Lake Lucerne is a glorious sight though. The town itself is nestled at the foot of the Alps, which surround it on all sides. We took a skiff when we searched for habitation. On the way, our guide told us to look up at the mountain that we were passing. “Do you see the snow on the highest peak? Once during a fearsome storm,” he said, “a priest and his mistress, who were running away together, died in an avalanche when snow fell on them as they were crossing the peak. If you listen carefully, you can still hear their cries in the wind.” Shelley scoffed but I was certain that I heard moaning and pleas for help. I moved closer to Shelley and threaded my arm through his. I vowed to stay clear of the mountains that are indifferent to human life and love. Indeed they are great, breathing (and sleeping) animals. It is best not to awaken them.
Despite our anxiety about finding lodgings and the strange feelings provoked by the terrible tale that we heard, I soon began to settle and after some time felt a sense of serenity as we glided along the placid waters. The mountains’ reflection in the water added to this sublime experience. Like my mother, I am drawn to nature and find God present in it, even if that nature includes elements of terror. If it weren’t for the inhospitable people who live in Lucerne, I would be happy to reside here with my Shelley, even though many of the inhabitants, including numerous members of the Swiss Guard, supported and fought for the French Royalty during the revolution. The natural environment bequeaths a certain sense of calm that I have rarely experienced. It reminds me very much of the romantic scenes that my mother describes in her travels in Scandinavia.
I wish that I could always carry that calm within me, especially when Shelley undergoes his occasional mania. Sometimes he stays up all night, pacing the room, fretting about a stanza. I prefer writing my poems in the light of day, when my mind is the sharpest and the images arise before me like vivid dreams. Yet, sometimes, my best ideas come to me just as I lay my head on the pillow and I am forced to arise and jot down those thoughts before they escape into the netherworld.
With little funds available, we decided that the least expensive way to return to England would be via a water route. We are travelling on the Rhine and regularly see medieval ruins with their turrets projecting into the heavens. Vineyards grace the prominences and we see workers tending row after row of grapevines that line the hills. Certainly, the scenes are picturesque. Last evening, we heard the vine dressers singing about shepherds and lost love. Despite such a bucolic and romantic scene, Shelley and I fretted very much about the workers and wonder how well they are paid. We fear that their lives are much like their medieval ancestors’ lives.
En route to Strasburg, we were horrified to learn that a boat with 15 people aboard overturned and all of the souls perished. We saw the capsized boat as it drifted down stream and our boatmen crossed themselves to ward off evil. I was grateful that the water was calm and that we were not in danger of meeting the fate of those unfortunate souls. Nevertheless, when Shelley turned his head, I quickly crossed myself as well.
Regrettably, even though the waters were calm, Shelley had to come to my rescue on the boat by defending me from the brutalities of our fellow passengers, mean-spirited, barbaric men who were drunk and cruel, and who stole our seats when we had alighted for some refreshments. We could not understand their speech but found them to be exceedingly rude and obnoxious. Their actions were also lewd toward Jane and me and they taunted Shelley. I told Shelley to ignore them but he became enraged, shouted at the men and when one of the men pushed Shelley, Shelley struck him, knocking him to the ground. The captain intervened and quelled the violence. Fortunately, my dear Shelley was not injured.
Perhaps because I have led a sheltered life, I never knew that such barbaric men existed. Are they truly human? Aren’t humans capable, as the philosopher Pico della Mirandola says, of imitating the angels? As he argues in his “Oration on the Dignity of Man,” God the Father has “made you [man] neither of heavenly nor of earthly stuff, neither mortal nor immortal, so that with free choice and dignity, you may fashion yourself into whatever form you choose. To you is granted the power of degrading yourself into the lower forms of life, the beasts, and to you is granted the power, contained in your intellect and judgment, to be reborn into the higher forms, the divine.” Why did these men seemingly choose to degrade themselves and renounce the divine spark that Pico claims, and which I believe, is inherent in all of us?
13 September 1814
As we neared England, a gale arose and threatened to subsume our craft. The rain poured down and the wind nearly toppled the boat. As the vessel rocked, Shelley tried to appease my fear by advising that I watch the porpoises that sported near the boat; they seemed to play in the waves, jumping over one another and frolicking, seeming to defy the tempest. Shelley was delighted, but I had a hard time concentrating on the playful porpoises. I tried to steady myself by keeping my eyes on the horizon looking for land. I was exceedingly relieved when we reached Gravesend and stepped off the boat onto the safety of the stable land.
We spent our second to last guinea on the boat and were astounded that three of us had managed to travel 800 miles on less than ₤30.
14 September 1814
We quickly proceeded on to London. Shelley is on a mission to obtain the money that we need. He has found through corresponding with Harriet while we were on the Continent that Harriet has taken her revenge on him by considerably dipping into his funds. Even now, as I write, Jane and I sit in the coach outside Harriet’s residence (she has returned to living with her father and mother) as Shelley visits his wife in order to convince her to share what she has squirreled away, to give him his own money. He must obtain money or we will have nothing to pay our driver!
I feel sick at heart. We only just learned that Harriet is pregnant with her and Shelley’s second child. I actually wonder if the child is indeed Shelley’s but I dare not inquire about this at this time. Shelley would surely fly into a rage, even though he suspects her of infidelity!
I can only imagine their conversation and the hysterical nature of it. She is probably cursing Shelley for running away with me and ruining her life and her reputation, for betraying and abandoning her. He, no doubt, is trying his best to be the voice of reason and is attempting to subdue her wrath. Most likely, he has to tell her that they have no affinity, as he and I do, that he does not love her as he loves me. Yet, if he tells her the truth, she may withhold his own money from him. Oh, I wish that I could be a fly on the wall in that parlor and see how he treats her and whether he still holds some affection for her, especially now that she is once again with child. My Shelley is not heartless and cruel so he is perhaps softening his message to her and promising who knows what. I have to trust that all will turn out well and that Harriet will come to understand that destiny has brought Shelley and me together. She will need to step aside.
I endeavor to remain free of jealousy, but my stomach is in turmoil; I feel physically sick the longer he is with Harriet. I see green.
I try to pay attention as Jane babbles on about Lord Byron and how she longs to meet him. She sits in the carriage reading aloud portions of “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” talking about the disillusioned, misanthropic youth whom she is certain she could satisfy. I care not. I wish that she would cease her droning on; I tune her out and wait patiently for my love to emerge from the flat. Here he comes! He is smiling. We are saved.
2 October 1814
Rumors still swirl around us. They are concerned with how Shelley was able to “secure” Jane and me. People continue to claim that Godwin sold us for a fortune. But Godwin has acquired no fortune. Even though he has broken my heart by disowning me and refusing to speak to us, he continually writes to Shelley begging us for money. We barely survive on what we have in our coffers and the debt collectors are seeking Shelley once again. He has told me that he needs to go into hiding until he can find a way to pay off some of his debts. He promises that he can see me on Sund
ays because on Sunday bailiffs are not permitted to arrest debtors. Every day that we are apart, he writes to me telling me how wretched and lonely he feels when he and I are separated; he longs for his child of light.
Even though we must part temporarily, I know from his letters and from the affection he expresses when we are re-united that Shelley loves me and I feel closer to him than ever before. He told me about his meeting with Harriet and how she begged him to return to her. He confessed his abiding love for me and told her that he was sorry that he had injured her. He must be true to his heart, even if it causes her great pain. She sobbed bitterly and ordered him to “Get out!” She even told him that she and her child would be better off dead. Shelley did not fall for her theatrics, which he says are much like Jane’s exaggerations and hysterics. When he described the scene, I briefly flashed on the image of my mother begging Imlay and her later despondency, but I pushed the image from my mind. Surely, Harriet is not a foolish girl; she was just trying, as my mother did, to win back her lover’s affection.
Despite this, she did relinquish funds to him because, by rights, they are his, just as she is his property, a custom and law that Shelley and I despise.
Of late, I have wished that Jane would move out and acquire her own life. We discussed this before Shelley went into hiding. I am often upset because Shelley and Jane spend so much time together late into the night. Shelley tells her witching and ghost stories and Jane deliberately becomes overwrought so that Shelley can comfort her. Shelley claims that it’s just playacting and fun, but I know that Jane is exceedingly fond of my love and she would do anything to gain his genuine affection.
Despite our efforts to remain hidden, her mother found us once again and has threatened to place Jane in a convent! We cannot imagine Jane being restricted to such a prison. She lusts for life and the male sex in particular. When Mrs. Clairmont revealed her scheme, Jane just laughed and said that she was ridiculous —that, even if her mother managed to confine her, she would break out! She would scale the walls, if need be, or swim across a moat. She would free herself. I watched the drama unfold and said nothing. Secretly, I wished that Jane would be sequestered in a convent. I hate that she continues to seek attention from Shelley and even though he is not vain and won’t succumb to her seduction, he does possess strong lusts and physical needs.
Nonetheless, now that Shelley and I are temporarily separated, I am less troubled by Jane’s presence and sometimes find comfort in her company. I even listen more attentively as she hatches plots to meet Lord Byron, who is a likely substitute for my Shelley. Perhaps if she does meet the good Lord, she will stop trying to win Shelley’s affection and we will be rid of her.
15 October 1814
I have spent numerous hours walking up and down Fleet Street trying to catch a glimpse of Shelley. I fear that the more I walk alone, the more likely someone might think me a common woman, a tart, or that my identity will be discovered and then Shelley will be in jeopardy. Because of this, I’ve had to take Jane with me, as my shadow and “chaperone.” I grow tired of the fact that her tentacles reach so deeply into our lives. When I do end up seeing Shelley, there she is, as always, accompanying us in our rendezvous. I sneak away sometimes and venture out on my own so that I can have private time with my love. He cautions me to be careful because I may be followed and then the creditors would know where to find him and could and would likely cart him away to the workhouse! This I cannot allow, so I go incognito; I paint my face like a zombie and don a veil so that it is unlikely that I will be recognized. There’s a certain freedom in my disguise and Shelley finds it amusing to make love to a painted lady.
22 October 1814
I just learned that we are with child. That explains my continuing queasiness and my breast tenderness and dizziness. I have no one with whom I can confide or ask about female issues, except for Jane and she is little help, since she has never, to my knowledge, been pregnant. And even if I were on good terms with Mrs. Clairmont, I would not ask her advice about what to expect in pregnancy. If she did offer advice, she would probably try to fill me with dread, telling me that I will likely die just as my mother did. That’s how much contempt she has for me.
I am happy to know though that Shelley is thrilled to learn of the pregnancy. We are to be a real family. He makes plans about our love child. I do hope that he is more excited about this child than the one that Harriet is carrying.
Even without Mrs. Clairmont’s imagined advice, I have some trepidation about the pregnancy. Only because of what I know that can go wrong. I think about what happened to my mother and to her friend, Fanny Blood. How does one stop the inevitable complications? What if I should bleed to death like Fanny? What if my doctors are as incompetent as my mother’s? Shelley tells me that I am being overly anxious; he assures me that all will be well and that I should not fret, but I have unquiet dreams about this pregnancy and this child. I’ve dreamt that the child is no bigger than a mustard seed and that I have to water it to make it grow, but that it refuses. I can only hope that the dream is biblical in nature and that in the end the mustard seed is a good, not a bad, omen. I must trust that all will turn out well, as Shelley promises.
In the meantime, I write stories of a philosophical nature and I continue to write poems. I’ve asked Shelley to read my Juvenilia and he says that he will but every time I suggest that he critique it he has some other pressing business or his own work to pursue. While we were traveling, he also failed to read my writing and much of it was left behind when Shelley said that we had to economize our luggage. He had promised to have it forwarded to our next destination, but it never arrived. Luckily, I kept my journal on my person so that this record could not be lost. Perhaps when we are re-united in the same house he will have greater freedom to peruse my writing.
27 October 1814
Shelley is furious with me! I pawned his microscope and now he refuses to speak with me. We needed the money and I was able to obtain five pounds sterling for it so he should be grateful that I am contributing to our livelihood. He was exceedingly fond of that microscope though; it was his most treasured possession, and I didn’t realize how much it meant to him and that his father had given it to him on his eighth birthday. He has peered at all sorts of animalcule and flies’ wings under it. I did not know that he had possessed it for so very long and I feel a bit regretful, but we were desperate for money.
Shelley is also angry because he thinks that I do not understand that he is not just a poet, but he is a natural philosopher interested in all things seen and unseen. He has a great fascination for electricity, mesmerism, and phrenology.
He even confessed that when he was young, he went to Highgate Cemetery and “chased ghosts.” He visited graveyards at night, watching the “Resurrectionists,” the grave robbers that snatched bodies from their crypts and sold them to doctors. Perhaps these are the gruesome stories that he shares with Jane that engender her hysterics. Although his “ghost chasing” sounds ghastly and could have easily resulted in his arrest, he learned much about human anatomy, when he occasionally followed the Resurrectionists when they delivered the bodies to doctors and then watched doctors dissect the corpses. Afterwards, he joined the gravediggers in the pub.
I do know about his fascination with science because I find him often looking to the heavens and here below examining ordinary objects, drops of water, insects, and other minute objects. I tell him that he is like Blake’s woodcut rendering of Newton always gazing at whatever is in his close vision and whatever is augmented by modern instruments.
14 November 1814
Fortunately, Shelley and I are reconciled and re-united; he ceased being angry about the lost microscope. And, at last, our finances are improved. I don’t know how he acquires silver because he does not share these details with me. Perhaps he borrowed more money from Thomas Peacock or Thomas Hogg. Sometimes when he does not share details with me, I feel as though he treats me like a chi
ld, as I feared he would, not his equal at all. I may be his “child of light” but I will not be treated as a child. I remind Shelley that I am quite grown up. I recently turned 17. I tell him that I am my mother’s daughter and that I am strong and tenacious. He should not infantilize me.
Because I have been ill nearly every day with stomach ailments and dizziness, I have not been able to accompany Shelley on his jaunts about town now that he is a free man. Jane takes advantage of this situation and aspires to take my place on nearly every outing. I fear that Jane would like to permanently replace me. Jane and Shelley have traveled to the National Portrait Gallery to view the new portrait of Byron the celebrity and to St. Martin’s in the Fields to hear chamber music from Handel. They stroll through Hyde Park’s Kensington Gardens and reside next to the Serpentine Pond. Shelley tells me that there are lounge chairs that one can rent for a half-penny. Now that he is flush with funds, he and Jane rest there after their long rambles and watch the leaves turn orange, red, and russet, and fall to the ground. I beg him to let me go too but he tells me that the doctor advises that I rest so that I do not lose our child. I can feel the child stirring in my womb. She is as eager to get out in the world as I am.
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