Dearest Love—Clare arrived yesterday night, and whether it might be that she was in a croaking humour (in ill spirits she certainly was), or whether she represented things as they really were, I know not, but certainly affairs did not seem to wear a very good face. She talks of Harriet’s debts to a large amount, and something about Longdill’s having undertaken for them, so that they must be paid. She mentioned also that you were entering into a post obit transaction. Now this requires our serious consideration on one account. These things (post obits), as you well know, are affairs of wonderful length; and if you must complete one before you settle on going to Italy, Alba’s departure ought certainly not to be delayed.... You have not mentioned yet to Godwin your thoughts of Italy; but if you determine soon, I would have you do it, as these things are always better to be talked of some days before they take place. I took my first walk to-day. What a dreadfully cold place this house is! I was shivering over a fire, and the garden looked cold and dismal; but as soon as I got into the road, I found, to my infinite surprise, that the sun was shining, and the air warm and delightful.... I will now tell you something that will make you laugh, if you are not too teased and ill to laugh at anything. Ah! dearest, is it so? You know now how melancholy it makes me sometimes to think how ill and comfortless you may be, and I so far away from you. But to my story. In Elise’s last letter to her chere amie, Clare put in that Madame Clairmont was very ill, so that her life was in danger, and added, in Elise’s person, that she (Elise) was somewhat shocked to perceive that Mademoiselle Clairmont’s gaiety was not abated by the douloureuse situation of her amiable sister. Jenny replies—
“Mon amie, avec quel chagrin j’apprends la maladie de cette jolie et aimable Madame Clairmont; pauvre chère dame, comme je la plains. Sans doute elle aime tendrement son mari, et en être séparée pour toujours—en avoir la certitude elle sentir—quelle cruelle chose; qu’il doit être un méchant homme pour quitter sa femme. Je ne sais ce qu’il y a, mais cette jeune et jolie femme me tient singulièrement au cœur; je l’avoue que je n’aime point mademoiselle sa sœur. Comment! avoir à craindre pour les jours d’une si charmante sœur, et n’en pas perdre un grain de gaîté; elle me met en colere.”
Here is a noble resentment thrown away! Really I think this mystification of Clare’s a little wicked, although laughable. I am just now surrounded by babes. Alba is scratching and crowing, William is amusing himself with wrapping a shawl round him, and Miss Clara staring at the fire.... Adieu, dearest love. I want to say again, that you may fully answer me, how very, very anxious I am to know the whole extent of your present difficulties and pursuits; and remember also that if this post obit is to be a long business, Alba must go before it is finished. Willy is just going to bed. When I ask him where you are, he makes me a long speech that I do not understand. But I know my own one, that you are away, and I wish that you were with me. Come soon, my own only love.—Your affectionate girl,
M. W. S.
P.S.—What of Frankenstein? and your own poem—have you fixed on a name? Give my love to Godwin when Mrs. Godwin is not by, or you must give it her, and I do not love her.
5th October 1817.
... How happy I shall be, my own dear love, to see you again. Your last was so very, very short a visit; and after you were gone I thought of so many things I had to say to you, and had no time to say. Come Tuesday, dearest, and let us enjoy some of each other’s company; come and see your sweet babes and the little Commodore;[29] she is lively and an uncommonly interesting child. I never see her without thinking of the expressions in my mother’s letters concerning Fanny. If a mother’s eyes were not partial, she seemed like this Alba. She mentions her intelligent eyes and great vivacity; but this is a melancholy subject.
But Shelley’s enforced absences became more and more frequent; brief visits to his home were all that he could snatch. As the desire to escape grew stronger, the fair prospect only seemed to recede. New complications appeared in the shape of Harriet’s creditors, who pressed hard on Shelley for a settlement of their hitherto unknown and unsuspected claims. So perilous with regard to them was his position that Mary herself was fain to caution him to stay away and out of sight for fear of arrest. It was almost more than she could do to keep up the mask of cheerfulness, yet her letters of counsel and encouragement were her husband’s mainstay.
“Dearest and best of living beings,” he wrote in October, “how much do your letters console me when I am away from you. Your letter to-day gave me the greatest delight; so soothing, so powerful and quiet are your expressions, that it is almost like folding you to my heart.... My own Mary, would it not be better for you to come to London at once? I think we could quite as easily do something with the house if you were in London—that is to say, all of you—as in the country.”
The next two letters were written in much depression. She could not get up her strength; she dared not indulge in the hope of going abroad, for she realised, as Shelley could not do, how little money they would have and how much they already owed. Their income, and more, went in supporting and paying for other people, and left them nothing to live on! Clare was unsettled, unhappy, and petulant. Godwin, ignorant like the rest of the world of her story and her present situation, unaware of Shelley’s proposed move, and certain to oppose it with the energy of despair when he heard of it, was an impending visitor.