Shelley continues his work and he encourages me to write. I cannot put pen to paper except in this journal where I can express my soul’s emptiness. Every time a loved one dies, a portion of my soul dies with them.
Shelley plans for us to travel to Rome as a way to rid me of my melancholy. He also wishes to study some archival materials on Cicero and for us to read Dante and Virgil together. Rome will be a new experience and, even though I suffer great emotional pain, I shall endeavor to rouse myself for the journey. I do feel distant from Shelley though and often lash out because of my anguish.
8 November 1818
Claire does not realize that her ceaseless crying about her daughter only adds to my own heartache. At least her daughter lives. Mine lies in a cold, dark box. I wish Claire understood the additional grief that she causes me every time she weeps because of Allegra’s absence.
20 November 1818
We have traveled to Rome to help lift our over-burdened hearts; as I said, mine weighs more than Shelley’s, but still he grieves our loss of Clara and I know that he thinks of Ianthe and Charles continuously; he will never recover from losing them to an Anglican minister. I should be more understanding with how he copes with such tragedies. He tells me that seeing new sights will inspire us, give us hope, and add to our knowledge. It will help us with our work, which will better the world. I do agree with that sentiment and so we attempted to soothe our spirits by spending the past two days being tourists in Rome.
We explored the old city, the Roman Forum and Colosseum; we walked past the House of the Vestal Virgins, and mounted Palatine Hill. These antiquities thrilled us as we imagined what life was like during the Roman Empire. Rome certainly affected our small island and it is easy to see why with their vast roads and their splendid architecture.
The highlight for all tourists is, of course, the Trevi Fountain, which we strolled past this evening. Magnificent Neptune, Shelley’s mythical father, lords over the sea as two Tritons flank him. I feel much like Mr. Wordsworth in wishing to be a pagan who believes in these anthropomorphized gods. At least they intervened in human life, for good or ill.
We learned from our guide that the fountain may have been named after Trivia, a young girl who led thirsty Roman soldiers to the spring from which the fountain emanates. I was pleased to learn that a female guide is remembered here in relief. I tossed a coin to commemorate her leadership and to ensure a return to Rome under happier circumstances.
21 November 1818
Shelley and I went separate ways as we toured St. Peter’s Basilica. He wished to spend time in the Grottoes to see the crypts of the popes, but I had no desire to dream about dead popes. Instead, I spent my time viewing the Pieta. Michelangelo’s statue of the Virgin Mary cradling her dead son calms my heart. The expression of finality and acceptance on her face is admirable. However, what I admire the most is the fact that Michelangelo captured a moment in which a mother perennially holds her departed son and he is her child once again. She is like a goddess herself, maternal, matronly, with a wide lap upon which her son lays. He is hers and she will not relinquish him. This is how I interpret this masterpiece of maternal love. I imagine holding my daughters, Sophia and Clara, in this way.
Afterwards, I wandered through the basilica and gazed at the dome designed by Michelangelo. It is only the second of its kind in the world; the first is Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Michelangelo’s dome radiates like the sun itself and seems to reach to the highest heavens. I was struck by its utter splendor. The Church of England and the entire Reformation lost something when they abandoned the art and architecture of these grand basilicas and cathedrals. I know that some might think that relishing their artistry is too popish, but, to me, these extraordinary works have nothing to do with popes and their power. They are testament to the human capacity to make art, which, in my view, is what makes us human.
22 November 1818
Today, we toured the Vatican art collection. I was most impressed by the Raphael Rooms, particularly the School of Athens mural, which made me wish all the more for a trip to Athens and the Agora. I now ardently wish that I could explore the Agora with my father, not with Shelley. As fellow philosophers, assuming my father thinks me one, we could walk in Plato’s and Socrates’s steps, but I doubt that this will ever happen. My philosophy pales in comparison to my father’s.
I wandered back to our pension and stopped on the Spanish Steps and then peered down on the fountain below. Many dark-clad nuns and priests are on pilgrimage here and they were milling around the fountain, waiting for a tour. I find myself drawn to their calm demeanor, particularly when I see them praying in the cathedrals. I often wish again that I could make a confession and receive forgiveness for my transgressions and faults, particularly the injury that I caused Harriet Westbrook Shelley and the harm that I may have inadvertently caused my own daughters who could not remain in this world with me. I also seek forgiveness for the role that I played in ending my mother’s life. Fortunately, my mother forgives me.
Perhaps my grief could be assuaged through a proper, heartfelt confession. Although I am not truly a Protestant, I, like Luther, make my private confession; I do not need the intercession of priestly magic to seek and receive forgiveness for my failings and indiscretions.
10 December 1818
We are in Napoli and have visited Cicero’s “tomb.” Together we have read Dante and Virgil again. Shelley is finally beginning what he hopes is his magnum opus, his Prometheus Unbound. He is certain that it will bring public scorn and hellfire on him, but, as an atheist, he cares not.
13 December 1818
This was an exceptional day because we joined a touring group that hiked up Mount Vesuvius, an active volcano, that erupted on August 24th, 79 B.C. Villas and villages were buried in ash and pumice; the eruption killed thousands of people who tried to escape their torment by racing into the sea. When I juxtapose my private grief with the sheer terror that these multitudes experienced, I realize that my grief, although profound, pales in comparison.
The trek up the volcano was about a mile long from where our cart transported us. We were able to peer into the crater but saw no lava, only steam. Nevertheless, it was a harrowing experience and Shelley kept remarking that hellfire could bubble up anytime. Peering into the abyss was like looking into hell, assuming that such a place truly exists.
A literal hell must have been realized when the volcano erupted 17 centuries ago. Of late, a new science has developed, archeology, which seeks to uncover the buried past. This site around Vesuvius is one of the major sites of exploration. The village of Pompeii is slowly being uncovered systematically and the scientists are finding cratered out areas where humans fell as the ash and pumice buried them. Children were clinging to their mothers and dogs lay beside their masters. We were told that one of the buildings that was found completely intact was a brothel, where Greek sailors found pleasure with prostitutes. Ironically, hellfire apparently had little to no effect on this pleasure palace.
28 December 1818
Our nursemaid Elise has given birth to a daughter. No one knew that she was pregnant and she claims that she didn’t know but only thought that she had gained weight on the rich Italian food. We wonder who the father is. Shelley insisted that, if she is to remain in our household, she must relinquish the child to the foundling home, which she has reluctantly agreed to do.
1819
14 January 1819
Claire remains extremely unhappy and now deeply regrets surrendering Allegra to Byron. She has learned from Mrs. Hoopner, who takes Allegra to visit her father, that Byron is living his usual debauched life with his frequent sexual dalliances and his total disregard for his daughter when she does visit. If only Claire had some legal means to retrieve her child from the “good” Lord. No law protects Claire or Allegra.
Our time in Napoli remains fraught with sadness, despite all of my attempts to quash my multiple griefs. Fleeing England and it
s pestilence has surely not alleviated my continued pain and suffering. In fact, it may have exacerbated it.
10 February 1819
I have missed my monthly, but I dare not tell Claire who will likely be jealous and I dare not inform Shelley because he will worry about me and this pregnancy. He is busy at work on his epic drama and I continue with my plans for Valperga. This time in Italy may, despite my grief, be fruitful for my own work as I dream about the ruins that I visit and as I learn about the noble families who peopled the middle ages. I shall try not to fret about the outcome of this pregnancy, about which I endeavor to remain optimistic.
We will return to Rome in March and I plan to take drawing lessons, which I believe will help me visualize and write about the great cathedrals and the pre-Christian sites.
9 March 1819
Little Willmouse’s Italian far exceeds his English language skills at this point. He chatters away with Elise and me. Sometimes he is mistaken for an Italian child. Italy is our adopted and spiritual home so I don’t correct those who treat him as a native.
Our time is Rome has been extraordinary. In a way, I have fallen in love with it. Shelley and I visited the Pantheon at night and were profoundly moved by the moonlight as it fell through the dome. It illuminated the floor and was enhanced by the many votive candles that were lit to commemorate the dead. I lit candles for Sophia, Clara, and my mother.
Like Christopher Wren’s St. Paul’s, which sits on the site of a former temple dedicated to Diana, the Pantheon is an ancient Roman temple dedicated to the gods but now supplanted by the Christian god and his minions. In any case, I felt the presence of the god or gods and felt great peace within the Pantheon. Perhaps our troubles will end here and our griefs will be assuaged.
11 March 1819
Shelley wished to visit St. Peter’s again and by chance we saw a rather auspicious sight. As we were perusing the basilica, the Swiss Guards walked through ordering tourists and the faithful to stand back because some dignitaries were passing through. Little did we know that we would see his Eminence, the Holy Father, the Bishop of Rome. He was only an arm’s length away and he blessed the crowd as he proceeded. Again, I am not a papist but this pope, Pius VII, who was held prisoner by Napoleon, is held in high regard in Rome and throughout the Catholic world. He is considered heroic. I was glad to accept his blessing and hastily crossed myself as if I were one of his flock.
I wonder if there will ever be a female pope. I have heard of such a pope, Pope Joan, who masqueraded as a man in order to receive an education. As one would suspect, when it was discovered that she was a female and about to give birth, a mob stoned her to death. This could be an apocryphal story but it certainly seems feasible. Women cannot be popes or prime ministers or presidents, at least not in this current world.
15 March 1819
I visited the Villa Borghese and its galleries today to study Caravaggio’s “Bacchus.” I much prefer the “pagan” paintings to the ones that dwell on Christ’s suffering. “Bacchus” seems joyous and full of life; he too, like Christ, is the god of wine and resurrection. How odd that no one acknowledges the similarities between the two gods.
8 April 1819
Shelley has introduced me to his old friend, the Irish painter Amelia Curran. Apparently, she knows my father and she and Shelley traveled together when Shelley went to Ireland to campaign for Irish Emancipation. Her sister was engaged to Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot, whom the British executed for leading what they considered a treasonous insurrection. I am quite taken with Amelia and her art and have asked her to paint our Willmouse. She has already been working on a portrait of Shelley, which is quite striking but eerily similar in its facial features to Reni’s “Beatrice Cenci,” Shelley’s favorite painting. Beatrice is a tragic figure about whom Shelley is currently writing. I believe that he has had an effect on Amelia’s work, since he has no qualms about the ways in which his face resembles Beatrice’s. Perhaps Amelia sees his feminine side. Amelia has kindly agreed to give me drawing lessons.
30 April 1819
Amelia has completed Willmouse’s portrait. Happily, he does not look like Beatrice Cenci! He looks very much like my own dear child. She has captured his elf-like face and demeanor and his eyes, which are truly Shelley’s. She has him holding a pink rose, which droops slightly. Amelia was such a patient painter of my little man, who had a hard time sitting for his portrait, since he would rather have been chasing Alonzo the cat around the garden or kicking a ball like the other small boys in and around the pension.
5 May 1819
There is no hiding my pregnancy now, even if I wished to. I feel the child stir, like a small fish flapping its tail or a butterfly flapping its wings. I have told Shelley and he is genuinely happy. Once more, we hope for a daughter to complete our family. We are grateful for our Willmouse who delights us each day with his beautiful and loving spirit.
30 May 1819
I continue with my drawing lessons and am concentrating on still life objects, which for me are the easiest to sketch and then color; luscious grapes, black olives, and yellow roses are my objects. Amelia says after that we will work on drawing faces. I would like to be able to capture resemblances so that I can sketch a portrait of my daughter when she arrives in the late fall. I hope that by then, with sufficient practice, my skills with the drawing pencil will be much improved.
The nurse Elise has reported that Willmouse had a restless night. He woke her several times requesting water. I became cross with her because I want her to notify me if he does not feel well. She claims that he wasn’t hot to the touch and this morning he appears fine, just a little tired and out of sorts, perhaps from insufficient sleep.
3 June 1819
We have sent for the physician because Will has spiked a fever and he says that his head hurts. He cries for me, “Mamma, stringimi,” Mama, hold me. He wants to rest in my lap all day and he holds his stomach, telling me that his belly aches.
5 June 1819
The physician diagnosed malaria, which has alarmed me considerably. He told us to keep cold compresses on Willmouse and to monitor his cerebral activity. We actively try to arouse him by talking to him about Alonzo and his favorite toys, but poor Willmouse grows increasingly lethargic. The doctor has ordered quinine as the treatment and assures us that Willmouse will recover, if the drug is properly administered and if our child is faithfully monitored.
6 June 1819
We grow increasingly worried. Despite the quinine and our constant surveillance and care, our little Willmouse has suffered several seizures from his continued high fever. He has lost consciousness several times. The quinine seems to have little to no effect. I grow distressed and do not know what to do. I begin to despair.
This evening I left the pension briefly and donned a veil to visit the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. I wished to light a votive candle for my Willmouse. It briefly flickered and almost blew out, but then the flame grew strong. I dared not tell Shelley of my activity; he believes that this practice is mere superstition and magical thinking. I don’t care. I would do anything to intervene on behalf of my son Will. Perhaps the pagan gods of old Roma, even Neptune, Will’s mythical grandfather, will intervene.
7 June 1819
This world seems only a quicksand. My prayers were not answered. Our Willmouse, our innocent, darling boy, is gone. This morning he suffered continuous convulsions and then did not awaken. We tried our best to rouse him, but his heart grew silent and ceased beating.
I fear that I shall indeed lose my mind and probably lose the child that I now carry, who seems doomed like all of the others. I have taken to my bed and am leaving the responsibility for the burial to Shelley and Claire. I cannot bear the thought of lowering one more child into the cold ground. My dear Amelia sits by my bedside. I have turned her portrait of Will to the wall because I cannot look at it without sobbing. I keep asking her questions she cannot answer. Why are we
plagued with continuous death? What have we done to deserve this? When will it end? I know that others lose children, but we have lost three and I fear that the fourth will not remain with us. Again, I wonder if the gods are punishing us.
13 June 1819
Shelley reports that Willmouse has been interred at Cimitero Degli Ingles, the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. I now have one child buried in the watery depths of Venice, another in the cold Protestant Cemetery of Roma, and a third in merciless England. I could not leave my bed to attend the burial. The doctor has prescribed heavy doses of laudanum to control my nerves but nothing helps me sleep longer than a couple of hours. When I do sleep, I have nightmares in which Willmouse wakes in his coffin and tries to push it open. He screams from his grave and tries to claw his way out, but can’t. I fear that I shall never recover from this horror. Shelley, Claire, and Amelia are patient with me. Amelia, in particular, acts like a sister to me and when I cry, she holds me close and rocks me as if I were her child.
30 June 1819
Once again we have received a severe letter from my father who advises the usual British stiff upper lip claiming that only the poor and undisciplined succumb to common melancholy. I suppose that because he never lost a child to the grave he doesn’t comprehend this grief. Children should not die before their parents. That is not the natural order to things. We understand that childhood death does exist, but Willmouse had reached the age of three and was so vibrant, loving, and happy. Yet he was snuffed out so quickly and so easily. The older that he got, the more confident I felt that he would survive and grow to be a man.
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