PAGE 5
Mary W. Shelley
by
Professor Jowett sent for the youth and said, “Young man, I am told that you say you can not find God. Is this true?”
“Yes, sir,” said the youth.
“Well, you will please find Him before eight o’clock tonight or get out of this college.”
Shelley was not allowed to return home, and moreover his financial allowance was cut off entirely.
And so he wandered up to London and chewed the cud of bitter fancy, resolved to starve before he would abate one jot or tittle of what he thought was truth. And he might have starved had not his sisters sent him scanty sums of money from time to time. The messenger who carried the money to him was a young girl by the name of Harriet Westbrook, round and smooth and pink and sixteen. Percy was nineteen. Harriet was the daughter of an innkeeper and did not get along very well at home. She told Percy about it, and of course she knew his troubles, and so they talked about it over the gate, and mutually condoled with each other.
Soon after this Harriet had a fresh quarrel with her folks; and with the tears yet on her pretty lashes ran straight to Shelley’s lodging and throwing herself into his arms proposed that they cease to fight unkind Fate, and run away together and be happy ever afterward.
And so they ran away.
Shelley’s father instanced this as another proof of depravity and said, “Let ’em go!” The couple went to Scotland. In a few months they came back from Scotland, because no one can really be happy away from home. Besides they were out of money–and neither one had ever earned any money–and as the Westbrooks were willing to forgive, even if the Shelleys were not, they came back. But the Westbrooks were only willing to forgive in consideration of Percy and Harriet being properly married by a clergyman of the Church of England. Now, Shelley had not wavered in his Godwin-Wollstonecraft theories, but he was chivalrous and Harriet was tearful, and so he gracefully waived all private considerations and they were duly married. It was a quiet wedding.
In a short time a baby was born.
Harriet was amiable, being healthy and having very moderate sensibilities. She had no opinion on any subject, and in no degree sympathized with Shelley’s wild aspirations. She thought a title would be nice, and urged that her husband make peace by renouncing his “infidelity.” Literature was silly business anyway, and folks should do as other folks did. If they didn’t, lawks-a-daisy! there was trouble!!
And so, with income cut off, banished from home, from school, out of employment, with a wife who had no sympathy with him–who could not understand him–whose pitiful weakness stung him and wrung him, he thought of Godwin, the philosopher: for at the last philosophy is the cure for all our ills.
Godwin was glad to see Shelley–Godwin was glad to see any one. Godwin was fifty-five, bald, had a Socratic forehead, was smooth-cheeked, shabby and genteel. Yes, Godwin was the author of “Political Justice”–but that was written quite a while before, twenty years!
One of the girls was sent out for a quart of half-and-half, and the pale visitor cast his eyes around this family room, which served for dining-room, library and parlor. Godwin had married again–Shelley had heard that, but he was a bit shocked to find that the great man who was once mate to Mary Wollstonecraft had married a shrew. The sound of her high-pitched voice convinced the visitor at once that she was a very commonplace person.
There were three girls and a boy in the room, busy at sewing or reading. None of them was introduced, but the air of the place was Bohemian, and the conversation soon became general. All talked except one of the girls: she sat reading, and several times when the young man glanced over her way she was looking at him. Shelley stayed an hour, spending a very pleasant time, but as he had no opportunity of stating his case to the philosopher he made an engagement to call again.