Mary Shelley

by Catherine Reef

  Her next writing project came as a surprise. In August 1838, Sir Timothy Shelley gave permission for an official edition of his son’s work to be produced. Percy Bysshe Shelley was being recognized as an important poet, so trying to suppress his poetry was now futile. In addition, several pirated editions of his poems were being sold, and some of these were filled with sloppy mistakes. Sir Timothy wanted to see his son’s writings presented accurately and correctly. The publisher taking on the venture, Edward Moxon, paid Mary Shelley five hundred pounds to edit the collection and write explanatory notes to the poems. Mary possessed her husband’s manuscripts and notebooks, and no one knew more about his poetry than she did.

  Mary Shelley as she appeared in the later years of her life.

  Sir Timothy had drawn the line at a biography. He did not want a book written that delved into the immoral behavior and unpopular opinions linked with his son. But Mary Shelley found a way to write about her late husband’s life in the notes that she composed for the poetry collection. She chose incidents carefully, avoiding anything that might cause readers to disapprove. She wrote nothing about Allegra and Claire, for instance, or about her own relationship with Shelley before their marriage. She also omitted verses that might remind people of Shelley’s atheism or of his marriage to Harriet. She presented Shelley in a way that would make Percy Florence proud, and she considered the task a “most sacred duty.” She explained, “I endeavour to fulfil it in a manner [Shelley] would himself approve; and hope in this publication to lay the first stone of a monument due to Shelley’s genius, his sufferings, and his virtues.”

  In her notes, she praised Shelley’s love of nature. “Mountain and lake and forest were his home,” she wrote, recalling how he composed verses at the Baths of Caracalla in Rome, in a boat on Lake Geneva, or under the trees at Marlow. A true Romantic poet, Shelley gave the natural world “a soul and a voice.” He did the same for “the most delicate and abstract emotions and thoughts of the mind.” She wrote about his generosity toward the poor cottagers at Marlow and how “this minute and active sympathy with his fellow-creatures . . . stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race.”

  Mary also wrote about Shelley’s aims as a poet. “His poems may be divided into two classes,” she informed readers, “the purely imaginative, and those which spring from the emotions of his heart.” Poems such as Prometheus Unbound, which dealt with ancient myths, were the imaginative kind. The second type—the emotional—appealed to feelings common to all people. “Some of these rest on the passion of love; others on grief and despondency; others on the sentiments inspired by natural objects.” “Mont Blanc” is one poem written in response to nature’s grandness.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley finds poetic inspiration at the Baths of Caracalla.

  The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, in four volumes, appeared in February 1839. Mary hoped its publication would bring her peace of mind, but instead it brought distress. Other people had a different idea about how Shelley’s poetry should have been presented, and they made their displeasure known. Mrs. Shelley had been wrong, they said, to delete verses that touched on atheism or radical politics. Her approach was “a falsification of Shelley’s nature and history,” Leigh Hunt’s Examiner protested. “Poets don’t write for the instruction of boarding schools, but because they cannot suppress or belie the impulses which work within them.” Another journal asked, “Does Mrs. Shelley believe that such an edition as this will satisfy the admirers of Shelley? . . . Does she suppose that a veil can thus be cast over Shelley’s opinions, or that she can thus charm the world into forgetfulness of the strange story of the dreamer’s life?” Thomas Jefferson Hogg was irate because Mary had left out verses Percy Shelley had written in praise of Harriet. Edward Trelawny returned the copy Mary gave him, causing her to note with sarcasm, “How very much he must enjoy the opportunity thus afforded him of doing a rude & insolent act.”

  All this criticism stung. And spending so much time immersed in the happier past had eaten at her heart. Mary could not help thinking of loved ones who had died too young, of Clara, William, Allegra, Byron, Fanny, and, of course, Shelley. “I am torn to pieces by Memory,” she wrote in her journal. It seemed to her that “time may flow on—but it only adds to the keenness & vividness with which I view the past.”

  Later in the year, Edward Moxon released a revised edition of Shelley’s poetry with the controversial verses restored. As a result, he was charged with the crime of blasphemy, which in Britain meant insulting “the tenets and beliefs of the Church of England.” He stood trial and was found guilty, but he received no punishment. Attitudes were changing; Moxon was the last person to be tried for blasphemy in England, although the law making it an offense was not abolished until 2008.

  Mary Shelley, meanwhile, continued in her vagabond ways. Moving house had become her way of life. After Percy Florence entered Trinity College in Cambridge in 1837, she left the neighborhood of Harrow and found residence in a different London home. It was the first of several she would occupy over the next few years. In 1839, the money she earned from editing Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poems allowed her to move to a cottage in Putney. With its forests and farms, this section of southwest London looked like a rural village. From her windows, Mary gazed out at hillsides covered with gardens. She took long walks alone through charming parkland but turned away at the acrid Thames, which flowed nearby, noisy with waterborne traffic.

  In summer 1840, she went to Europe with Percy Florence and two of his friends. Nearly twenty-one, Percy Florence was eager to visit foreign countries, although his grandfather Shelley had forbidden him from going abroad. Sir Timothy’s longtime lawyer had died, and his new one was younger and more open-minded. He had persuaded the old man to pay his grandson’s college costs and to be more lenient with him.

  The travelers wended their way through France and Germany and into Italy. The young gentlemen were eager to go to Lake Como, where they could divide their time between boating and studying for their autumn exams. The talk of boats made Mary uneasy, especially since Lake Como was known for its squalls, but she had to bear with her fears and let her son live his own life. She often sat beside the lake, conversing with other tourists, embroidering, and writing letters. Some evenings, alone, she perched in her favorite lakeside chair and listened to the water splashing against the shore. “My heart was elevated, purified, subdued,” she wrote.

  Lake Como was a popular destination for vacationers who liked boating.

  Left to her own thoughts, she imagined that the world was peopled “by myriads of loving spirits; from whom, unawares, we catch impressions, which mould our thoughts to the good.” She dared not guess whether “the beloved dead” were part of this company, but she liked to think they were. “They keep far off while we are worldly, evil, selfish; but draw near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy, when we are animated by noble thoughts, and capable of disinterested actions.”

  There were moments, however, when a sight as simple as the curtains or washstand in her room at an inn caused “strange and indescribable emotions” to invade her mind. These objects “were all such as had been familiar to me in Italy long, long ago,” Mary stated. “Recollections, long forgotten, arose fresh and strong by mere force of association . . . inspiring a mixture of pleasure and pain, almost amounting to agony.” There were also times when her head ached with frightening intensity for no apparent reason, when her body trembled and shook, almost as if she were having a seizure.

  At summer’s end, Percy Florence returned to college and passed his exams. On his twenty-first birthday, Sir Timothy gave him four hundred pounds and promised to present him with the same amount every year. Percy spent two weeks with his half sister Ianthe, his father’s daughter with Harriet, at the country home where she lived with her husband. And, invited by his grandparents, Sir Timothy and Lady Shelley, he visited their estate, Field Place. Percy Florence would inherit the house and property one day, and that day was likely to come
soon. Sir Timothy had reached the great age of eighty-seven.

  In June 1841, Mary Jane Godwin died. Claire arranged for her to be buried in the St. Pancras churchyard, next to her husband and Mary Wollstonecraft. Mary Jane Godwin’s “affection and devotion to Godwin were admirable and remained unalterable from the day of their marriage till his death,” Claire said. After getting her mother’s affairs in order, Claire went to live in Paris. Mary visited her there in the summer of 1842, after another tour of Germany and Italy with Percy Florence and some young friends. On this trip, Mary went to the Protestant cemetery in Rome and stood beside her husband’s grave. The cypress trees that shaded his white marble gravestone had been planted by Edward Trelawny twenty years before. Sadly for Mary, time had erased William’s burial site. She searched the cemetery grounds for her little boy’s grave, but it was not to be found.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Happiness

  The turf will soon be green on my grave; and the violets will bloom on it. There is my hope and my expectation; yours are in this world; may they be fulfilled.

  On April 24, 1844, ninety-year-old Sir Timothy Shelley finally died. Except for some funds set aside for his wife and surviving children, Percy Florence inherited the Shelley estate. It included Field Place, other property, and thousands of pounds, but much of the money was owed to others. Percy and Mary repaid to Lady Shelley the allowances they had received from Sir Timothy, which totaled thirteen thousand pounds. Next, mother and son honored the informal will that Percy Bysshe Shelley had written some twenty-eight years before. In it, he left money to his daughter Ianthe as well as to Claire and several close friends. Not only was Claire asking for what Shelley had promised her, but she also expected—and received—the six thousand pounds that had been intended for Allegra’s support. With this large amount of money, Claire would live comfortably for quite some time. Altogether, the bequests came to more than twenty-two thousand pounds. Finally, the post-obit loans had come due. Portions of the estate had to be sold to satisfy creditors.

  Field Place and its surrounding farmland remained, but Sir Timothy had made no repairs to the house for many years. He had hated to think that it might be Mary’s home one day. He had preferred to see it fall to ruin than to let her be comfortable there. Fixing the rundown place, Mary and Percy Florence knew, would be costly. They settled instead in London, in a home that Percy chose. It was a new house on Chester Square, near Buckingham Palace. Mary thought the place was pretty.

  By 1844, Field Place, the Shelley family estate, had fallen into disrepair. This photo is a modern one, taken in 2008.

  Inheritance brought its own set of problems. Many people were certain that Mary Shelley now possessed great wealth. Acquaintances came forward, asking for donations to their pet charities or help in meeting expenses. Mary was also bothered by blackmailers who threatened to publish old letters of hers unless she paid them large sums. Often the letters were forgeries, but Mary thought it best to keep them out of the public eye. This was the case, for example, when a slick con man calling himself Byron’s son claimed to have love letters Mary and Shelley had written to each other in Marlow. Mary bought up these papers and others, annoyed “to have wasted so disgracefully so much of Percy’s money.”

  The most disturbing incident involved Shelley’s cousin Thomas Medwin, who was still trying to profit from his acquaintance with famous men. Medwin had written a biography of Shelley that he wanted to publish. His research had led him to old chancery court records, where he found documents relating to the guardianship of Ianthe and Charles. These pages listed Shelley’s atheism as a reason for denying him custody of his children. Medwin threatened to reveal the ugly court proceedings in his book, for which, he claimed, a publisher had offered him two hundred fifty pounds.

  Of course, he said, if Mary gave him this amount, he would hand over his manuscript and forget about bringing it out in print. Mary had done her best to draw attention away from Shelley’s views on religion and sordid events from years before. How dare Medwin dust them off and threaten to present them now? She paid him what he demanded, only to learn later that no publishing house had offered to buy his book. In fact, several had turned it down.

  Inheritance also brought a change in status. Sir Timothy Shelley had been a baronet, holding a low rank of British nobility. At twenty-four, Percy Florence acquired his grandfather’s title along with his estate, which meant that Percy now would be addressed as “Sir.” Having graduated from college, Percy showed no interest in a career. He was the child of two important writers and the grandson of two more, but he wrote no poems or novels. For a while he studied law, but he gave it up. He bought a boat—sailing remained his passion—and he joined the Royal Thames Yacht Club. In a letter to Claire, Mary praised her son as “always cheerful—always occupied,” and called him “the dearest darling in the world.” He was a pleasant fellow, but she wished he had some ambition. She also hoped he would find a wife.

  A cartoonist drew this caricature of Sir Percy Florence Shelley. Mary Shelley’s son lived happily as an English gentleman of leisure.

  As luck would have it, an admirer of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poetry, a young widow named Jane St. John, was visiting her sister in Chester Square. One afternoon in 1847, she entered her drawing room to find a surprise visitor waiting to see her. “Who are you—you lovely being?” St. John asked. “I am Mary Shelley,” the caller answered, extending her hand. Seated on St. John’s sofa was a slim woman who “had the most beautiful deep-set eyes I have ever seen,” the widow observed. “They seemed to change in colour when she was animated and keen.”

  Born in 1820, the illegitimate daughter of a banker, Jane St. John was nearly Percy’s age. At twenty-one, she had gained respectability by marrying an older man with wealth and social standing. When he died in 1844, he left her well provided for. “She is in herself the sweetest creature I ever knew—so affectionate—so soft—so gentle,” Mary thought. “She looks what she is, all goodness and truth.” The two women became friends, and Mary Shelley introduced Jane to her son. Jane shared Percy’s love of boating, and before long, she grew to love him as well. Jane was small and round. She had a way of tilting her head to the side like a little bird. Percy Florence lovingly called her Wren or Wrennie. In June 1848, Jane St. John and Percy Florence Shelley were married. The marriage would be a happy one for all concerned, since Sir Percy Florence and Lady Jane included Mary Shelley in all their life plans.

  The three moved into Field Place, which Jane’s money allowed them to restore. “It is old fashioned and with few rooms,” Mary noted, “but it has a homely and comfortable feeling about it—and that makes it very pleasant.” She chose Percy Bysshe Shelley’s old bedroom as her own and placed in it the things she valued most, including her portable writing desk. From the windows, she looked out on a grove of old cedar trees. She spoke often about her late husband, almost as though he still lived. She liked to speculate about what he would do in any situation, what he would think, and what he would say.

  Lady Jane Shelley was photographed late in life.

  Mary Shelley felt secure in the love of her son and daughter-in-law, and she was free of money worries at last. In the fall of 1849, the three took a trip to the south of France. Mary’s good fortune should have pleased those who cared about her, but it aroused jealousy in one person. Strong resentment caused Claire Clairmont to act irrationally. She made wild accusations that Mary had had a love affair with a much younger man. Out of the blue, she accused Percy Florence of not feeling devoted to his grandfather William Godwin. Once, on a visit to Field Place, she began shouting and grew hysterical. She gained control of herself only when gentle Jane Shelley threatened to call for a doctor to give Claire a sedative. At that point, Claire stormed out of the house and broke off contact with Mary.

  It was just as well. Drama and strife were too much for Mary to handle. Ever since the summer of 1840, when she suffered headaches and tremors, Mary Shelley had never been in perfect health.
She had spells of weakness and forgetfulness; she complained of back pain; sometimes she had trouble moving. She consulted doctors, but none could tell her what was wrong. Living at Field Place, she wrote, “I walk very well—but must not use my head—or strange feelings come on.” Writing had become too hard. Her last book, about her travels in Europe with Percy Florence and his friends, had been published in 1844.

  Pretty soon Jane was ill too. She felt better if she went away from Field Place but grew sick again when she returned. Something about the house was making her unwell and she could not remain there. In 1849, Percy Florence purchased Boscombe Manor, a brick mansion in a sunny spot on England’s southern coast. He planned to move there with Jane and his mother, but Mary asked to return to London, to the familiar rooms of Chester Square, so they all went to live there instead.

  Mary was getting worse. She tried to talk herself out of being ill, saying that her health problems were in her mind, the result of melancholy thoughts. But the mental pep talks failed to help. A doctor came and went. In Percy Florence’s view, this man “did not do her the least good.” While she was under his care, her left leg grew numb, and she spent the final weeks of 1850 confined to bed.

  In the first days of 1851, Percy and Jane brought in a different doctor, who told Sir Percy that his mother had a good chance of recovery. Percy felt so hopeful that when Mary’s old friend Isabella Baxter Booth volunteered to come and nurse her, he replied that no help was needed. “There is no danger now,” he wrote. Touched by Isabella’s offer and concerned about her welfare, Mary had Percy promise to send her fifty pounds a year for the rest of her life.