehension revealed his feelings toward his own bad reviews—sometimes he felt as though they might kill him—but it also inspired him to put pen to paper.

  Gripped by his belief that the younger man was a martyr, a poet who had died for the sake of his art, Shelley, who had never known that Keats distrusted him, mourned by composing a 549-line elegy titled Adonais, widely regarded as one of his most accomplished works. Shelley himself thought it was “better, in point of composition than anything I have written.” In his prologue, Shelley, thinking perhaps of Wilmouse, describes the Protestant burial ground where Keats was buried as “covered in winter with violet and daisies,” and so “sweet a place” that “it might make one half in love with death.” To Shelley, the loss of Keats represents the loss of beauty, spirit, and hope. The younger poet has left Shelley behind in a world of “Envy and calumny, and hate and pain.” By the end of the poem, Shelley yearns to join Keats in the world of eternal light, declaring, “No more let Life divide what Death can join together.” Ironically, for all his romantic words about death, by the time he finished the poem, Shelley felt more alive. True, his new poem contained themes that some might regard as dark, but it was also about art and the importance of the poet, always heartening subjects for Shelley.

  That summer, he and Mary retreated to San Giuliano, and the Williamses joined them in a house in nearby Pugnano, about seven miles outside Pisa. Medwin had moved on to Rome and Claire was still in Florence. Released from the spell of Emilia, Shelley warmed to the Williamses, particularly Edward, who, as a naval man, appealed to Shelley. Edward regaled the company with tales of the high seas, presenting himself as an old salt when in fact he had not had much experience as a sailor, having been stationed in India. But Shelley had faith in his new friend’s nautical expertise and ignored the early signs of his incompetence. Shelley had purchased a small skiff that April, and on their first boating trip, Williams stood up to adjust the sail, stumbled, and capsized the boat. Fortunately, they were sailing in a narrow canal where the water was quiet and the shore nearby, so Shelley was rescued without too much difficulty. Instead of taking this as a warning, Shelley declared that his “ducking” had only “added fire” to his “nautical ardour,” and he spent the rest of the summer sailing up and down the Arno with Williams and by himself. One day, he sailed all the way to the sea and then along the shore to Livorno—a distance of two miles—but he still did not learn to swim.

  Jane, too, seemed more appealing than she had in the spring. At first, Shelley had found her a little dull. She was not clever enough for his taste, and was bored by politics, literature, science, and history. Also, she had been pregnant, which had prevented Shelley from noticing how lovely she was, but having delivered her new baby in March—a little girl named Jane Rosalind—Jane was slender once again. She had dark hair that she wore in ringlets along her pale neck. With enormous eyes, a delicate mouth, and a husky singing voice, Jane had charming manners. If she could not follow a conversation, she contented herself with sitting quietly, arranging herself to best advantage. She was fully aware that men liked her as she was, a little silly, a little deferential—a young woman who needed, and indeed welcomed, instruction and guidance. She hung on the words of Williams and Shelley, praising their wisdom, her husband’s bravery, and Shelley’s genius. For Shelley, the agreeable Jane was a pleasant relief; she did not fight with her husband, or with anyone for that matter. She was never irritable, melancholy, or regretful, but then, she did not have much to be gloomy about. She had two healthy children. She lived in beautiful and comfortable surroundings with a man who adored her. Life was spread out before her like a feast.

  Sketch by Edward Williams, probably of Percy Shelley. Williams did not identify his subject, but the time period and similarity to the only other extant portrait of the poet suggest that this is indeed a likeness. (illustration ill.28)

  Mary, too, found Jane more likable over time. Although Jane did not enjoy intellectual conversations, she was happy to discuss the difficulties of raising children in Italy—one of Mary’s most pressing concerns. For too many years, she had felt alone as a mother, burdened by worries that no one seemed to share, not even Shelley. She had been isolated from other Englishwomen in Italy, as most refused to associate with the scandalous Shelleys. Claire had been too heartbroken over Allegra’s absence to join in her sister’s domestic concerns. Jane, on the other hand, with a newborn on her hands, had many questions about the care and feeding of an infant during the hot summer months. In addition, her little boy was only a few months younger than Percy, so she and Mary had similar anxieties: How much should a toddler eat? How long should he sleep?

  Neither Mary nor Shelley suspected that Jane might not be as lovely or as simple as she seemed. An old friend who had known Jane in Switzerland warned Mary to be careful of her. She was a gossip, he said, and could be cruel. But just as Shelley ignored the warning signs about Williams, Mary chose not to listen to the warnings about Jane. It was lonely living in perpetual exile; Mary needed a friend.

  Portrait of Jane Williams by George Clint (1822). (illustration ill.29)

  Still, there was a drawback to spending time with such a devoted couple. As Shelley watched the Williamses walk hand in hand on the path, or observed Jane gazing adoringly at Edward, Shelley mourned what he and Mary had lost. He told Mary he missed the intensity of their relationship, writing her a sad poem that lamented the distance that had come between them:

  We are not happy, sweet! our state

  Is strange and full of doubt and fear;

  More need of words that ills abate;—

  Reserve or censure come not near

  Our sacred friendship, lest there be

  No solace left for thee and me.

  And yet they were still close literary companions, sharing ideas and books and exchanging manuscripts to read. No one understood Shelley’s moods better than Mary, and no one supported Mary’s writing ambitions more than Shelley. Their seven years together had brought them an intimacy that was as complicated as it was strong. In France, when Mary was a teenager, she had been content to stay in bed all day with Shelley. He, too, had wanted nothing more than to hold Mary in his arms. Now they both had their own pursuits, their own interests. Mary no longer thought of Shelley as a demigod. If she romanticized any man, it was her Greek prince. She spoke sharply to Shelley about their finances and vetoed schemes that she deemed too dangerous for eighteen-month-old Percy. She had become, in fact, a wife. As for Shelley, he felt wounded by what he perceived as her rejections. He had fallen in love with at least one other woman. Their desire for each other had ebbed. Nevertheless, they were still capable of enjoying the long, peaceful evenings, sitting outside, admiring the sky, or reading to each other from the works of Lucan or Homer. Occasionally, Shelley rowed Mary on the nearby river, and later Mary would remember these quiet voyages as among their happiest times, hearing nothing but the splash of the water and the high-pitched cries of the aziola, the little downy owls who nested in the stunted pines that grew along the shores. Shelley commemorated these evenings in a poem that records a gentle and loving conversation between husband and wife:

  “Do you not hear the Aziola cry?

  Methinks she must be nigh,”

  Said Mary, as we sate

  In dusk, e
re stars were lit, or candles brought;

  And I, who thought

  This Aziola was some tedious woman,

  Asked “Who is Aziola?”

  .….

  And Mary saw my soul,

  And laughed and said “Disquiet yourself not,

  ’Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”

  ONE DAY TOWARD THE end of July, a missive arrived from Ravenna. Byron wanted Shelley to come and visit. Shelley, who was eager for the companionship of the great writer, rushed off to spend ten days with his lordship. While there, he persuaded Byron to spend the winter in Pisa so they could reconvene their literary community from Geneva. They could start a new magazine, one that would publish their work. To Mary, he wrote, “[We must] form for ourselves a society of our own class, as much as possible, in intellect or in feeling.” He sent Hunt a letter urging him to come immediately to Italy and be their editor. He, Byron, Medwin, and their other friends would contribute funds, poetry, and essays, ensuring the project’s success—welcome words to the increasingly debt-ridden Hunt, whose own literary endeavors had fallen on hard times.

  Byron was open to Shelley’s suggestion, as he had at last tired of his hectic life in Venice and had decided to share his home with a beautiful Italian contessa, Teresa Guiccioli. He asked Shelley to find him a suitable establishment in Pisa, and so when Shelley returned, he began house hunting. Byron sent Teresa ahead, and she arrived in Pisa the week of Mary’s twenty-fourth birthday. Mary immediately paid her a visit and described her as a “nice pretty girl, without pretensions, [with a] good heart and amiable.” The twenty-year-old Teresa confessed that she worried Byron might change his mind and not materialize, a fear Mary understood, so she spent many afternoons with Teresa. Claire, who had been vacationing in Livorno and had no idea that Byron was in the offing, wrote to say that she would like to come see them—a plan that worried Mary and Shelley. A few months earlier, Claire had discovered that Byron had sent four-year-old Allegra to a convent in Bagnacavallo, not far from Ravenna. Having heard terrible reports about the school and desperately worried about her daughter, Claire had written Byron a letter so scathing that he now refused to hear her name mentioned. All Claire had left was her pen. She had no legal rights, no power to stop Byron, even though she believed he had endangered their child.