“The daughter of Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft had gifts of heart and minds such as Shelley had never hitherto known in a woman,” Dowden wrote. “From her father she had inherited clearness and precision of intellect, firmness of will, and a certain quietude of manner . . . under this quiet bearing lay her mother’s sensitivity and ardour, with an imaginative power which quickened and widened her sympathies.”
Percy Shelley was enthralled, and so was Mary. But the situation was also not that unusual. Although his wild looks and tendencies to enjoy scientific discourses and tales of the macabre had made him unpopular with his schoolmates and earned him the nickname of “Mad Shelley,” those same traits were very appealing to women.
By the time Shelley became a constant guest at Skinner Street, three young ladies were living in the house. There was quiet and reserved Fanny, the one people spoke of the least and the one who was the most homely. She was older than the other two and obeyed the house rules; some said she did so because she felt like an outsider, given that neither Mr. Godwin nor Mrs. Godwin was her natural parent. Mary was the somewhat pretty middle girl, who was quiet but not too quiet, and who leaned toward reflection and introspection. She was the inheritor of her father and mother’s legacies but was far too attached to her father, something her stepmother had tried, without success, to end. And there was the youngest, Jane (Claire) Clairmont, the most beautiful of the three, dark and alluring, bold in her looks and manners. All three, it was suspected, formed a crush on Shelley, but only Mary had the mental capabilities and legacy he was attracted to.
Mary often made it a point to visit her late mother’s grave site. St. Pancras Cemetery’s northward location offered her solace on two levels: it got her away from her stepmother and afforded her a spiritual friendship with her dead mother. She would sit on that grave site and read most of Mary Wollstonecraft’s published and unpublished works, as well as other manuscripts she removed from her father’s library.
Like other cemeteries across London and its suburbs, St. Pancras had its share of resurrectionists and “sack-’em-up men” disturbing graves for profit; Mary Wollstonecraft’s site, though, had not been touched. Jane Clairmont often went with Mary on her strolls, not because she too wanted to read in the cemetery, but because young girls should not go out alone. After Shelley started coming around, he joined their walks toward the cemetery, this time with Jane acting as a young chaperone.
Shelley must have liked the gloomy mood of the cemetery and the adjacent church. He likely told the girls about his obsession with the “marvelous stories of fairy-lands, and apparitions, and spirits, and haunted grounds.” St. Pancras, with its old history, its towering weeping willows, and its dank river nearby, could easily bring back days from the past. But St. Pancras appealed to Shelley because while there, beneath the gnarled tree sweeping above the tomb of Mary Wollstonecraft, he realized he was in love with Mary Godwin and told her so. As it happened, an exuberant Mary said she felt the same. Only one thing stood in the way of their happiness: Percy Shelley was married, and he was the father of a toddler named Ianthe.
Percy Shelley and T. J. Hogg may have discussed the wonders of science and the pursuit of knowledge in their rooms at Oxford. But invariably their conversations turned to women—they were, after all, young and at the brink of adulthood. Shelley seemed to place great emphasis on the qualities a woman had to possess in order to capture his senses. According to Hogg, Shelley would only be moved by a female if she possessed “absolute perfection.”
Edward Dowden agreed: “It is certain that at this time the qualities in women which most kindled [Shelley’s] imagination were not beauty, or sweetness and gentleness, but intellectual strength and passionate ardour of heart.”
Some said Shelley’s wife, Harriet Westbrook, had none of those qualities, though nothing was outright wrong with her. She was a beautiful girl of sixteen, who was very petite and “slightly and delicately formed.” She moved quickly on her feet and dressed in so simple a manner as to match her speech and the tone of her conversations, and “her laugh was spontenous, hearty, and jouyous.”
But people said she was not as intellectual as Shelley wanted, and he did not care much about beauty and fashion, so why did he marry her? The answer is that Shelley enjoyed playing a rescuer. Before marrying, Harriet lived at home with her father and an unmarried older sister, who had stepped into the role of mother early on. Her mother still lived, though she was a “seemingly incapable person.” Harriet, in all the wisdom of youth, had found this situation unbearable; when she met the dashing poet she quickly fell in love. In turn, after seeing her situation, Shelley promised to care for her.
But that promise was seemingly made in the heat of the moment, for in a letter he wrote to Hogg, dated on or around August 3, 1811, he declared, “In consequence . . . she has thrown herself upon my protection . . . Gratitude and admiration all demand that I should love her for ever . . . She had become violently attached to me, and feared that I should not return her attachment.”
He proposed, and the two of them rode off to Edinburgh, where they got married. They left behind them a disgruntled father and family.
It did not take long for the Shelleys to realize that Edinburgh would not agree with them, particularly not with Percy. He could not tolerate the persistent rains of autumn and the city’s general darkness. After only five weeks, he had no problem convincing his wife to move to York: “she was docile, and submitted her mind to such influences as were brought to play upon it.” Even worse, “strength of intellect and strength of character were lacking in her.”
Some agreed that this was a particularly terrible flaw in her character, not so much because Harriet submitted herself to Shelley’s will and moods, but because she could not keep up with his discussions on philosophy, science, and the occult. And she did not appear to have a mind of her own. She even continued to rely on her older sister for advice well into the marriage, a habit Shelley deplored so much he came to believe he had married both sisters, not just the younger one.
While they were living in York, Shelley’s friendship with Hogg was challenged and redefined. Shelley left Harriet under Hogg’s protection while he went away to London. When he returned, he noticed his wife was despondent and quiet. He urged her to tell him what had happened, and she revealed to Shelley that Hogg had made a pass at her, declaring his love for her and hoping she loved him back. When confronted, Hogg admitted his indiscretions, and the two didn’t speak for many painful months. Again, Shelley decided he needed a change of scenery and wanted to move—something that would occur again and again. He left the choice of where to his wife, and to her sister Eliza, who was now a constant household companion.
Things got worse when Harriet became pregnant and gave birth to Ianthe. Like many women, Harriet transformed with motherhood, shifting her priorities to her child. She matured physically and mentally, though she still relied mightily on her sister. This bond only got stronger with the birth of the baby, and Percy Shelley felt left out. By this time, Shelley had reconnected with Hogg, and on March 16, 1814, he wrote to his friend: “Eliza is still with us . . . I am now little inclined to contest this part. I certainly hate her with all my heart and soul. It is a sight which awakens an inexpressible sensation of disgust and horror, to see her caress my poor little Ianthe.”
In 1894, decades after Percy Shelley became romantically involved with Mary Godwin, Mark Twain published a long article titled “In Defence of Harriet Shelley.” By this time, Harriet, who had died in 1816, had long since been forgotten. Regardless, there were still questions about her days with Shelley, most specifically what had prompted her husband to land in Mary Godwin’s arms. Mark Twain, like many others before him, didn’t really know much about Harriet Shelley’s life. Still, he was able to conclude that “rumour, gossip, conjectures, insinuation, and innuendo,” perpetrated by Shelley’s friends and supporters and Mary’s family and friends, had contributed to marking Harriet as a lowly character.
This portrait came as a surprise to those who actually knew Harriet. The real woman was quite different. She had been well educated and attended the same school as Shelley’s sister (who came from money). In that respect, she had attended better schools than Mary Godwin, whose education and knowledge were derived not from formal schooling, but from her own efforts and desire to learn, and the steps she had taken to gain that knowledge.
It also was not true that she had been indifferent to Shelley’s needs. Thomas Love Peacock, a friend of Shelley’s, wrote in Memoirs of Percy Shelley, published in 1858, that Harriet “was fond of her husband, and accommodated herself in every way to his tastes. If they mixed in society, she adorned it; if they lived in retirement, she was satisfied; if they travelled, she enjoyed the change of scene.”
In his 1857 book about Shelley, Edward Dowden portrayed Mary as a calm and particularly reasonable young woman, even though her bouts of anger and sour moods were well known and documented. Others also took issue with Mary’s features and how she was portrayed physically. It was said that she was an exceptionally beautiful young woman Shelley could not resist, but according to Shelley’s cousin, Thomas Medwin, that was not entirely true. He said: “It could not have been her personal charms that captivated him, for to judge her [Mary] in 1820 . . . she could not have been handsome, or even what may be denominated pretty.”
If Shelley had sought beauty, he had already had that. Harriet’s physical beauty was startling, as were her many personal charms. Those who met her were immediately put at ease by her presence, something Mary often failed to do.
Those who came to learn of Shelley’s subsequent romantic adventures knew very well why his wife had been disposed of and that particular mistress gained. Even Harriet knew why she had been set aside. When asked this by Thomas Love Peacock, she replied, “Nothing, but that her name was Mary, and not only Mary, but Mary Wollstonecraft.” Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, at that. Harriet might have felt slighted at that moment, and may even have been angry, but her response was not too far from the truth.
How does one go on about explaining falling in love with a name, or the notion of what that name actually means? How does one rationalize that decision or impulse? In Shelley’s case, he convinced himself, Dowden agreed, that “he had married a woman who . . . had never truly loved him, who loved only his fortune and his rank, and proved her selfishness by deserting him in his misery.” By shifting the blame toward Harriet, Shelley freed himself of fault. He was available to pursue his own happiness, which he thought he’d found with Mary. He had had numerous amorous escapades, was flexible in his romantic entanglements, and made it seem as if he had committed a pardonable act. Mark Twain suggested that Shelley “had done something which in the case of other men is called a grave crime,” but said that “in his case it is not that, because he does not think as other men do about those things.”
Harriet also faced rumors that she had been unfaithful and that the child she was carrying (her second) might not have been Shelley’s. People figured the Godwins were to blame for this gossip—Mrs. Godwin was known for her fondness of gossip and flair for the dramatic. And William Godwin could have started such a rumor to save what was left of his daughter’s reputation or to solidify his relationship with Shelley, who had already extended financial support and would continue to do so in the future. Callous as it sounded, those closest to him were aware that this behavior was not above him.
“As respected his own purposes, Godwin was one of the most heartless, the most callous of men,” Francis Place wrote. “He was perfectly regardless of the mischief he might bring upon anyone and quite as regardless of the feelings of others. When his own ends could be best and must be promptly answered by inflicting unhappiness on them, these matters annoyed him so little that I have sometimes doubted whether they did not even afford him satisfaction, when they fell upon those who had not readily conformed to his wishes.”
Mary Godwin knew Shelley was married when they met. But Shelley had told her the marriage was dead, though no one else had been aware of the troubles he was facing. He described for Mary the cruel situation he found himself in and how desperate his soul was. He most likely told Mary that Harriet had been unfaithful. Whether he truly believed that is uncertain, but how was Mary to react to that? She was a young woman experiencing her first full-blown love affair, believing the object of her desire was caught in the middle of an awful predicament.
After several conversations with Mary and Percy Shelley, William Godwin believed their passion and desire for each other had been diffused, but that was not true at all.
Harriet had also come to believe that her husband’s zest for the young Mary would wane. In her mind, she thought that Mary was the one “who had ensnared Shelley by her witchcraft, by her sentimental raptures at Mary Wollstonecraft’s grave; by her avails of love; she alone had done this wrong.”
Given their situation, Percy Shelley and Mary Godwin decided to elope to the continent. On July 28, 1814, cloaked in a long dark dress that matched the night, Mary Godwin and Percy Shelley met at dawn to rush to Dover, and from there they intended to go to Switzerland.
Anchored by their sides was none other than Jane Clairmont.
Chapter 5
ELOPING TO THE MAINLAND
The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of water broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom’d trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter’d cities crowning these;
Whose far white along them shine . . .
LORD BYRON, CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE
Percy Shelley, Mary Godwin, and Jane Clairmont fled Skinner Street during a blistering hot night, a heat wave that would stay strong as they traveled across the channel, accompanying them well into the Continent. Both girls were about to get an adventure and they eagerly hurried toward the chaise Shelley had provided. Shelley had been unsure if Mary would actually show up, but as the new day dawned, there she was.
Was he surprised to see Jane tagging along with Mary? After all, this was supposed to be a romantic elopement, and Jane was a third wheel. Why would Jane accompany Mary and why would Mary agree to it? When news of their escape broke out, some wondered if Jane had also developed a crush on Shelley and wanted to intrude on her stepsister’s happiness. Many others suggested that Jane was with them because she was fluent in French, and they would be traveling through France and part of Switzerland. (But of course Shelley spoke some French and could have done well without her.)
Still others speculated that Jane had also aroused in Shelley the hero-rescuer role he was so fond of playing. He had done so when he met and married Harriet, and he was doing it again with Mary by taking her away from circumstances she despised. So why should it be any different with Jane?
Others recognized that Shelley’s moral standards were flexible and were inclined to believe he had run off with the two girls. Shelley had often spoken about starting a commune, and this idea, along with Shelley’s unconventionality, was further bolstered when later he dared to ask his wife, Harriet, to join them. He sought her company not as his wife but as his friend. It’s possible he wanted Harriet to bring money with her—or he enjoyed adding fuel to the malicious and widespread rumors that had already started. But Harriet declined the invitation.
William Godwin learned of their escape that same morning. He found a letter on his dresser that tol
d him his daughter had escaped behind his back. In his younger years Godwin’s own views and ideas about love, relationships, and marriage had been as loose as Shelley’s, but he was not as open to his daughter and his protégé engaging in such potentially scandalous activities.
In writing to his friend John Taylor sometime later, he placed the blame on Shelley, though he felt betrayed by all the participants: “I had the utmost confidence in him; I knew him susceptible of the noblest sentiments; he was a married man who had lived happily with his wife for three years . . . On Sunday June 26, he accompanied Mary, and her sister Jane Clairmont, to the tomb of Mary’s mother, one mile distant from London; and there it seems, the impious idea first occurred to him of seducing her, playing the traitor to me and deserting his wife.”
Godwin was wrong, of course. Though Shelley may have made his feelings clear to Mary, all reports indicated that she was the one who made the first move. Shelley had spoken to Godwin earlier about his feelings for Mary, almost as if he was asking permission to begin a relationship with her, but Godwin had as much as said no.
“I expostulated with him with all the energy of which I was master, and with so much effect that for the moment he promised to give up his licentious love,” Godwin went on in his letter to Taylor. “I appealed all my diligence to waken up a sense of honour and natural affection in the mind of Mary, and I seemed to have succeeded. They both deceived me.”
After this conversation between her father and Shelley, Mary decided, at least for a short time, to blunt Shelley’s advances. Ultimately she decided to run away with him, perhaps choosing that as a way of avoiding her father’s anger. One story at the time, told by Mrs. Godwin, suggested that Shelley attempted suicide by ingesting a large quantity of laudanum. Mary found him and revived him, and he resumed his seduction of her. This time he won her affection.
The Lady and Her Monsters Page 10