by Mary Shelley
Journal, Sunday, December 2. — Read the History of Shipwrecks. Read Herodotus with Shelley. Ride with La Guiccioli. Pietro and her in the evening.
Monday, December 3. — Write letters. Read Herodotus with Shelley. Finish Caleb Williams to Jane. Taafe calls. He says that his Turk is a very moral man, for that when he began a scandalous story he interrupted him immediately, saying, “Ah! we must never speak thus of our neighbours!” Taafe would do well to take the hint.
Thursday, December 6. — Read Homer. Walk with Williams. Spend the evening with them. Call on T. Guiccioli with Jane, while Taafe amuses Shelley and Edward. Read Tacitus. A dismal day.
Friday, December 7. — Letter from Hunt and Bessy. Walk with Shelley. Buy furniture for them, etc. Walk with Edward and Jane to the garden, and return with T. Guiccioli in the carriage. Edward reads the Shipwreck of the Wager to us in the evening.
Saturday, December 8. — Get up late and talk with Shelley. The Williams and Medwin to dinner. Walk with Edward and Jane in the garden. Return with T. Guiccioli. T. G. and Pietro in the evening. Write to Clare. Read Tacitus.
Sunday, December 9. — Go to church at Dr. Nott’s. Walk with Edward and Jane in the garden. In the evening first Pietro and Teresa, afterwards go to the Williams’.
Monday, December 10. — Out shopping. Walk with the Williams and T. Guiccioli to the garden. Medwin at tea. Afterwards we are alone, and after reading a little Herodotus, Shelley reads Chaucer’s Flower and the Leaf, and then Chaucer’s Dream to me. A divine, cold, tramontana day.
Monday, January 14. — Read Emile. Call on T. Guiccioli and see Lord Byron. Trelawny arrives.
Edward John Trelawny, whose subsequent history was to be closely bound up with that of Shelley and of Mrs. Shelley, was of good Cornish family, and had led a wandering life, full of romantic adventure. He had become acquainted with Williams and Medwin in Switzerland a year before, since which he had been in Paris and London. Tired of a town life and of society, and in order to “maintain the just equilibrium between the body and the brain,” he had determined to pass the next winter hunting and shooting in the wilds of the Maremma, with a Captain Roberts and Lieutenant Williams. For the exercise of his brain, he proposed passing the summer with Shelley and Byron, boating in the Mediterranean, as he had heard that they proposed doing. Neither of the poets were as yet personally known to him, but he had lost no time in seeking their acquaintance. On the very evening of his arrival in Pisa he repaired to the Tre Palazzi, where, in the Williams’ room, he first saw Shelley, and was struck speechless with astonishment.
Was it possible this mild-looking beardless boy could be the veritable monster at war with all the world? Excommunicated by the Fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school? I could not believe it; it must be a hoax.
But presently, when Shelley was led to talk on a theme that interested him — the works of Calderon, — his marvellous powers of mind and command of language held Trelawny spell-bound: “After this touch of his quality,” he says, “I no longer doubted his identity.”
Mrs. Shelley appeared soon after, and the visitor looked with lively curiosity at the daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft.
Such a rare pedigree of genius was enough to interest me in her, irrespective of her own merits as an authoress. The most striking feature in her face was her calm, gray eyes; she was rather under the English standard of woman’s height, very fair and light-haired; witty, social, and animated in the society of friends, though mournful in solitude; like Shelley, though in a minor degree, she had the power of expressing her thoughts in varied and appropriate words, derived from familiarity with the works of our vigorous old writers. Neither of them used obsolete or foreign words. This command of our language struck me the more as contrasted with the scanty vocabulary used by ladies in society, in which a score of poor hackneyed phrases suffice to express all that is felt or considered proper to reveal.
Mary’s impressions of the new-comer may be gathered from her journal and her subsequent letter to Mrs. Gisborne.
Journal, Saturday, January 19. — Copy. Walk with Jane. The Opera in the evening. Trelawny is extravagant — un giovane stravagante, — partly natural, and partly, perhaps, put on, but it suits him well, and if his abrupt but not unpolished manners be assumed, they are nevertheless in unison with his Moorish face (for he looks Oriental yet not Asiatic), his dark hair, his Herculean form; and then there is an air of extreme good nature which pervades his whole countenance, especially when he smiles, which assures me that his heart is good. He tells strange stories of himself, horrific ones, so that they harrow one up, while with his emphatic but unmodulated voice, his simple yet strong language, he pourtrays the most frightful situations; then all these adventures took place between the ages of thirteen and twenty.
I believe them now I see the man, and, tired with the everyday sleepiness of human intercourse, I am glad to meet with one who, among other valuable qualities, has the rare merit of interesting my imagination. The crew and Medwin dine with us.
Sunday, January 27. — Read Homer. Walk. Dine at the Williams’. The Opera in the evening. Ride with T. Guiccioli.
Monday, January 28. — The Williams breakfast with us. Go down Bocca d’Arno in the boat with Shelley and Jane. Edward and E. Trelawny meet us there; return in the gig; they dine with us; very tired.
Tuesday, January 29. — Read Homer and Tacitus. Ride with T. Guiccioli. E. Trelawny and Medwin to dinner. The Baron Lutzerode in the evening.
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
Read the first volume of the Pirate.
Sunday, February 3. — Read Homer. Walk to the garden with Jane. Return with Medwin to dinner. Trelawny in the evening. A wild day and night, some clouds in the sky in the morning, but they clear away. A north wind.
Monday, February 4. — Breakfast with the Williams’. Edward, Jane, and Trelawny go to Leghorn. Walk with Jane. Southey’s letter concerning Lord Byron. Write to Clare. In the evening the Gambas and Taafe.
Thursday, February 7. — Read Homer, Tacitus, and Emile. Shelley and Edward depart for La Spezzia. Walk with Jane, and to the Opera with her in the evening. With E. Trelawny afterwards to Mrs. Beauclerc’s ball. During a long, long evening in mixed society how often do one’s sensations change, and, swiftly as the west wind drives the shadows of clouds across the sunny hill or the waving corn, so swift do sensations pass, painting — yet, oh! not disfiguring — the serenity of the mind. It is then that life seems to weigh itself, and hosts of memories and imaginations, thrown into one scale, make the other kick the beam. You remember what you have felt, what you have dreamt; yet you dwell on the shadowy side, and lost hopes and death, such as you have seen it, seem to cover all things with a funeral pall.
The time that was, is, and will be, presses upon you, and, standing the centre of a moving circle, you “slide giddily as the world reels.” You look to heaven, and would demand of the everlasting stars that the thoughts and passions which are your life may be as ever-living as they. You would demand of the blue empyrean that your mind might be as clear as it, and that the tears which gather in your eyes might be the shower that would drain from its profoundest depths the springs of weakness and sorrow. But where are the stars? Where the blue empyrean? A ceiling clouds that, and a thousand swift consuming lights supply the place of the eternal ones of heaven. The enthusiast suppresses her tears, crushes her opening thoughts, and.... But all is changed; some word, some look excite the lagging blood, laughter dances in the eyes, and the spirits rise proportionably high.
The Queen is all for revels, her light heart,
Unladen from the heaviness of state,
Bestows itself upon delightfulness.
Friday, February 8. — Sometimes I awaken from my visionary monotony,
and my thoughts flow until, as it is exquisite pain to stop the flowing of the blood, so is it painful to check expression and make the overflowing mind return to its usual channel. I feel a kind of tenderness to those, whoever they may be (even though strangers), who awaken the train and touch a chord so full of harmony and thrilling music, when I would tear the veil from this strange world, and pierce with eagle eyes beyond the sun; when every idea, strange and changeful, is another step in the ladder by which I would climb....
Read Emile. Jane dines with me, walk with her. E. Trelawny and Jane in the evening. Trelawny tells us a number of amusing stories of his early life. Read third canto of L’Inferno.
They say that Providence is shown by the extraction that may be ever made of good from evil, that we draw our virtues from our faults. So I am to thank God for making me weak. I might say, “Thy will be done,” but I cannot applaud the permitter of self-degradation, though dignity and superior wisdom arise from its bitter and burning ashes.
Saturday, February 9. — Read Emile. Walk with Jane, and ride with T. Guiccioli. Dine with Jane. Taafe and T. Medwin call. I retire with E. Trelawny, who amuses me as usual by the endless variety of his adventures and conversation.
Mary to Mrs. Gisborne.
Pisa, 9th February 1822.
My dear Mrs. Gisborne — Not having heard from you, I am anxious about my desk. It would have been a great convenience to me if I could have received it at the beginning of the winter, but now I should like it as soon as possible. I hope that it is out of Ollier’s hands. I have before said what I would have done with it. If both desks can be sent without being opened, let them be sent; if not, give the small one back to Peacock. Get a key made for the larger, and send it, I entreat you, by the very next vessel. This key will cost half a guinea, and Ollier will not give you the money, but give me credit for it, I entreat you. I pray now let me have the desk as soon as possible. Shelley is now gone to Spezzia to get houses for our colony for the summer.
It will be a large one, too large, I am afraid, for unity; yet I hope not. There will be Lord Byron, who will have a large and beautiful boat built on purpose by some English navy officers at Genoa. There will be the Countess Guiccioli and her brother; the Williams’, whom you know; Trelawny, a kind of half-Arab Englishman, whose life has been as changeful as that of Anastasius, and who recounts the adventures as eloquently and as well as the imagined Greek. He is clever; for his moral qualities I am yet in the dark; he is a strange web which I am endeavouring to unravel. I would fain learn if generosity is united to impetuousness, probity of spirit to his assumption of singularity and independence. He is 6 feet high, raven black hair, which curls thickly and shortly, like a Moor’s, dark gray expressive eyes, overhanging brows, upturned lips, and a smile which expresses good nature and kindheartedness. His shoulders are high, like an Oriental’s, his voice is monotonous, yet emphatic, and his language, as he relates the events of his life, energetic and simple, whether the tale be one of blood and horror, or of irresistible comedy. His company is delightful, for he excites me to think, and if any evil shade the intercourse, that time will unveil — the sun will rise or night darken all. There will be, besides, a Captain Roberts, whom I do not know, a very rough subject, I fancy, — a famous angler, etc. We are to have a small boat, and now that those first divine spring days are come (you know them well), the sky clear, the sun hot, the hedges budding, we sitting without a fire and the windows open, I begin to long for the sparkling waves, the olive-coloured hills and vine-shaded pergolas of Spezzia. However, it would be madness to go yet. Yet as ceppo was bad, we hope for a good pasqua, and if April prove fine, we shall fly with the swallows. The Opera here has been detestable. The English Sinclair is the primo tenore, and acquits himself excellently, but the Italians, after the first, have enviously selected such operas as give him little or nothing to do. We have English here, and some English balls and parties, to which I (mirabile dictu) go sometimes. We have Taafe, who bores us out of our senses when he comes, telling a young lady that her eyes shed flowers — why therefore should he send her any? I have sent my novel to Papa. I long to hear some news of it, as, with an author’s vanity, I want to see it in print, and hear the praises of my friends. I should like, as I said when you went away, a copy of Matilda. It might come out with the desk. I hope as the town fills to hear better news of your plans, we long to hear from you. What does Henry do? How many times has he been in love? — Ever yours,
M. W. S.
Shelley would like to see the review of the Prometheus in the Quarterly.
Thursday, February 14. — Read Homer and Anastasius. Walk with the Williams’ in the evening.... “Nothing of us but what must suffer a sea-change.”
This entry marks the day to which Mary referred in a letter written more than a year later, where she says —
A year ago Trelawny came one afternoon in high spirits with news concerning the building of the boat, saying, “Oh! we must all embark, all live aboard; we will all ‘suffer a sea-change.’” And dearest Shelley was delighted with the quotation, saying that he would have it for the motto for his boat.
Little did they think, in their lightness of spirit, that in another year the motto of the boat would serve for the inscription on Shelley’s tomb.
Journal, Monday, February 18. — Read Homer. Walk with the Williams’. Jane, Trelawny, and Medwin in the evening.
Monday, February 25. — What a mart this world is? Feelings, sentiments, — more invaluable than gold or precious stones is the coin, and what is bought? Contempt, discontent, and disappointment, unless, indeed, the mind be loaded with drearier memories. And what say the worldly to this? Use Spartan coin, pay away iron and lead alone, and store up your precious metal. But alas! from nothing, nothing comes, or, as all things seem to degenerate, give lead and you will receive clay, — the most contemptible of all lives is where you live in the world, and none of your passions or affections are brought into action. I am convinced I could not live thus, and as Sterne says that in solitude he would worship a tree, so in the world I should attach myself to those who bore the semblance of those qualities which I admire. But it is not this that I want; let me love the trees, the skies, and the ocean, and that all-encompassing spirit of which I may soon become a part, — let me in my fellow-creature love that which is, and not fix my affection on a fair form endued with imaginary attributes; where goodness, kindness, and talent are, let me love and admire them at their just rate, neither adorning nor diminishing, and above all, let me fearlessly descend into the remotest caverns of my own mind; carry the torch of self-knowledge into its dimmest recesses; but too happy if I dislodge any evil spirit, or enshrine a new deity in some hitherto uninhabited nook.
Read Wrongs of Women and Homer. Clare departs. Walk with Jane and ride with T. Guiccioli. T. G. dines with us.
Thursday, February 28. — Take leave of the Argyropolis. Walk with Shelley. Ride with T. Guiccioli. Read letters. Spend the evening at the Williams’. Trelawny there.
Friday, March 1. — An embassy. Walk. My first Greek lesson. Walk with Edward. In the evening work.
Sunday, March 3. — A note to, and a visit from, Dr. Nott. Go to church. Walk. The Williams’ and Trelawny to dinner.
Mary’s experiments in the way of church-going, so new a thing in her experience, and so little in accordance with Shelley’s habits of thought and action, excited some surprise and comment. Hogg, Shelley’s early friend, who heard of it from Mrs. Gisborne, now in England, was especially shocked. In a letter to Mary, Mrs. Gisborne remarked, “Your friend Hogg is molto scandalizzato to hear of your weekly visits to the piano di sotto” (the services were held on the ground floor of the Tre Palazzi).
The same letter asks for news of Emilia Viviani. Mrs. Gisborne had heard that she was married, and feared she had been sacrificed to a man whom she describes as “that insipid, sickening Italian mortal, Danieli the lawyer.” She proceeds to say —
We invited Varley one evening to meet Hogg, who was cu
rious to see a man really believing in astrology in the nineteenth century. Varley, as usual, was not sparing of his predictions. We talked of Shelley without mentioning his name; Varley was curious, and being informed by Hogg of his exact age, but describing his person as short and corpulent, and himself as a bon vivant, Varley amused us with the following remarks: “Your friend suffered from ill-fortune in May or June 1815. Vexatious affairs on the 2d and 14th of June, or perhaps latter end of May 1820. The following year, disturbance about a lady. Again, last April, at 10 at night, or at noon, disturbance about a bouncing stout lady, and others. At six years of age, noticed by ladies and gentlemen for learning. In July 1799, beginning of charges made against him. In September 1800, at noon, or dusk, very violent charges. Scrape at fourteen years of age. Eternal warfare against parents and public opinion, and a great blow-up every seven years till death,” etc. etc. Is all this true?
Not a little amused, Mary answered her friend as follows —
Pisa, 7th March 1822.
My dear Mrs. Gisborne — I am very sorry that you have so much trouble with my commissions, and vainly, too! ma che vuole? Ollier will not give you the money, and we are, to tell you the truth, too poor at present to send you a cheque upon our banker; two or three circumstances having caused
That climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of our weekly bills.
But far more than that, we have not touched a quattrino of our Christmas quarter, since debts in England and other calls swallowed it entirely up. For the present, therefore, we must dispense with those things I asked you for. As for the desk, we received last post from Ollier (without a line) the bill of lading that he talks of, and, si Dio vuole, we shall receive it safe; the vessel in which they were shipped is not yet arrived. The worst of keeping on with Ollier (though it is the best, I believe, after all) is that you will never be able to make anything of his accounts, until you can compare the number of copies in hand with his account of their sale. As for my novel, I shipped it off long ago to my father, telling him to make the best of it; and by the way in which he answered my letter, I fancy he thinks he can make something of it. This is much better than Ollier, for I should never have got a penny from him; and, moreover, he is a very bad bookseller to publish with — ma basta poi, with all these seccaturas.
