The majestic ruins of Rome impressed Shelley tremendously. The English burying-place, under the pyramidal tomb of Cestius, appeared to him the most beautiful and solemn cemetery he had ever seen. The wind whispered in the leaves of the trees overhanging tombs which were mostly of women and young people. If one were to die, it is there one might desire to sleep.
From Rome they went on to Naples, where they took rooms which looked across the Villa Nazionali to the blue waters of the bay, for ever changing and for ever the same. Vesuvius was in a state of eruption, and day and night they saw volumes of smoke rolling up and fountains of liquid fire. The black bituminous vapour and the fiery light were reflected in the sea. The climate was that of an English spring, though lacking a little that crescendo of sweetness which delights one in England when April’s there.
They went to Pompeii, to Salerno, to Pæstum, getting exquisite but transitory glimpses, that leave in the memory dim white visions as of some half-remembered dream. But, in spite of all this beauty, they were not happy. They knew no one and their perpetual loneliness was hard to bear.
Basking in the splendid Italian sunshine they thought with longing of Windsor, of Marlow, even of London. What was the use of all these mountains, of all this blue sky without any friends? Social enjoyment, in some form or other, is the Alpha and Omega of existence, and, no matter how real or how beautiful the actual landscape may be, it dwindles into smoke in the mind when one thinks of some familiar forms of scenery, commonplace perhaps in themselves, but over which old memories throw a delightful hue.
In the streets they looked with envy at the workmen and even at the beggars with whom other workmen and other beggars passed the time of day. Shelley, who felt himself so full of affection for mankind, was painfully surprised to find himself always alone in the midst of multitudes. Mary disliked particularly being “a foreigner” where-ever she went. She was at the beginning of a new pregnancy; Claire got on her nerves insupportably. She had serious domestic troubles: The Italian valet, Paolo, had seduced the Swiss nurse. Mary insisted he should marry her, and when at last he consented to do so, it was to take his departure immediately with his wife, vowing vengeance against Shelley. Next Claire fell ill of a mysterious malady which Mary misunderstood.
Discontented and tired of Naples they decided to return to Rome. A need of constant change ate up their tranquillity; they were like a sick man who for ever seeks a fresher, cooler place in the bed, and seeks in vain since he takes with him his fever wherever he moves. The heat of the southern spring had tired the little boy, “Willmouse,” his father’s darling. The doctor advised them to take him northwards immediately to Lucca. They were on the point of starting when he was seized with a violent attack of dysentery.
During sixty hours, Shelley held the child’s hand in his; he loved him more and more. Willie was an affectionate, intelligent and sensitive child. He had beautiful hair, fair and silky, a transparent complexion, Shelley’s eyes, blue and animated. While he slept the Italian maids would come on tiptoe in to the room to point him out one to the other. Already in the convulsions of death, the doctor still hoped to save him. He lived three days longer and then died at noon on a day of gorgeous sunshine. He was buried in the Protestant cemetery which on his first visit to Rome had so impressed Shelley by its loveliness and solemn seclusion. The wind was still whispering in the leaves of the trees. Near an ancient tomb in the sunny flower-starred grass, Shelley saw his dead child disappear.
Fanny . . . Harriet . . . Baby Clara . . . William. . . . It seemed to him that he was surrounded by a pestilential atmosphere which infected one after the other all those he had loved best.
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The young couple, whom the gods thus amused themselves in persecuting, had, so far, bravely borne the blows. But now Mary gave up the struggle. Shelley took her away to a pleasant villa in the country, but she was indifferent to everything. Always she saw little feet running over the sands at Naples, heard delicious childish phrases expressing mingled love and glee. Motionless, gazing away in a sort of torpor, she only roused herself to talk of the tomb in Rome. She wanted for her beautiful boy a block of white marble, and flowers.