The key, of course, was that he would try. And so, too, would she. Thus, with all its bumps, their relationship solidified, although this solidity gave Mary a new concern. If she and Godwin were really going to have a future together, then Fanny and Godwin needed to love each other.
Mary need not have worried. For all of his rigidity, Godwin had embraced “Fannikin” from the start, and Fanny adored Godwin, demanding to know when “Man” was coming for another visit. When they went on walks, she pulled her mother down Chalton Street, saying, “Go this way Mama, me wants to see Man.” By the end of November, Marguerite was dropping Fanny off at Godwin’s lodgings, where he plied her with biscuits and puddings while her mother capitalized on her time alone and worked. Mary and Godwin began referring to each other as “mama and papa.” Mary enjoyed reporting Fanny’s small triumphs to Godwin, one day writing to him that Fanny “came crowing upstairs to tell me that she did not cry when her face was washed.” This is what she had dreamed of with Imlay, sharing a daughter.
They continued to keep their affair secret, entertaining guests separately and attending parties alone. Even their best friends remained in the dark. But in December, after a patch of relative tranquillity, Mary began to feel depressed and unwell. On December 6, she felt “an extreme lowness of spirits,” and the next day, she saw Godwin at the theater with Mrs. Inchbald, her nemesis, while she sat alone in a cheap seat. “I was a fool not to ask Opie [her friend the portrait painter] to go with me,” she said irritably to Godwin, hoping to make him jealous. More small tiffs ensued. By the third week of December the reason for Mary’s touchiness had become clear. She was pregnant.
Godwin responded with warmth and excitement to this news; on December 23, Mary wrote to him, “There was a tenderness in your manner, as you seemed to be opening your heart, to a new born affection, that rendered you very dear to me. There are other pleasures in the world, you perceive, beside those know[n] to your philosophy.” She, however, was dispirited by her condition. She felt herself descending back into the darkness that had plagued her so many times before. On December 28, “painful recollections” of being pregnant and abandoned came flooding back and she told Godwin that she wished they had never met. She wanted “to cancel all that had passed between us” and have “all the kind things you had written me destroyed.” Godwin was hurt and anxious, but he admitted that he did not know how to fix the problems that lay in front of them. The obstacles to their happiness seemed insurmountable: societal disapproval, illegitimate children, and money.
Mary had not earned much from her writing that fall, and her debts were growing. Johnson, who had always taken care of Mary’s financial problems, was reluctant to pay her bills because he wanted Mary to force Imlay to contribute to Fanny’s upkeep. Mary understood Johnson’s reluctance, and finally wrote to Imlay that she would accept his help, but Imlay never responded. Godwin was also of little practical assistance. He had calculated his living expenses down to the last penny, sometimes having to borrow a few pounds to make ends meet. He had never intended to assume the financial responsibility of a family, declaring that such obligations blighted the freedom of the male intellectual. Mary was aware of his principles, but as a pregnant single mother, she was finding it difficult to have much respect for them.
She felt slightly better when Godwin demonstrated his commitment to her by borrowing fifty pounds from a friend to help her get through the winter. Appreciative though she was, however, she did not like that once again, the author of Rights of Woman was dependent on a man. She tried to bring in some money by reviewing for Johnson but was too exhausted to accomplish much. It was a difficult winter. The weather was harsh, and, cooped up indoors, Fanny was bored and underfoot. Mary was so tired that running even the smallest errand was onerous. When it snowed, she had to pick her way through the uncleared streets, the hem of her long dress dragging through the drifts, her ankles and feet icy cold. She wrote Godwin, “You have no petticoats to dangle in the snow. Poor women, how they are beset with plagues—within and without.” It was galling that she was the one with the daughter, the one who was pregnant, the one who could not work because she did not feel well. She was struggling to get through each day with one child, let alone two, while, as usual, the methodical Godwin wrote from nine to one. He was almost finished with the new edition of Political Justice.
Mary did at least manage to keep up her reading, and she and Godwin followed the news and politics. They both finished Mary Hays’s novel, Emma Courtney. Godwin had her critique his essay on education for The Enquirer before he submitted it for publication. Mary advised him to advocate more forcefully for the institution of public day schools, as this would “obviate the evil, of being left with servants, and enable children to converse with children.” She said that she did not approve of boarding school (even though she had once run one) because “the exercise of domestic affections” was the “foundation of virtue.” She was also still mulling over her novel, The Wrongs of Woman, and had decided that her central female character would be an abused wife, imprisoned unjustly in an asylum by her husband. She reread the section of Godwin’s Caleb Williams in which Caleb is thrown in prison for crimes he did not commit, and then she persuaded Johnson and Godwin to tour Bedlam with her, which they did on February 6.
The asylum was located in Moorfields, near the recently constructed Finsbury Square in what is now northeast London. It was a ramshackle, poverty-stricken part of the city, notorious for beggars and criminals. It was also the center of the secondhand furniture and old clothing trade, and its alleyways were lined with shacks crammed with broken chairs, rickety bedsteads, and yellowed linens. On the same day they went to Bedlam, Mary and Godwin also shopped at an “old clothesmen’s” storefront, perhaps to buy clothes for a servant or even for themselves.
Bedlam had once been a magnificent baroque building, but when Mary, Johnson, and Godwin visited, it was over one hundred years old. Its foundations had been laid in the sandy soil of the old London moat, and now its walls were sagging and the whole three-story structure looked as though it might collapse under the weight of its heavy roof and elegant bell towers. Inside, its inmates were starving, naked, and chained to the walls. The barnlike “airing rooms,” where those patients who were not deemed dangerous were allowed to roam freely, were open to the viewing public. Indeed, visiting Bedlam was a popular activity in eighteenth-century England. Tourists were charged a penny to come gawk at the poor sufferers. Mary jotted down notes, intent on using the cries she heard and the anguish she saw for her new novel.
Always, however, there was the question of what they should do next as a couple, and they spent the winter debating their options. Since both were famous for their criticisms of marriage, it was difficult to embrace the idea of a wedding, but they also knew that they lived in a world that would shun Mary if she had a child out of wedlock. Only her closest friends knew that she had not actually been married to Imlay, and she was all too aware of the condemnation she would face when the news broke that Imlay was not her husband. Although at first Godwin tried to persuade her to live according to their ideals, he soon realized that philosophy would be little consolation when faced with the wrath of their society. Mary would be severely punished if they did not marry. And yet if they did, he would be ridiculed as a hypocrite. She would be, too, of course, but perhaps this was a lesser evil than the ostracism she would face as an unmarried mother. Godwin tried to fix his own situation by retracting his previous stance against marriage in his new edition of Political Justice. Marriage, he wrote, was still a necessary evil in society, but he hoped that someday, in a better world, there would be no need for the institution.
Fanny’s situation further complicated matters. Since marriage to Godwin would effectively proclaim her daughter illegitimate, Mary was concerned about society’s treatment of her little girl. On the other hand, if she did not legitimize this new relationship, then her second baby would be condemned. Either way, a child was hurt. Either way, he
r reputation was ruined. Finally, after much debate, she and Godwin decided to get married—an imperfect solution that made neither one happy, yet seemed the best answer to their predicament.
Godwin, meanwhile, was apprehensive about what would happen if they spent too much time together. He did not want to give up his quiet lodgings and subject himself to the confusion of Mary’s household, outlining his anxieties in an essay he wrote for The Enquirer in which he spoke about the dangers of “cohabitation”:
It seems to be one of the most important of the arts of life, that men should not come too near each other, or touch in too many points. Excessive familiarity is the bane of social happiness.
Like Godwin, Mary dreaded what lay ahead. She kept the plan and her pregnancy secret from her friends, and even from her sister Everina, who paid an uncomfortable visit that winter. This was the first time that Mary had seen one of her sisters since her return from France, but it was far from a joyful reunion. Everina disapproved of Mary’s friends. She took an instant dislike to Godwin and refused to speak to him. Although this was the first time that she had met Fanny, she ignored the little girl. She came down with a cold, and Mary and Marguerite had to wait on her. When she did get out of bed, she ran up a bill at the millinery shop that she did not pay. She did nothing to help when there was an emergency: Fanny’s cat, Puss, went “wild” and “flew up the chimney.” Mary, who loved animals, did not want him destroyed and struggled with what to do about his erratic behavior. At length, she decided that Puss was too dangerous, and with sorrow, she had him drowned, telling Fanny that he was sick and had run away.
Finally, Everina left. Though Mary was relieved that she was gone, she wrote to her sister soon after, promising to send money when she had some, and to Eliza as well, though Eliza still would not speak to Mary. It had been fourteen years since Mary had rescued Eliza from her abusive husband, and yet Mary could not shed her sense that her sister’s happiness was her personal responsibility. Everina had told her that Eliza’s employer in Wales had practically imprisoned her, preventing her from going outside or taking any breaks from her work. Mary wanted to help, but she felt discouraged. She was older and more pessimistic than when she had written Rights of Woman; it now seemed an impossible dream that her sisters, or, for that matter, any ordinary woman, might achieve independence. Like many of the ideals that she and her friends had shared during the last decade—universal human rights, greater equality of rich and poor, the overturning of the French aristocracy—the dream of improving life for women had come to nothing. Her Vindications had not changed the world—another reason she had turned away from essay writing. She herself, who unlike many other women had some means of income at her disposal, could not get out of debt, a situation worsened by her predilection for helping others. In April, she took in her maid’s son when he was sick and then paid for him to go to school—a circumstance that prevented her from sending the promised funds to Everina. And so, even if Mary could not fully understand why her sisters seemed perpetually angry, they in turn heard her promises with a jaundiced ear. She had done little to help them for years, and in fact had abandoned them when she returned to London, an abandonment made worse by all that she had said she would do for them but never did.
Mary and Godwin were happy to have their privacy back and enjoyed as many peaceful weeks as they could until the end of March, when Mary’s pregnancy would be evident to all. On March 29, she and Godwin walked to St. Pancras, the old country church in Somers Town, and, with Godwin’s friend James Marshall as a witness, became husband and wife. Godwin marked the event in his diary with only one syllable—“Panc”—as though he could not bring himself to spell out the whole word, let alone confess that this was his wedding day. And in fact this is precisely the emphasis the couple gave it. They did not have a party or a celebration. What, after all, was there to celebrate? Their wedding was merely a concession to societal prejudice.
Afterward, Godwin went to the theater alone with Mrs. Inchbald, while Mary went home and began to pack up her things. After much discussion, they had decided it was time to move in together, but the fact that this was a difficult decision for them points to just how unconventional they were. It was unheard of for married couples to maintain separate residences at the time, or even express a desire to do so. And so Mary and Godwin devised a set of compromises that would prove to be as revolutionary as their writings: Godwin would rent some cheap rooms down the street from their new home so that he could retreat every day to write. In return, he would not expect Mary to assume full domestic responsibilities for their household—an extraordinary concession. He would respect her right to work; she would respect his. Their partnership, they said, should foster the independence of both man and woman. It should not, at any cost, force either one of them into the sort of domestic imprisonment both dreaded and had fought against for most of their adult lives. They knew of no other couples who had made such an arrangement. As usual, they were trailblazers, so much so that one hundred and thirty years later, Virginia Woolf would look to their marriage for inspiration when she was trying to carve out her own relationship with her husband, Leonard. To Woolf, Mary’s marriage would in fact become her most revolutionary act, her “most fruitful experiment.”
CHAPTER 31
MARY SHELLEY: “LEAGUE OF INCEST”
[ 1821–1822 ]
arrival of Byron and his entourage was always a spectacular event, but especially so in a sleepy little town like Pisa. On November 1, the carts rolled down the Lung’Arno, piled high with supplies, including his enormous bed with the Byron coat of arms carved into the headboard. Then came the Flemish mare, led by a special groom; the goats and donkey trotted along behind; the dogs leapt and barked, straining on their leashes; the geese hissed and shook their feathers; the rest of the menagerie howled in their crates. His lordship arrived last, shuttered inside his Napoleonic carriage, away from the eyes of the curious.
Shelley had found an enormous marble mansion for his lordship, the Palazzo Lanfranchi, the most imposing building on the Arno. Many servants had worked diligently to get the house in running order—polishing, scrubbing, and organizing the “necessities” that were required for such a grand establishment. And yet even its enormous rooms could hardly contain the mountain of furniture, linens, and silver Byron had brought with him. For his own family, Shelley had found a house directly across the river, the Tre Palazzi di Chiesa at the end of the Lung’Arno. “We are entirely out of the bustle and disagreeable puzzi etc., of the town,” Mary noted happily. From their windows they could see the city’s formal gardens, its shrubs pruned into cones and cylinders, and beyond the city walls, the open countryside with its patches of olive orchards, dark stands of cypress, and gentle hills rippling all the way to the sea. Shelley and Mary had the top floor, while the Williamses, at Shelley’s urging, took the ground floor.
The stage was set. Two poets. Two houses. The Pisans watched in astonishment as Shelley and Byron began to compete against each other in just about everything: Who was the better rider? Who the better shot? Shelley deferred to Byron as “his lordship,” although behind his back he declared that most of Byron’s faults came from his exaggerated sense of entitlement. Byron bowed to Shelley’s aesthetics, declaring that the younger man was the one with the true poetic sensibility, but took smug satisfaction in his own position as the more famous poet.
Never had the town been rocked by so many outlandish escapades. One of Byron’s servants stabbed a man. His lordship’s house was lit up all night long. The Pisans were up in arms. Did he ever sleep? His wolfish dogs howled. His peacocks shrieked. Occasionally, the monkeys got loose and swung around the city gardens. Every afternoon, he and his friends filed out the city gates armed with their pistols. The Pisan authorities thought revolution was in the air, but when they followed these libertines, they found the Englishmen standing tamely in a row aiming at bull’s-eyes. Byron was probably the best shot, although his hand often trembled because he took so long
to aim. Shelley was the only one who could challenge him, but his method of shooting was the opposite of his lordship’s. He whipped out his pistol and fired instantly, the results either gloriously on target or spectacularly off.
Adding to the chaos were members of the English press, who hurried to the town to report on Byron, labeling the band of friends, as they had before, “the League of Incest and Atheism.” The same old rumors spread throughout Europe and England that Byron was sleeping with Mary and that Shelley was promoting anarchy. Even the Tuscan grand duke, usually the center of attention himself, walked up and down outside Byron’s house in hopes of catching sight of the famous recluse. But Byron was not in the mood to placate the crowds. Ever since he had been ridiculed as a fat schoolboy, he had been self-conscious about his girth. Periodically, he would institute fasting regimes in which he would go many days without eating, then feast on fish and wine. Sometimes all he would eat were potatoes drenched in vinegar, or hard biscuits and soda water. But over the last year he had grown quite plump, and he did not want anyone to see how large he had become. In Pisa, when he did go out, he preferred to drive through the streets, protected from prying eyes, riding his mare only when he was safely outside town.
Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and Her Daughter Mary Shelley Page 43
