“Percy B. Shelley.”
⁂
The chief obstacle in the diplomatic relations between father and son is that the former desires above all things to avoid a rupture, which renders disciplinary measures difficult. His “conditions” having been succinctly refused, Timothy Shelley found himself at a loss what to do.
Not a bad man at bottom, he believed in the powerful persuasion of a bottle of old port. He resolved to go up to town and invite the delinquents to dinner at Miller’s Hotel, where the wine was good.
“After all,” he said to himself, while waiting for the two young men, “one must treat young people with good humour, and even go so far, ridiculous as it may seem, as to discuss things with them. . . . A ripened and thoughtful mind should get the better, without any difficulty, of a philosopher of eighteen, and serious misfortune may be avoided, by a word of wisdom in the nick of time. . . . I mustn’t forget that Percy is my heir and that he will succeed to the title: he must be led back into the fold.”
And the excellent man, while marshalling into order Paley’s chief arguments, rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
Meanwhile, the friends, going on foot from Poland Street to Southwark, read aloud to each other passages from Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary which Shelley had picked up on a stall. They found it extremely amusing and laughed immoderately at the old Frenchman’s ridicule of the Jewish people, the intolerance with which the Bible is packed, and Jehovah’s sickening and useless cruelties.
When they reached the hotel, a certain Mr. Graham, the factotum of Timothy Shelley, was already there with his friend and patron. Mr. Shelley received Hogg with a wheedling benevolence, then turning to his son, began to talk in an odd, unconnected manner, punctuating his discourse with dramatic gestures, which appeared highly ridiculous to the two young men.
“What do you think of my father?” Shelley whispered to Hogg.
“Oh, it is not your father. It is the God of the Jews, the Jehovah you have been reading about.”