LO D OR E
This page intentionally left blank 
LODOR E
Mary Shelley
edited by Lisa Vargo
broadview literary texts
1997 Lisa Vargo
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, trans-
mitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without prior writ-
ten consent of the publisher — or in the case of photocopying, a licence
from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency) 6 Adelaide
Street East, Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario, M5C 1H6 — is an infringement of
the copyright law.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797-1851
Lodore
(Broadview literary texts)
ISBN 1-55111-077-6
I.Vargo, Lisa, 1954- 
PR5397.L6 1997 823'.7 C96-932543-6
Broadview Press
Post Office Box 1243, Peterborough, Ontario, Canada K9J 7H5
in the United States of America:
3576 California Road, Orchard Park, NY 14127
in the United Kingdom:
B.R.A.D. Book Representation & Distribution Ltd.,
244A, London Road, Hadleigh, Essex SS7 2DE
Broadview Press is grateful to Professor Eugene Benson for advice on edito-
rial matters for the Broadview Literary Texts series.
Broadview Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada
Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ministry of Canadian Heritage.
PRINTED IN CANADA
II.Title. III. Series.
Contents
Preface 7
Introduction 9
A Note on the Text 41
Mary Shelley: A Brief Chronology 43
Lodore 47
Appendix A: Mary Shelley—Woman of Letters
1. "The Bride of Modern Italy" (1824) 449
2. From Review of Tlie Loves of the Poets (1829) 461
3. From Review of Cloudesley;A Tale (1830) 465
4. From "Ugo Foscolo," Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men
of Italy, Spain, and Portugal (1837) 4^9
Appendix B: Some Literary Contexts
1. George Gordon, Lord Byron, from Lara (1814) 472
2. The Tempest and Mary Wollstonecraft s Tlie Female Reader (1797) 474
3. Thomas Campbell, from Gertrude of Wyoming (1809) 476
4. Edward John Trelawny from Adventures of a Younger Son (1831) 480
Appendix C: Illinois and Duelling
1. Morris Birkbeck, from Letters from Illinois (1818) 483
2. William Cobbett, from A Year's Residence in America (1818-19) 488
3. Frances Wright, from Views of Society and Manners in
America (1821) 491
4. William Godwin, from Enquiry Concerning Political Justice,Third Edition
(1798) 493
5. James Fenimore Cooper, from Notions of the Americans (1828) 495
Appendix D: Domesticity and Women's Education
1. Mary Wollstonecraft, from noughts on the Education of
Daughters (1787) 500
2. Mary Wollstonecraft, from Vindication of the Rights of
Woman (1792) 504
3. William Godwin, from Tlie Enquirer (1797) 513
4. Anna Jameson, from Characteristics of Women (1832) 516
5. Sarah Stickney Ellis, from The Women of England (1839) 519
Appendix E: Contemporary Reviews of Lodore
1. From Tlie Athenceum 531
2. From Tlie Examiner 533
3. From Eraser's Magazine for Town and Country 535
4. From Leigh Hunt's London Journal 541
5. From Tlie Literary Gazette 543
6. From New Monthly Magazine 545
7. From The Sun 546
Select Bibliography 550
Preface
THIS edition is designed for readers who are interested in Mary
Shelley's work beyond Frankenstein. In fostering my own appreciation
of the Godwin-Shelley circle, Jay Macpherson must be thanked for
introducing me to Mary Shelley's writings, and I am deeply indebted
to Milton Wilson for assisting me with work on Percy Shelley No
one could ask for better mentors.
In carrying out the work for this edition, I am happy to have the
opportunity to thank a number of individuals and organizations. My
debt to Mary Shelley scholars is acknowledged with respect. The
University of Illinois, Urbana, supplied the copy text for this edition;
the Interlibrary Loan Department of the University of Saskatchewan
Library provided efficient assistance. Grants from the University of
Saskatchewan Publications Fund contributed financial support, made
all the more valuable with the advice of Michael Owen of the Office
of Research Services. I am grateful for the friendship and support of
my colleagues in the Department of English, but Peter Hynes and
William Slights deserve mention for their help. Carolyn Ives and
Heather Frey were generous in undertaking research, and Pamela
Giles ever impressed me with her indispensable expertise in preparing
the manuscript. Anne Russell, Jeanne Moskal, and Eleanor Ty gave me
invaluable guidance and encouragement. Gary Kelly's writings have
served as a source of inspiration. Don LePan, Eugene Benson, and
Barbara Conolly of Broadview Press have been helpful at every stage.
Above all, I thank my parents for their love and support. Their
affectionate and respectful partnership has provided me with a model
far superior to those portrayed in Lodore.
Lisa Vargo
Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
This page intentionally left blank 
Introduction
"Words have more power than any one can guess; it is by words
that the world's great fight, now in these civilized times, is car-
ried on; I never hesitated to use them, when I fought any battle
for the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid to speak, it
would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with defi-
cient organs; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their
voice fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant
quail." (Lodore, Fanny Derham, vol. 3, ch. i)
i. The "Other" Mary Shelley: Life and Writings After
Frankenstein
The story of Mary Shelley's life until her husband Percy's death in
1822 is a narrative so familiar that it hardly needs to be retold, partic-
ularly the circumstances related to the writing of Frankenstein. And it
is as "The author of'Frankenstein,'" as was announced in lieu of her
name on the title pages of her subsequent novels, that she is still too
exclusively known. "As a consequence," Betty Bennett argues, "Mary
Shelley for the most part has been reduced to an author with a single
book and a single theme, her particular, complex voice located out-
side of the larger literary discourse of our civilization" ("Feminism
and Editing" 68).
l
 But the "Other" Mary Shelley, as critics have come
to call her subsequent writings, belongs to a less well known narrative.
If, for some, Shelley's later years lack the excitement of the summer of
1816, her life after 1822 is compelling to those interested in the posi-
tion of women writers in the nineteenth century. Shelley's activities as
writer and editor, in her pursuit of intellectual and economic inde-
pendence, are nothing short of heroic.
Percy's death was viewed by Shelley as a catastrophic event; when
she resumed writing her journal, she christened it the "The Journal of
Sorrow — Begun 1822. But for my Child it could not End too soon"
(Journals, 428):
LODOR E 9
. . . my thoughts are a sealed treasure which I can confide to
none. White paper - wilt though be my confident? I will trust
thee fully, for none shall see what I write. But can I express all I
feel? Have I the talent to give words to thoughts & feelings that
as a tempest hurry me along? - Is this the sand that the ever
flowing sea of thought would impress indelibly? -Alas! I am
alone — no eye answers mind — my voice can with none assume
its natural modulation, all is shew — & I but a shadow — (Journals
429)
In spite of her considerable grief, Shelley had the more practical
aspects of living to consider, including supporting herself and her sur-
viving child Percy Florence and producing editions of Percy's writ-
ings. To this end, Shelley returned to England from Italy in July 1823.
Her initial effort as an editor, Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1824), was suppressed by Sir Timothy Shelley, who offered her an
annual allowance of two hundred pounds, providing that she did not
publish any of Percy's writings or write a biography. Thus began a
career with writing to supplement her allowance (increased in 1829
to three hundred pounds).
If writing never made her rich, Shelley lived at a time when
women were able to support themselves, however precariously,
through writing. The range and the initiative she displayed extended
her scope beyond the writing of fiction; she was in the truest sense a
woman of letters. Her life was punctuated with a number of publica-
tions. Tlie Last Man appeared in 1826, but was not a critical or a finan-
cial success. In 1828 Shelley contracted smallpox, which left her
features scarred. She published an historical novel, The Fortunes of
Perkin Warbeck, in 1830; the following year the revised version of
Frankenstein appeared, which included her Preface explaining the cir-
cumstances of the novel's composition. In 1832 Percy Florence
entered school at Harrow, where Shelley herself moved the following
year as a way to save paying her son's boarding fees. It was while living
in Harrow that she wrote Lodore and volumes one and two of Lives of
the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, which were pub-
lished in 1835. As well, throughout the late i82os and the early 18305
Shelley was an active contributor to annuals and gift books, notably
1 0 INTRODUCTION
The Keepsake, and she worked as a reviewer for some of the most
respected periodicals of the day.
When her father William Godwin died in 1837, Shelley returned
to London. The following year Percy Florence went to Trinity Col-
lege, Cambridge (Byron's college, as Harrow had been his school), and
Mary moved to Grosvenor Square. Her literary activity did not flag,
for like many writers who depend on the vagaries of the literary mar-
ket, she was ever in need of money. Falkner was published in February
1837 and volume one of Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and Scientif-
ic Men of France appeared in August 1838. The second volume
appeared the next year along with Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley,
Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments, as Timothy Shel-
ley had relented on his refusal to allow her to publish Percys work. In
1840 Sir Timothy gave Percy Florence (who had been heir since
1826, when Percy's son by Harriet Westbrook died) 400 pounds per
annum, and Mary and her son took a tour of the Continent, followed
by another more extended tour between 1842 and 1843.The follow-
ing year she published Rambles in Germany and Italy. Sir Timothy died
in 1844, and Percy Florence inherited his estate and title. He married
Jane St. John in June 1848, settling in Boscombe, near Bournemouth.
Mary Shelley died in London, of a brain tumour, on i February 1851.
She was buried with the remains of her parents in St. Peter s church-
yard, Bournemouth.
Much has been left out of this most cursory of accounts; above all,
the network of acquaintance Shelley made among artists and thinkers
of her day. Shelley's friends included writers Thomas Moore, Eugene
Bulwer Lytton, Prosper Merimee, Edward John Trelawny, Washington
Irving, Gabriele Rossetti, reformer Frances Wright, and the radical
M.P.Aubrey Beauclerk. During the writing of Lodore she met Caro-
line Norton, Catherine Gore, Letitia Landon, and Jane Porter (Sun-
stein 319). Her involvement in the extraordinary story of "Mr. and
Mrs. Sholto Douglas," two women who posed as man and wife, has
been documented by Betty Bennett. These friendships are a testament
to her rightful place within a circle of thinkers who remained sympa-
thetic to the Jacobin ideals of her parents. Moreover, her father was
still actively writing; while he read her work, Shelley negotiated with
her publisher on his behalf.
LODOR E 11
Yet Shelley's own contribution to the intellectual life of her era has
been overlooked, and the perspective critics take has served to under-
mine her achievements. Mary Poovey, in Tlie Proper Lady and the Woman
Writer, suggests that "Mary Shelley's entire literary career is character-
ized by ... two competing impulses. On the one hand, she repeatedly
bowed to the conventional prejudice against aggressive women by apol-
ogizing for or punishing her self-assertion. . . . On the other hand . . .
Mary Shelley demonstrated that imaginative self-expression was for her
an important vehicle for proving her worth and, in that sense, for defin-
ing herself" (115). Accordingly, Poovey argues that Shelley "did not
consistently use her writing to express either polemical positions or
even her own unmediated personal feelings" (117). However much
Poovey illuminates the social and economic pressures placed on women
writers, she does not sufficiendy credit Shelley with the ability to chal-
lenge convention from within the confines of the powerful ideology of
the "proper lady." I wish to present an interpretation of Lodore that is in
keeping with Betty Bennetts belief that Shelley remained true to the
ideals she shared with her parents and her husband: "Mary Shelley can-
not be properly read or understood without recognizing the pivotal
role that politics play in all her novels" ("Feminism and Editing" 90).
Lodore demonstrates Shelley's desire to explore social polemics, includ-
ing women's education, using the conventions of writing expected of
women in the 18308. This edition of Lodore is intended to acquaint
readers with that "other" Mary Shelley, so that they might further
appreciate the range of her complex voice.
2. Circumstances of Lodore's Composition
The composition of Lodore tells us much about Mary Shelley's activi-
ties as a writer. It needs to be remembered that Lodore appeared in a
decade of what has been called "feverish publishing activity" (Feltes
30), as the literary text is transformed to a commodity "produced in
struggle by the new 'professional' author within the new structures of
control over the publishing process" (Feltes 8).The role that women
played in this process is only beginning to be recognized in work on
writers like Letitia Landon and Felicia Hemans, who were immensely
popular in the decades between the deaths of Byron, Shelley, and
12   INTRODUCTION
Keats and the rise to prominence of Tennyson (Curran 188-189).
Lodore, then, not only illuminates Mary Shelley's practices as a writer,
but is representative of the experiences of writers in the first half of
the nineteenth century.
As has already been suggested, it is worth noting that fiction is but
one of the kinds of writing Shelley produced during the 18305. Her
four volumes of Lives for Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia demonstrate
her ability to work in biography. She published articles and reviews of
works by Godwin, Thomas Moore, Caroline Norton, and James Feni-
more Cooper. She was also busy as an editor for Trelawny and God-
win, and her Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley and the two volumes
of Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments represent signifi-
cant labour on her part. As Betty Bennett points out, "Influenced by
Godwin, Mary Shelley developed a lifelong habit of deep and exten-
sive reading and research" ("Finding Mary Shelley" 299). It is clear that
she viewed her work as a writer and editor with great seriousness.
This seriousness is reflected in Lodore, which, for all of its careful
attention to the dictates of the marketplace, extends its concerns far
beyond commercial considerations. In fact, Shelley may be seen to
subvert them. One respect in which she indicates her intent is the
presence of epigraphs and literary allusions within the text. Stephen
Gill suggests, "The use of mottoes to forecast or undercut the con-
tents of a chapter runs in an interesting line from Scott through Mrs.
Gaskell to George Eliot, to go no further."
2
 Shelley certainly is part of
this line; not only in her own work, but in the mottoes she introduced
in Trelawny s Adventures of a Younger Son. The reviewer in Leigh Hunt's
London Journal notes with interest that in Lodore she quotes "her hus-
band so often at the top of her chapters; and though her characters are
laid in high life, and she makes the best of the conventionalities, yet
she sympathises with the truly great world throughout, not merely
the little great world of St James's." (See Appendix E.) If epigraphs are
one means to allow for Percy's poetry to appear in print,
3
 the range of
quotation from the Medieval Catalan poet Ausias March to a number
of quotations from Jacobean playwrights like Beaumont and Fletcher
and Ford is a subtle way in which she points to her scope as a writer
beyond the mere fashions of her times.
To read her letters concerning the composition of Lodore is to gain
LODOR E 13
insight into the nature of the production of novels in the 18308, which
took the form of the three volume format and were sold for the con-
siderable sum of a guinea and a half (Tillotson 22). In her edition of
Mary Shelley's letters, Betty Bennett suggests that Shelley likely pro-
posed the novel to Charles Oilier, who had published her previous two
novels, in early 1831; the first mention occurs in a letter rife with talk
about hard times for writers and publishers (Letters 2.125
 an
d n). As
William Walling notes, the novel was begun early in 1832, and finished
the next year (105). Shelley sent the first volume of the novel to Oilier
on 31 January, 1833, seemingly on speculation. She suggested that the
work was all but finished (Letters 2.185). Acceptance wasn't immediate.
On 25 April, 1833, she contracted with Richard Bentley, who was tak-
ing over from Oilier, to finish Lodore in a year, at which time she would
receive one hundred pounds.There would be an edition of 750 copies
in three volumes of 310 pages each, and she would receive an addition-
al fifty pounds if the novel sold 600 copies (Letters 2.i84n).
However, the novel wasn't published until 1835, largely due to a
series of disasters and delays on the part of the publisher. Shelley's
anxiety about the travails of publication is documented in three letters
written from her home in Harrow during November 1833, the first
of these asking when the novel would go to press (Letters 2.195). She
sent the conclusion to Volume I and most ofVolume II on 21 Novem-
ber, explaining that it was not convenient to part with all of the man-
uscript at once. Above all, she was interested in knowing the length of
the second volume so she could determine where it would end. As
writers seldom had more than one copy of a manuscript, sending sig-
nificant portions would mean they could not check earlier parts of
their work as they composed later sections. Therefore Shelley
explained that she wanted to do as she has always done and send the
printer a section at a time, which was the common practice. At the
same time she suggested that the title of her novel might be "Lodore
- a tale of the present time" (Letters 2.196). She conveyed her happi-
ness on 25 November to "Papa," the paternalistic Oilier, that the novel
was printing. She was already correcting proofs, which were usually
sent back to authors in small batches for correction.
4
By 15 March 1934, Shelley was requesting a proof a day, instead of
two batches a week, that she might finish her corrections, "& so have
14   INTRODUCTION
done with it" (Letters 2.198), and three days later she registered her
uneasiness at not having more proofs when she had sent more copy
for Volume III. Writing to the standards of length for three-decker
fiction as her contract specified, she was eager to know how much
more copy would be needed (Letters 2.199). Professional that she was,
she kept back some copy should the third volume require further
copy, and was willing to juggle with the location of the ending for the
second volume. No wonder some critics found the novel's ending
somewhat drawn out; artistic considerations aren't necessarily synony-
mous with the dictates of the marketplace.
Dramatically, the disaster that can come of having only one copy
of a manuscript struck. By 4 April it was clear that part of the third
volume was mislaid, and Shelley was forced to rewrite the missing
section in spite of the fact that she was already busy with her next
project for Lardners Cabinet Cyclopaedia. She was careful in her let-
ters to make it clear that her servants had seen her mail the manu-
script, and that the manuscript had been mislaid at the printers end.
By 10 June she sent off the "restoration" in two packets, and however
disagreeable the mishap was to Oilier and Bentley, it can't have been a
happy task for Shelley to rewrite the missing section (Letters 2.206).
Nor did the irritations cease once the novel, as she put it, crawled
into existence almost a year later (Letters 2.237). A number of letters to
her publisher asking for presentation copies of Lodore seem to have
gone unanswered, and it is not clear whether she ever received her
fifty pound bonus for good sales (Letters 2.251, 2.263, 2.280, 2.285).To
be a professional writer and the daughter of two writers did not mean
that Shelley was well treated.
Nevertheless, Shelley was clearly respected in her circle as skilled
in the literary trade. As Betty T. Bennett points out, after Percy's death
"she began, as she would for the remainder of her life, to negotiate
directly and persistently for herself and others with many of the lead-
ing publishers and editors of the day" ("Finding Mary Shelley" 297).
The fact that the men on whose behalf she negotiated received more
money than she did for her own work illustrates the complexities and
problematics of the literary market of the 18308 with respect to gen-
der. Emily Sunstein explains, she took time off from writing her novel
- even though Oilier had suggested she complete it before a new
LODOR E 15
partner, Richard Bentley, joined the firm — to help her father and
Edward John Trelawny publish works. Sunstein suggests that the low
fee she received for Perkin Warbeck was to compensate for a large fee
given to Godwin (303). At the same time she received one hundred
pounds for Lodore, she negotiated a fee of three hundred pounds for
Trelawny (Sunstein 322; 310). She received fifty pounds from Bentley
for her revised edition of Frankenstein (Sunstein 311).
But Shelley did more than merely negotiate fees. Emily Sunstein
calls Shelley Thomas Moore's "minor collaborator" in his Letters and
Journals of Lord Byron, which provided her with a means for some
control over material in which she had an interest (279), and Paula
Feldman argues that her work as a "silent but major contributor"
means she played a largely unacknowledged role in all subsequent
accounts of Byron's life ("Mary Shelley and . . . Moore's Life of
Byron" 6n). While she was writing Lodore, she also assisted Trelawny
in preparing his "autobiography." She edited the work with an eye to
what would be acceptable to female readers, provided epigraphs for its
chapters from Byron and Shelley, and gave the work its title, Adven-
tures ofaYounger Son. But certainly her most significant achievement as
collaborator is the edition of Percy Shelley's works that appeared with
a considerable amount of prefatory material in 1839. These examples
complicate what Mary Poovey calls the notion of "proper lady." As
Bennett suggests, "In dealing with matters of appropriate length of
story, deadlines, payments, competing journals, contents, and editors,
her letters provide considerable insight into contemporary publishing
procedures and Mary Shelley's enterprise in that male-dominated
world" ("Finding Mary Shelley" 298).
But the content of Lodore also embodies aspects of the literary
market in the 18305, which is too often ignored as a literary black
hole. Kathleen Tillotson calls the eighteen-forties "a decade in which
the reader ofVictorian novels can easily be made to feel at home" (2).
If the previous decade might be said to have provided the foundations
for that home, Michael Wheeler outlines a series of problematics:
"Social and political historians of Britain, like historians of English lit-
erature, find the 18308 difficult to place. A decade of invention and
reform, the 18305 mark the transition between the end of the Indus-
trial Revolution and the beginning of the Victorian Age" (15). The
1 6 INTRODUCTION
coming of the railway, the Reform Act of 1832, the Poor Law
Amendment of 1834, and the creation of a police force are but a few
changes that occurred during the decade (Wheeler 15).Wheeler calls
fiction of the eighteen thirties and early forties "inferior stuff, for
apart from the work of Dickens and Thackeray, this was a period of
fad and fashions rather than of major developments" with a "variety
of sub-genres of fiction in vogue — historical, silver-fork, Newgate
and social problem, marine, sporting, and Irish rogue novels" (16).
Lodore certainly has ties to the "silver fork" novels of Bulwer Lytton,
Disraeli, Lady Blessington, and Mrs. Gore, all of whom were friends of
Shelley. A number of the novels were in fact published by Shelley's
own publisher Henry Colburn. "Their common theme was high-
society manners, a subject of great interest in a period of social mobil-
ity" (Wheeler 17). But there is jus t as much difference between Lodore
and those works whose "elaborate discussions on the cultivation of
ton, the detailed exactness of the descriptions of furnishings, food and
fashions as guides to people s position in high society, and the superfi-
ciality of the characters portrayed" made them "an easy target for crit-
ics and novelists who had higher ambitions for English fiction"
(Wheeler 18). Shelley's ambitions are in keeping with the kinds of
thinking that her mother Mary Wollstonecraft did in another period
in which social mobility put strains on the position of women. If
Shelley demonstrates her awareness of the tastes of the market, she is
no slave to it. She works to convey her concerns within the confines
of a dominant mode of production.
This is borne out by her participation, in the eighteen twenties and
thirties, in the gift book and annual.
5
 Richly illustrated anthologies
with elaborate decorative bindings, they were issued at Christmas as
presents for ladies. Recognizing them as a lucrative means to increase
her income, Shelley wrote a number of stories and included fragments
of Percys work particularly in The Keepsake. As Sonia Hofkosh argues,
gift books owe their being to technology - to the development of steel
engraving in 1823 (207) and to economics, a "system of value styled on
the appearance of aristocracy for an emulous, upwardly mobile reading
public" (206). But there is another side to gift books, revealed by the
amount of scorn they produced from writers like Tennyson; that is, the
power of the middle-class woman reader and writer represented by
LODOR E 17
these volumes. The annual is not only a form of literature marketed for
women, but women also played a part in their production (two editors
being Shelley's friends Caroline Norton and the Countess of Blessing-
ton). Certainly the gift book sends out mixed messages. In his preface
to Tlie Keepsake for 1829 Frederic Mansel Reynolds presents a double
perspective on notions of value. If the reader is to be awed that "the
enormous sum of eleven thousand guineas has been expended" (iii) —
rather like Hollywood's promotion of production costs for films — he
hopes that the volume will be "a reputed and standard work in every
well-selected library" (iv).
Sonia Hofkosh argues that "Functioning as commodities in an
evolving market economy, yet modeled largely on aristocratic
assumptions and priorities, the gift books themselves materially enact
the very negotiations that Shelley performs in her writing" (205).The
practice of editors commissioning a story to "illustrate" an engraving
seems to devalue the role of the author, but Shelley "turns expropria-
tion of her authorial role to her own account" (208). In her stories
"Shelley reveals that the creation and celebration of beauty may keep
the lines of patriarchal dominance smooth or put a pretty face on
capitalist exploitation, but that in doing either it also exacts a certain
and substantial price" (208). Lodore, too, is written in response to con-
vention, but only, it would seem, so that Shelley might explore ideas
and advance concerns that suited her interests.
3. Critical Reception
Shelley's letter to Oilier in 1835 notes with pleasure that the novel has
been "a good deal advertized" (Letters 2.239-240^. But this regard
was short-lived. While Shelley's contemporaries favoured the novel -
it was her most successful after Frankenstein - later critics have dis-
missed the work as mediocre and formulaic, of interest only for what
it might reveal about Percy Shelley's biography. Examples of contem-
porary reviews, found in Appendix E, are uniformly favourable, with
some minor criticisms about the plot being too drawn out, or that
Shelley depends too much on explaining the motivations of charac-
ters. The Examiner called Shelley "a remarkable exception" to the gen-
eral rule that women can't create credible male characters: "There is a
18 INTRODUCTION
force, an individuality, and a subtle investigation of motives, that stamp
a reality upon her heroes which rarely belongs to fiction." The
reviewer in Fraser's conceded that the novel "has gone a considerable
way towards convincing us that Mrs. Shelley might have indeed been
the author of Frankenstein" because there is "common to both a depth
and sweep of thought . . . imagined to be far beyond the scope and
power of a lady."Yet there is "nothing in these volumes which a lady
might not have known, and felt, and written." The Literary Gazette
called her "one of the most original of our modern writers." Of inter-
est to twentieth-century readers is the window the reviews provide
on how readers in the 1830$ might have responded to the novel. Lit-
erary parallels are drawn with Byron's Lara, Trelawny s Adventures of a
Younger Son, Campbell s "Gertrude ofWyoming," Benthamite philoso-
phy, and Howard's paintings. Certainly reference is made to Shelley's
literary pedigree, and there is perhaps even a recognition by some
critics of the affinity between her ideas and those of her parents and
husband.
Mary Shelley certainly evoked a response respecting influence
from her half-sister Claire Clairmont, as Mrs. Julian (Florence) Mar-
shall documents in her Life and Letters of Mary Wbllstonecraft Shelley
(1889): "Most of Mary's novels present the contrast of the Shelleyan
and Byronic types. In this instance the latter was recognised by Claire,
and drew from her one of those bitter tirades against Byron, which,
natural enough in her at the outset, became in the course of years
quite morbidly venomous" (2.265). But Claire moved from the per-
sonal to exhort Mary to cease underestimating her powers and write
on subjects which would allow her to give an "immense drubbing" to
men who attack women's "inferiority" (2.266-267). Claire's response
demonstrates that she was aware of the political potential of Shelley's
writings; however, Claire herself did not acknowledge that in many
respects Lodore achieves just this.
Nor have other readers. Florence Marshall's explanation that
Claire's "manifesto on the subject of women's genius in general and of
Mary's in particular" is "just redeemed by its tinge of irony from the
last degree of absurdity" (2.267) is a testament to the blindness
imposed by her own point of view. Yet her late Victorian ideological
perspective helps account for the novel's loss of favour. Marshall sepa-
LODOR E 19
rates Lodore from Shelley's other work because it is "a novel of soci-
ety," and "is written in a style which is now out of date." It can only
be recuperated with respect to what it tells us about Mary's life and
womanly feelings: "it bears on every page the impress and refinement
and sensibility of the author, and has, moreover, a special interest of its
own, due to the fact that some of the incidents are taken from actual
occurrences in her early life, and some of the characters sketched
from people she had known" (2.264).
Such has been the fate of the novel at the hands of twentieth-cen-
tury scholars, who have mostly elaborated upon Edward Dowden's
1886 suggestion:
some important passages in biography, transmuted for the pur-
poses of fiction, may be found in Mrs. Shelley's novel Lodore....
In it ... may be found an almost literal transcript from her life
and that of Shelley during the weeks of distress and separation
in London, which followed soon after their return from the
Continent in 1814. In it may be found in transmuted form, the
story of Emilia Viviani as well as a version of the story of Shel-
ley's marriage with Harriet Westbrook, and his parting from
her. (Quoted in Walling 104-105)
Dowden's comment is echoed by Frederick L.Jones in a 1935 letter
to the Times Literary Supplement: "Mrs. Shelley's mediocre novel .. . is
of considerable interest and value because the author put into it much
that came from her own and Shelley's life" (228). While certainly
Shelley herself noted the biographical parallels, to dwell so complete-
ly on the biographical is part and parcel of views that subsume Mary's
work in Percy's. It is a guarantee that little of value will be found in
the novel - witness William Walling, who dismisses Lodore as a failure:
"its pervasive sentimentality, its absence of serious ideas, and its almost
total lack of creative vitality" make it "the weakest of all her fiction"
(104).Jane Blumberg is not much more sympathetic:
Shelley's late fictions are unquestionably formulaic genre nov-
els. Though Shelley found these novels the easiest to write, she
was no longer striving to express new or complex ideas. She
2 0 INTRODUCTION
had resolved her paradoxical relationship to her father and hus-
band with Tlie Last Man. . . . she never entered the ideological-
political fray again She was finished with the intellectual and
emotional struggle that had characterized all her previous work
and she settled into an artistically unchallenging, but emotion-
ally tranquil life. (223)
Nothing could be less true, but this statement is symptomatic of the
assumptions made about Shelley, post-Percy. Her knowledge of the
literary marketplace and the regard in which the novel was held by
her contemporaries suggest that there is more to Lodore than might
first meet the eye of post-183 5 readers. Above all, it needs to be asked
how the novel might be read if it were seen in terms of engagement
rather than retreat from political and ideological issues.
4. The Case for Lodore
If Lodore does not possess the mythic appeal of Frankenstein or the
topical interest of The Last Man, this is not to say that the novel is
without significance. Betty Bennett s compelling question about the
neglect of much of Shelley's work could not be more relevant: "Was
her place in Romanticism insufficiently recognized not because her
works lacked a philosophic basis but because we had not noticed or
understood it?" ("Finding Mary Shelley" 291). Accordingly, what is
worth noticing and understanding about Lodore?
Above all, Lodore presents an instructive example of the position of
British women in the 18305. If its primary plot celebrates feminine
domestic virtues, its subplot about Fanny Derham challenges the limit-
ed place assigned women in society. Lodore tells the story of the recon-
ciliation of a mother and daughter, divided into three volumes with a
total of fifty-five chapters. Since its plot is rife with many complicated
turns and much sentimental reflection, only the barest summary will
be given here. (Further summary can be found in the reviews included
in Appendix E.) At the beginning of the novel Henry Fitzhenry, Lord
Lodore, is living in Illinois with his devoted daughter Ethel. Lodore
decides that he should return to England, and an account of the failure
of his marriage to Cornelia, who is controlled by her mother Lady
LODOR E 21
Santerre, occurs. Jealousy over an admirer of Cornelia (who is Lodore s
illegitimate son born of an affair with a married Polish countess) leads
to a proposed duel, which causes Lodore to flee to America, while his
wife stays with her mother. En route to England, Lodore is killed in a
duel with an American who was witness to the challenge from which
he fled twelve years earlier. Ethel returns to England to live with her
father's sister, and she marries Edward Villiers, the second in the duel,
whose cousin Horatio Saville loves Cornelia but marries an Italian.
Unlike her mother, Ethel represents the devoted wife who stands by
the her husband even when he is arrested for debt. Throughout the
novel circumstances prevent Ethel from being united with her mother;
however, when Cornelia learns of Ethel's misfortunes, she relinquishes
her house and fortune to her daughter and intends to retire to a life of
poverty in Wales. Further twists in the plot finally give way to reconcil-
iation, and all live happily ever after, including Cornelia who marries
the widowed Saville.
It seems clear that the overarching issue that unites a number of
concerns is the consequence of individual actions, reflected in Shelley's
choice of a title. Yet William Walling insists it is a sign that Shelley lost
control of her novel: "the curious inexactness of the title Lodore indi-
cates that Mary failed to control fully the theme she had originally
planned" (107). He points to an "amusing instance of the inexactness
of Lodore as a title" in its renaming in a pirated American edition as Tlie
Beautiful Widow (i56n). But certainly this is not the case.The name
"Lodore" evokes the falls that rise above Derwent Water near Keswick
in the Lake District of England. As Leigh Hunt's London Journal noted,
"the 'falls' of Lodore are something analogous to her hero's grand and
impetuous spirit, and his proneness to mingle with his mother earth."
Certainly Lodore inspired awe in Coleridge, who wrote in 1805 to
Godwin about the view of the falls from his house Greta Hall; to Sara
Hutchinson he spoke of the falls as "the Precipitation of the fallen
angels from Heaven, Flight and Confusion and Distraction but all har-
monized into one majestic Thing."
6
 Wordsworth and Southey both
wrote poetry about Lodore.
7
 Percy visited Keswick with his first wife
Harriet in 1811 and marvelled at the "grandeur of its imagery" (White
1.175).The mood of Miltonic awe that the falls inspired is meant to be
evocative of the Byronic character of Fitzhenry.
2 2 INTRODUCTION
Walling's scorn that Lodore's death ends his influence is clearly
shortsighted. Through Lodore, Shelley makes it clear that the novel,
not unlike Frankenstein, is about the lasting effects of people's actions.
She explores the implications of Lodore's legacy as it is represented by
his daughter and by his wife. The matter of Lodore's will, treated in
Chapter 17 of the first volume, is a literal matter of legacy with
respect to a will "in absolute contradiction to the wishes and feelings
in which Lord Lodore died; so true had his prognostic been, that he
had no power beyond the grave. He had probably forgotten the exis-
tence of this will, or imagined that it had been destroyed: he had
determined to make a new one on his arrival in England." Ironically,
Lodore's power endures after his death; mother and daughter are sep-
arated by an act of patriarchal spite which "breathed the spirit of
resentment, and even revenge, against his wife." It might be argued
that Mary Shelley is playing with the double sense of the word, as
Lodores will lives on in the actions of the female characters after his
death. On the day of his death the narrator observes, "A strange dis-
tortion of vision blinded this unfortunate man to the truth, which
experience so perpetually teaches us, that the consequences of our
actions never die: that repentance and time may paint them to us in
different shapes; but though we shut our eyes, they are still beside us,
helping the inexorable destinies to spin the fatal thread, and sharpen-
ing the implement which is to cut it asunder." If the comment is
made to foreshadow the duel, it is also serves as part of Lodore's lega-
cy. In the second chapter ofVolume II Shelley makes her intentions
clear: "He had departed from the busy stage, never to be forgotten -
yet to be seen no mo re." The Conclusion to the novel invokes anoth-
er aspect of legacy - the "sedulous care and admirable education he
had bestowed on Ethel. .. . It was fated that the evil which he did
should die with him - but the good out-lived him long, and was a
blessing to those whom he loved far better than himself."
A consideration of the consequences of individual actions is of a
piece with the philosophy held by Shelley's parents, in particular, with
Wollstonecraft's belief that women must achieve an independent self-
hood. Certainly some critics have sensed this. Emily Sunstein offers
an interpretation of Shelley's purpose: "In the disguises of the novel
she reappraises aspects of the past with significant insight," which
LODOR E 23
would seemingly include the message Sunstein locates: "to act justly
by ourselves and to others, for the sight of their pain and the sense of
self-condemnation entail pangs" (320). It is clear that the matters of
legacy and consequences go far beyond the pecuniary.
But what sympathetic treatment the novel has received is due to
interest in the novels basis in Shelley's own experiences. As many critics
have suggested, Shelley is to some degree rewriting her life in the form
of a life relived. Shelley herself pointed out in a letter to her friend
Maria Gisborne:"did you recognize any of Shelley's & my early adven-
tures - when we were in danger of being starved in Switzerland - &
could get no dinner at an inn in London?" (Letters 2.261). Like much of
her work — and that of many other writers — Lodore contains fictional-
ized versions of her life. There are plenty of examples, but in each case it
is possible to see that whatever pleasures were provided her by consid-
ering the past, to read the novel merely through Shelley's life is to
deflect attention away from the novel's serious concerns.
As has already been noted, the tradition of viewing Shelley's work
for what it adds to knowledge of Percy is rooted in what Richard
Garnett calls "Professor Dowden's fortunate discovery" (vii). In his
1889 Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley Ernest Dowden states that he was the
first to notice "that some important passages of biography, transmuted
for the purposes of fiction" appear in Lodore.These include "an almost
literal transcript from her life and that of Shelley during the weeks of
distress and separation in London, which followed soon after their
return from the Continent in 1814": the story of Emilia Viviani who
inspired Percy's poem Epipsychidion (1821); a version of Percys mar-
riage to Harriet Westbrook and his parting from her in the marriage
of Lodore and Cornelia; Lady Santerre's resemblance to Harriets sis-
ter Eliza; Rhyaider in Radnorshire, where Lodore "passed his days loi-
tering beside waterfalls and clambering mountains (as did Shelley in
1811)" (1.436).Though Lodore "more nearly resembles Mary's con-
ception of Byron" (1.436), Dowden sees the breakdown of his mar-
riage to Cornelia as having parallels in Percy Shelley's letters to
Harriet, as well as in his desire to have custody of his children by Har-
riet after their marriage failed (2.437).
8
While Dowden is most interested in drawing parallels between
Ethel's andVilliers' money troubles and Percy's and Mary's experi-
2 4 INTRODUCTION
ences in the autumn and winter of 1814 (2.486!?), subsequent critics
and biographers have elaborated Dowden's observations and have
added to the list.
9
 Richard Holmes notes the description of Fitzhen-
ry's unhappiness at Eton is modelled on Percy's. He believes that Shel-
ley splits Percy's character between the extroverted Fitzhenry and the
introverted Derham, which allows Shelley to achieve a critique, "to
locate part of the fault in his own background and character, rather
than purely in the savagery of the school. . . . Somewhere between
these two fictional creations, in a combination of their aggressive ego-
tism and their wild private fantasies, Mary Shelley's final view of Shel-
ley as a child seems to lie" (Shelley 22).
Emily Sunstein has contributed a number of other suggestions, espe-
cially with respect to parallels with Mary Shelley's education by her
father. She notes that the lack of ease Fanny Derham feels with her
mother resembles the antagonism between Shelley and her stepmother
(55); that Ethel's kidnapping by Lodore has a basis in the life of her
friend Maria Gisborne, who was taken by her father and raised in Con-
stantinople and Rome (i53n); that the name Derham likely comes
from the novel Ttie Sisters of Mansfield by Mrs. Mason (26 in); that Mary
Lamb's first story, "Mrs. Leicester's School," about ElizabethVilliers, a
motherless girl taught by her father, is a further source of names (37).
For Sunstein, then, Cornelia as the stand-in for Harriet suggests
that she now saw Percys first wife "as an estimable, spirited, misguid-
ed young woman" (320). Compared with the ironic telling of Emilia
Viviani s story in "The Bride of Modern Italy," Shelley may be seen as
being more sympathetic with her second version of Clorinda. It
might be added that Horatio's involvement with Clorinda seems to
be a critique of what she called in a letter "Percy's Platonics," while
Clorinda s death and Horatio's remarriage to the widowed and lonely
Cornelia seem to be acts of wish-fulfilment. Sunstein also argues that
Shelley is critical of herself and "distributes reflections of herself"
among the three heroines: "Cornelia as Wollstonecraft potential ener-
vated by a bad education. . . . Love-dependent Ethel 'is weak and
impatient,' yet loyal," while Fanny Derham is "trained by a gentle
Godwinian father, intellectual, asexual, confident, calm, and unswerv-
ing in dedication of justice" (320-321).
The most helpful gloss about the value of reading fiction as auto-
LODOR E 25
biography comes from Shelley herself. In her review of Godwin's
Cloudesley Shelley alludes with approval to Bulwer Lytton's idea of
fiction: "he gives us ... himself, his experience, his opinions, his emo-
tions." Nevertheless she insists that, "The merely copying from our
own hearts will no more form a first-rate work of art, than will the
most exquisite representation of mountains, water, wood, and glorious
clouds, form a good painting, if none of the rules of grouping or
colouring are followed" (see Appendix A). Certainly some of her
comments as narrator break down the facade of author and narrator;
for instance, her reflection on Cornelia's isolation: "To one of another
sex, the name of loneliness can never convey the idea of desolation
and disregard, which gives it so painful a meaning in a woman's
mind" (Volume III, Chap. 12). But in her emulation of her father's
ability as a writer who "transfuses himself into the very souls of his
personages," Shelley makes use of her experience as a point of depar-
ture for her examination of contemporary debates about women, as
notions of Victorian domesticity are in the process of becoming
entrenched in English middle-class culture. Shelley goes beyond the
personal to engage with socio-political concerns.
Mary Shelley had a large circle of intellectual contacts, and her text
conveys aspects of this acquaintance, as the documents included in the
appendices demonstrate. A rich texture of issues interrelated by Shel-
ley's immersion in her culture is interwoven into the text. Lodore is
meant to represent a conflated version of Byron andTrelawny, a refl-
ection no doubt of her recent editorial work with Moore and
Trelawny.
10
 But ultimately she is more critical than approving of a
figure that held the public's favour, given the interest that Moore's
Memoirs of Byron generated. One aspect of her exploration of conse-
quences is that the men in the novel are ineffectual, and that it is the
actions of the women - Ethel, Cornelia, Elizabeth, Fanny, and even
Mrs. Derham - that have some force. Lodore dies needlessly,Villiers is
too wrapped up in the life of an idle aristocrat worrying about a
devalued patrimony, Saville is likewise feckless, and Mr. Derham dies
from being a man of feeling. Through these portraits Shelley mounts a
critique of her patriarchal culture. But the death of Lodore is the
novel's overwhelming tragedy, and Shelley would have her readers
reflect on the consequences of the waste of so much potential for
26 INTRODUCTION
good reduced to solitary angst.
But the novel incorporates a number of debates relevant to Shel-
ley's circle of acquaintance. The rather dramatic death of Lodore in a
duel is not merely a matter of literary convention. Its Byronic aspects
may have something to do with Byron's incident with a dragoon in
Italy (Holmes, Shelley 706-8,710). And duelling was a subject Godwin
felt was of sufficient importance to include in his Enquiry concerning
Political Justice. AsV.G. Kiernan points out, the duel was a heritage of
the upper classes, and even though an Act of 1819 abolished duels in
England, the practice had not died out by the 18305. In fact, in the last
three months of 1835,tne Year in which Lodore appeared, The Times
reported fourteen duels (Kiernan 204). But there is also an interesting
American connection. Betty Bennett notes Shelley's acquaintance
with William Grenville Graham, who died in a duel in America in
October or November 1827 in an argument over cards (Mary Diana
Dods 253). Graham merits a brief mention in volume two of Lives of
the Most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal,
which can be found in Appendix A.
It would seem that Illinois might be a good choice as a remote
wilderness to which Lodore might retire (much as the creature in
Frankenstein contemplates exile to South America). Formerly a county
in the territory of Indiana (1800-9), Illinois was admitted as a state in
December 1818. While by 1830 it had a population of 157,445, Euro-
pean settlement came quickly; in 1800 the population was 2,458,
12,282 in 1810, and 55,162 in 1820.
XI
 Yet more specific forces exist to
account for Shelley's choice of Illinios. In a letter to Maria Gisborne
of 1819, Shelley requested a number of books, including "Birbecks
journal & letters - Cobbett'sYear's residence" (Letters i.no). Claire
Clairmont records having read Cobbett's Year's Residence and Birk-
beck's Notes on the Illinois (Journals of Claire Clairmont 114). Morris
Birkbeck published Notes on a Journey in America, from the Coast of Vir-
ginia to the Territory of Illinois, With Proposals for the Establishment of a
Colony of English in 1817, followed by Letters from Illinois in 1818. Both
texts were popular; while the Notes had eleven editions in two years,
the Letters went through seven editions.
12
 William Cobbett attacked
Birkbeck's accuracy in Part III of his A Year's Residence in the United
States of America, which contains letters by Cobbett to Birkbeck "on
LODOR E 27
the numerous delusions, contained in his two publications." The
rough chronology sketched out in Shelley's novel suggests that
Lodore takes Ethel to Illinois in 1818, the year in which Birkbeck
published his letters.
But Shelley had more personal ties to the territory among her circle.
In 1827 she began a correspondence and friendship initiated by Frances
Wright, who in 1824 formed a colony for slaves to earn their freedom
in Nashoba, Tennessee. Wright also had plans to found a colony for
whites based on the ideas of Robert Owen and of William Godwin
(Sunstein 283). In October 1827 Shelley wrote to her American friend
John Howard Payne that her acquaintance with Frances Wright made
her wish to see America (Letters 2.13). She also met Robert Owens son,
whose Indiana colony New Harmony was visited by Birkbeck.
Although she declined an invitation to join Wright at Nashoba (Sun-
stein 284), her friend Frances Trollope did visit but was not impressed;
shortly afterwards the colony broke up. Frances Wright returned to
England (Sunstein 285). Lodore s travels to Illinois are a product of dis-
cussions among Shelley's acquaintances about Utopian colonies and
seem to reflect her analysis of the failure of creating such Utopian
colonies no matter how idyllic the wilderness. (Documents about Illi-
nois and Frances Wright can be found in Appendix C.)
Other matters of choice of locale have connections with Mary's
and Percy's own experiences. Shelley is certainly drawing upon Percy's
sojourn with Harriet in Wales in late 1812 and early 1813. Italy gained
allure for writers not only because of Byron but because of Madame
de StaeTs immensely popular novel Corinne (1807). A number of
poems by Letitia Landon and Felicia Hemans written in the 18208 and
18308 represent Italy as a place of artistic creation and of political free-
dom. Of course, Shelley lived in Italy; Ethel's voyage to Italy with
Lodore, and Horatio Saville's marriage to Clorinda, allow Shelley to
combine the public's interest in Italy with her own experience. Shelley
wrote about Italy on a number of occasions in her fiction. In 1824 she
published "Recollections of Italy" in the London Magazine and a
review of works by Constantine Henry Phipps, Charlotte Anne Eaton,
and Anna Brownell Jameson entitled "The English in Italy" in the
Westminster Review for 1826. Her sketch, "The Bride of Modern Italy,"
an ironic retelling of the story of Emilia Viviani and the first version of
28 InTRODUCTION
Clorinda, may be found in Appendix A.The choice of Essex as the
location of Lodores ancestral home is perhaps more curious. Shortly
before she began writing the novel, Shelley took a holiday with Percy
Florence at Southend; she wrote of her memories of the city in a letter
to Thomas Love Peacock in 1849 (Journals 5i4n). If the experience
influenced her choice, Essex is strategically a good location to place
the Fitzhenry estate. While close enough to London for Ethel and
Lodore to travel back and forth, it remained remote during the nine-
teenth century. Much of Essex is a suburb of London today, but the
railway was late in being established. Shelley seems to be drawing upon
its location and agricultural character. However, the name "Longfield"
bears resemblance to the Shelley home, Field Place, in Sussex; the fam-
ily story with its American connection and recent acquisition of a tide
is similar to the Shelley family history.
13
Above all, Lodore is important for what it tells about Shelley's desire
to remain true to Jacobin ideals of the decade of her birth, and for
what it illustrates about ideological perspectives on women as the
middle class gained hegemony during the 18305.The most sustained
discussion with respect to consequences concerns women's education
and place in society. Shelley's own statement to her publisher in 1833
make clear that she is working within her culture's representation of
bourgeois domesticity:
I do not know how briefly to give you an idea of the whole
tale - [The] A Mother & Daughter are the heroines - The
Mother who after safrifising [sacrificing] all to the world at first —
afterwards makes sacrifises not less entire, for her child - finding
all to be Vanity, except the genuine affections of the heart. In
the daughter I have tried to pourtray in its simplicity, & all the
beauty I could muster, the devotion of a young wife for the hus-
band of her choice - The disasters she goes through being
described - & their result in awakening her Mother's affection,
bringing about the conclusion of the tale — Perhaps a fitting
motto would be Sir Walter Scott's well known lines beginning
"O woman in our hours of ease &C." (Letters 2.185)
If Mary Shelley calls the work "A Tale of the Present Times" (Letters
LODOR E 29
2.2O6), another likely subtitle might be "Thoughts on the Education
of Daughters" in its translation of Wollstonecraftian and Godwinian
thought to her own times.
The theme of domesticity, how women in the novel embody what
comes to be known as the "angel in the house" because of their self-
sacrifice, innocence, and devotion to others, merits attention for its
connections with Shelley's other writings, which examine the confli-
ct between female self-sacrifice and male egotism.
14
 One critic has
called Lodore "Frankenstein without the science" (Other Mary Shelley
230), and while this seems somewhat epigrammatic, similarities of
theme, setting, and even the choice of characters' names, do exist. As
Anne Mellor notes, the education of Ethel in the solitudes of Illinois
is based on Rousseau's theory of female education in Emile (Mary
Shelley 184); therefore, connections with the analysis of education in
Frankenstein can be made. But Shelley is drawing on her education by
her father; she also documents this in Matilda, her novel that remained
unpublished until 1959. As Sunstein observes, "Few fiction writers
have explored father-daughter love more persistently. Imagining live
good mothers rarely interested her. Many of her heroines are mother-
less, only children of adoring fathers they adore and with whom they
live in retirement; three - Euthanasia in Valperga, and EthelVilliers and
Fanny Derham in Lodore - have unloving mothers, all of whom are
alienated from the fathers" (3 3). The portrait of Elizabeth Raby in her
last novel, Falkner, places a particular focus upon the education of
women in the domestic sphere.
In these works Shelley evokes her own experience as a means to
reflect upon the education of women in more general terms. Her ear-
liest place of learning was Godwins study where John Opie's portrait
of Mary Wollst one craft hung over the fireplace. According to Sunstein
the study was "the heart of the house" (26). And Mary soon learnt
about her mother and was brought to see her grave: "He taught Mary
to read and spell her name by having her trace her mother's inscrip-
tion on the stone" (26). Godwin gave her textbooks, stories, andWoll-
stonecraft's first novel Mary to read (Sunstein 37). Sunstein comments,
"Mary was his star disciple, the most powerfully engaged and perma-
nently affected, the one from whom he demanded and gave most.
Her most felicitous, intimate, even thrilling intercourse with her
30   INTRODUCTION
father was that of pupil and teacher, and inordinate as her later trib-
utes to him might seem, it was homage to mentorship that few fathers
gave their daughters" (38). If Mary "loved learning; he encouraged
her, and gave her the background Wollstonecraft had not had and
regretted having missed." Like Fanny Derham's, her reading included
the history of the Roman Republic, Greece, and England, Latin and
Greek, Shakespeare and Milton and their contemporaries and "the
first rate poets of every language" (Sunstein 39). During her child-
hood Godwin and his wife founded a children's publishing firm, the
Juvenile Library of MJ. Godwin & Co.; Shelley herself published in
their series at the age often and a half (Sunstein 42). But the level of
research and scholarship that Shelley brought to her writing was a
positive legacy of her father. "Mary was forming the habit of a God-
winian schedule that . . . she would follow most of her life: study and
writing until early afternoon, then exercise and recreation. . . . God-
win trained her to take notes, make extracts and chronologies, and use
cross-references" (Sunstein 49).
It is likely that Mary did not view her education as typical or as
unproblematic. Sunstein speculates: "With the fundamental exception
of Godwin's views on females, Wollstonecraft would have instilled
many of his other concepts in Mary. Wollstonecraft, however, would
have feared and warned Mary of the consequences. Given the 'depen-
dent and oppressed state of her sex,' she had said when Fanny was a
baby,'I dread to unfold her mind, lest it should render her unfit for the
world she is to inhabit'. .. . It does not seem to have occurred to him
that Mary might come into conflict with the world, as he did the
power of passion, illusion, and despair" (44). Shelley considers the mat-
ter of conflict through the female characters in her novel. Like her ten-
dency to present Percy in more than one character, "she would
distribute elements of her youthful self among the heroines of her fifth
novel, Lodore: self-sufficiency and aspiration in the fearless, radical
scholar, Fanny Derham; pride and spirit in spoiled Cornelia Lodore;
dependency and need for love in gentle Ethel Villiers" (Sunstein 48-9).
Some reviewers suggest that Ethel is too good to be a credible
character, yet this is consistent with Shelley's purpose. If she is creating
a character who embodies the ideals of the domestic and bears com-
parison with such idealized heroines as Shakespeare's Miranda, Camp-
LODOR E 31
bell's Gertrude of Wyoming, and Byron's Haidee, Shelley is critical of
how such figures embody male fantasies of feminine passivity. Shelley
documents the limits of Ethel's education early in the first volume. In
Lodore's resolution "to make her all that woman can be of generous,
soft, and devoted ... as to render her ever pliant to his will," he "drew
his chief ideas from Milton's Eve, and adding to this the romance of
chivalry, he satisfied himself that his daughter would be the embodied
ideal of all that is adorable and estimable in her sex" (Vol. I, Chap. 3).
As the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft the mention of Milton's Eve
as a role model must be viewed as problematic, as Shelley makes clear:
"A lofty sense of independence is, in man, the best privilege of his
nature. It can't be doubted, but that it were for the happiness of the
other sex that she were taught more to rely on and act for herself. But
in the cultivation of this feeling, the education of Fitzhenry was lam-
entably deficient" (Vol. I, Chap. 3).
Ethel represents what contemporary English culture idealized in a
woman, and Shelley, ever responsive to the literary market, produced
what would sell. But the reader must be attentive as to how she politi-
cizes the feminine. This is evident in the comparisons that are made
between Ethel and Fanny Derham, who are both products of their
fathers' systems of education: "It was singular that the resolute and
unshrinking Fanny should be the daughter of Francis Derham; and
the timid, retiring Ethel, of his bold and daring protector" (Vol. Ill,
Chap. 2). Their fathers have educated them using philosophies that
represent opposites, "The one fashioned his offspring to be the wife
of a frail human being, and instructed her to be yielding, and to make
it her duty to devote herself to his happiness, and to obey his will. The
other sought to guard his from all weakness, to make her complete in
herself, and to render her independent and self-sufficing" (Vol. Ill,
Chap. 2). Ethel's devotion does involve acts of will; she is much more
sensible and practical than Villiers and is not afraid to state, if not
assert, her point of view. Doing so, though, ever seems a threat to her
physical well being, as she trembles, grows thin, or faints while endur-
ing trials on behalf ofVilliers. Such weakness symbolizes for Shelley a
threat to the social body as a whole if fragility and obedience in
women are made a fetish.
Fanny, on the other hand, has genuinely suffered alone, without
32   INTRODUCTION
benefit of masculine protection.
15
 As she reflects on her experiences
among the poor in her father's parish, she provides a foil for Ethel's
weakness: "'Words have more power than any one can guess; it is by
words that the world's great fight, now in these civilized times, is car-
ried on; I never hesitated to use them, when I fought any battle for
the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid to speak, it would
seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with deficient organs;
like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice fails them, when
that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail'" (Volume III, Chapter
i). It is as tempting to identify those half our fellow-creatures born
with deficient organs as women as it is the poorer classes, who but for
Fannys reminder are not part of a novel set in the world of the privi-
leged. Fanny's words are meant by Shelley to evoke the limitations of
the Reform Bill of 1832, social unrest, and the injustice that exists in
Shelley's society.
16
 The deeply political message must not be ignored;
Shelley is herself true to Fanny's preceding words: "'I[t] was my
father's lesson, that I should never fear any thing but myself. He taught
me to penetrate, to anatomize, to purify my motives; but once assured
of my own integrity, to be afraid of nothing."'This aptly describes the
legacy Shelley received from both of her parents.
And Mary Shelley's legacy bespeaks a critical perspective on what
Nancy Armstrong calls "The Rise of the Domestic Woman." Shelley's
parents certainly contributed to this debate, which takes a material
form in the rise of the conduct book for women during the eigh-
teenth century (Armstrong 103). Armstrong argues that conduct
books demonstrate:
it was the new domestic woman rather than her counterpart,
the new economic man, who first encroached upon aristocratic
culture and seized authority from it. This writing assumed that
an education ideally made a woman desire to be what a pros-
perous man desires, which is above all else a female. She there-
fore had to lack the competitive desires and worldly ambitions
that consequently belonged - as if by some natural principle -
to the male. For such a man, her desirability hinged upon an
education in frugal domestic practices. She was supposed to
complement his role as an earner and producer with hers as a
LODOR E 33
wise spender and tasteful consumer. Such an ideal relationship
presupposed a woman whose desires were not of necessity
attracted to material things. But because a woman's desire could
in fact be manipulated by signs of wealth and position, she
required an education. (Ideology of Conduct 96-7)
Armstrong maintains that conduct books "forced open a contradiction
within the existing cultural territory that had been marked out for rep-
resenting the female" in which women with aristocratic desires
identified with economic and political realms are corrupted and led to
the destruction of "the very virtues essential to a wife and mother" (Ide-
ology of Conduct 97).This is where conduct books begin -"Narratives of
her ideal development would come later" (Ideology of Conduct 97).
The conduct book played an essential role in debates on women's
education: the writings of Wollstonecraft and Godwin occurred within
a body of work with which Shelley would be familiar. Dr. John Grego-
ry's A Father's Legacy to his Daughters (1774) was influential for fifty years
(Gregory, "Introduction" 5). Wollstonecraft is critical of Gregory and
Rousseau in her Vindication; some of this discussion is included in
Appendix D. In turn Wollstonecraft herself inspired a number of
responses, as did the portrait created in Godwins misguided Memoirs of
the Author of'Tlie Rights of Woman'.
17
 Mary Hays' Letters and Essays, Moral
and Miscellaneous (1793) and Hannah Mores Strictures on the Modern Sys-
tem of Female Education (1799) approach the subject from radical and
conservative perspectives; Jane West's Letters to a Young Lady (1806) is
written against the ideas of Wollstonecraft. But the lines often blur in
this debate. Gina Luria suggests that William Duffs Letters on the Intellec-
tual and Moral Character of Women (1807) seems to accept Wollstonecraft s
critique of Gregory; yet he denounces Wollstonecraft in his "general
elaborations on the themes of feminine containment and acceptance of
a God-given hierarchy" (Duff, "Introduction" 6).
These texts reflect the inscription of notions of an emerging ideol-
ogy of domesticity in which women are placed as the moral centres
of a series of networks that support capitalism. But Elizabeth Lang-
land complicates this picture somewhat in Nobody's Angels by pointing
out that there is no "fairly seamless portrait of emerging subjectivity"
for women; instead, a "more subtle genealogy focuses on shifts in sub-
3 4 INTRODUCTION
ject formation" as the conduct book disappears in the 18205 and a
"distinctly new set of discursive practices," especially the etiquette
book, emerges in the 18305 (5n). Langland argues that "a Victorian
wife, the presiding hearth angel ofVictorian social myth, actually per-
formed a more significant and extensive economic and political func-
tion than is usually perceived" (8). By the 18305 nonliterary materials
help consolidate middle class identity and part of women's power lies
in the fact that the "evolving signifiers of bourgeois identity belong to
women" (25). The contradictions of definitions for women become
centred upon the female monarch, Queen Victoria, who ascended the
throne two years after the publication ofLodore.18
If writers like Sarah Stickney Ellis speak for a conservative point of
view in which class interests take precedence over gender, doing so
involves a refutation of Wollstonecraft, who argues against the subordi-
nation of women. Mary Shelley takes the side of resistance to Victorian
domesticity. Emily Sunstein notes that in responding to Frances
Wrights first letter, Shelley observed, "The memory of my Mother has
always been the pride & delight of my life; & the admiration of others
for her, has been the cause of most of the happiness I have enjoyed"
(283). It is significant that Shelley addressed these words to another
woman. A similar moment occurs in Lodore when the narrator explains,
"Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own sex
that by the opposite one. Superiority of intellect, joined to acquisitions
beyond those usual even to men; and both announced with frankness,
though without pretension, forms a kind of anomaly little in accord
with masculine taste" (Vol. Ill, Chap. i). Shelley locates a weakness with
patriarchal culture, which limits women to positions of dependence:
"Fanny could not be a rival of women, and, therefore, all her merits
were appreciated by them. They love to look up to a superior being, to
rest on a firmer support than their own minds can afford; and they are
glad to find such in one of their own sex, and thus destitute of those
dangers which usually attend any services conferred by men" (Vol. Ill,
Chap. i).This illuminates what Shelley means in the next chapter when
she explains that "Ethel had received, so to speak, a sexual education"
(Vol. Ill, Chap. 2). Ethel's education is a product of a culture that would
separate men and women; Shelley would have it otherwise.
That it seems to have been so difficult to find Shelley's message
LODOR E 35
suggests that her work has been read through Victorian cultural
stereotypes, rather than as advancing a critique from within them.
Lodore is perhaps best viewed as an early example of what Mary
Poovey calls an "uneven development," in which representations of
gender become "contested images, the sites at which struggles for
authority occurred, as well as the locus of assumptions used to under-
write the very authority that authorized these struggles" (Uneven
Developments 2). Uneven has a double signification, "both in the sense
of being experienced differently by individuals who were positioned
differently within the social formation (by sex, class, or race, for exam-
ple) and in the sense of being articulated differently by the different
institutions, discourses, and practices that it both constituted and was
constituted by" (3). Therefor e an issue like that of the Victorian
domestic ideal shows us "the extent to which any image that is
important to a culture constitutes an arena of ideological construction
rather than simple consolidation" (9).The selections from the feminist
Anna Jameson and the more conventional Sarah Stickney Ellis
included in Appendix D are meant to illustrate that with respect to
the domestic these writers have "the potential to expose the artificial-
ity of the binary logic that governed the Victorian symbolic econo-
my" (12). It is interesting that some of the "border issues" Poovey
examines — Caroline Norton and the 1857 Matrimonial Causes Act,
the "Housewifely Woman," and the "problem" of single women - are
all issues touched upon in Lodore.
It may seem puzzling why Elizabeth Fitzhenry is consistently
pointed to by critics as a particularly admirable character, while Fanny
Derham is ignored. Yet Elizabeth's situation foreshadows the Victorian
preoccupation with the "Woman problem," including, by mid-centu-
ry, discussions about "surplus" or "redundant" women like those by
W.R. Greg in his National Review essay, "Why are Women Redun-
dant," and by Frances Power Cobb in her Fraser's Magazine response,
"What Should We Do With Our Old Maids." It would seem that
Shelley offers a comforting answer in Elizabeth Fitzhenry, and that is
one reason why the character gained so much attention from critics.
Custody is another topical concern touched on in the novel. Cor-
nelia is separated from Ethel by Lodore s patriarchal assumptions both
before and after his death. Shortly after the publication of the novel,
36   INTRODUCTION
Shelley befriended the poet, novelist, and editor of annuals Caroline
Norton, who was to suffer the full brunt of the injustice towards
women that existed in the legal system when she separated from her
husband. But unlike Cornelia, Caroline Norton maintained custody
of her three children and fought back and through her writings. Her
pamphlets on divorce contributed to the passage of the 1857 Matri-
monial Causes Act.
19
The portraits of Cornelia and Saville's sisters as privileged women
of leisure are as indirectly damning as the descriptions of the careers
of the rather directionless Saville andVilliers. It may be particularly
difficult for the modern reader to find sympathy forVilliers; readers
will likely feel that if he wants to end his money problems, he should
get a job and learn to economize. Shelley's evocation of the silver fork
world of Almacks, travel to the Continent, and trips to the opera is a
register of what attracted readers in the 18308, but Dinah Mulock's
later cry, "nothing to do," resounds in Shelley's portraits. A critique of
aristocratic life was a timely concern, addressed by male and female
writers alike from Thomas Carlyle to Sarah Ellis to Matthew Arnold.
Shelley breaks the confines imposed by the sort of novel she is writ-
ing and crosses into social criticism.
The "unevenness" of Shelley's text is perhaps most evident in her
decision to end the novel with Fanny Derham. Fanny, who withdraws
from life to pursue her studies, represents a challenge to the general
theme of the so-called "proper lady" and the values of the bourgeois
family celebrated by the novel. In fact, the narrator, speaking on Shel-
ley's behalf, suggests that a future novel will concern Fanny. Although
this story was never written, Anne Mellor insists it is significant that the
work concludes not with a celebration of marriage and family but with
the character "whose story cannot be told"; hence, Shelley's refusal to
do so (Mary Shelley 207). Mellor bases her comment on the fact that
Shelley insists that "it would require the gift of prophecy to foretell the
conclusion." Perhaps Shelley does not mean this as a statement on the
limitation and failure of her ideology as Mellor suggests. I would pro-
pose that the conclusion embodies a recognition of the potential posed
by the uneven character of descriptions of domesticity. Shelley ends the
novel with a challenge to her society to recognize the possibilities of
social transformation: "In after times these may be told, and the life of
LODOR E 37
Fanny Derham be presented as a useful lesson, at once to teach what
goodness and genius can achieve in palliating the woes of life, and to
encourage those, who would in any way imitate her, by an example of
calumny refuted by patience, errors rectified by charity, and the pas-
sions of our nature purified and ennobled by an undeviating obser-
vance of those moral laws on which all human excellence is founded —
a love of truth in ourselves, and a sincere sympathy with our fellow-
creatures." Lodore s final subversion of the romance form is to substi-
tute an open-ended conclusion for "they lived happily ever after."
Betty Bennett argues for the need "to revise Mary Shelley's image
from that of a passive, conventional Victorian lady into a multidimen-
sional, complex Romanticist" ("Finding Mary Shelley" 297). With
Lodore the complexity and the multidimensional nature of Shelley's
thought are evident as she participates in debates of the Victorian age.
Gary Kelly concludes his study of women who contributed to the
debates concerning the French Revolution with a reminder that lega-
cies from one age to the next do not have clear lines of inheritance:
The relationship between these writers and their younger con-
temporaries and immediate successors is difficult to determine,
and may well have been mediated partly by men writers who
appropriated their work. But there is some evidence that ele-
ments of Revolutionary feminism were continued in radical
political circles such as the Owenite socialists, and that elements
of post-Revolutionary or counter-revolutionary feminism,
often further reshaped into feminism, were continued into the
work of women writers as diverse as Felicia Hemans, Letitia
Landon, Anna Wheeler, Sarah Ellis, Harriet Martineau, Maria
Jane and Geraldine Jewsbury, Agnes and Elizabeth Strickland,
Anne Katharine Elwood, Barbara Bodichon and the Langham
Place feminists, Anna Brownell Jameson, and George Eliot.
(Women, Writing, and Revolution 304)
While Lodore is about the consequences of legacy, the most significant
inheritance reflected in the novel is the intellectual one bestowed by
Mary Shelley's parents and her husband. If entail has power over the
38   INTRODUCTION
economic positions of Shelley's characters, as it did over her own life,
continuity between generations does not necessarily operate with
respect to the beliefs of individuals. But I would add Mary Shelley's
name to Kelly's list of inheritors. Lodore suggests that she used her
legacy wisely and well.
Notes
1. Elsewhere Bennett points out that Shelley was prevented from
using her name by her father-in-law who made it a condition
of receiving an allowance to be repaid when Percy Florence
inherited the estate. See "Radical Imaginings: Mary Shelley's
Tlte Last Man" Wordsworth Circle 26 (1995): 148.
2. See Gill's note in his edition of Elizabeth Gaskell's Mary Barton:
A Tale of Manchester Life (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1970) 473n.
3. Some lines from Percy Shelley's Peter Bell the Third make their
first appearance in the novel.
4. For further information about Victorian printing technology,
see Allan C. Dooley, Author and Printer in Victorian England
(Charlottesville: University P ofVirginia, 1992).
5. See Charles E. Robinsons introduction to his edition of Shel-
ley's short fiction, Collected Tales and Stories (Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins UP, 1976).
6. See Penelope Hughes-Hallett, The Wbrdsworths and the Lakes:
Home at Grasmere (London: Collins and Brown, 1993) 38.
7. Southey's "The Cataract of Lodore" and Wordsworth s lines in
An Evening Walk, 3-4 (1793). See David McCracken, Wordsworth
and the Lake District (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1984) 260.
8. It can be argued that Lodore is in part also modelled on
Trelawny. William St. Clair finds models in Godwin's Borromeo
in Cloudesley and De Faro in Perkin Warbeck and in Falkner. He
suggests that Trelawny figures also appear in her short stories; in
particular, Euphrasia from The Keepsake for 1839, (Trelawny
[London: John Mullay, 1977] 223 n).
LODOR E 39
9. See, for example, Marshall Life and Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft
Shelley. 2 vols. (London: Richard Bendey, 1889) 2.264-5,
 an
d R.
Glynn Grylls'"an exact description of this time"Mtfry Shelley: A
Biography (London: Oxford UP, 1938) 43.
10. Emily Sunstein suggests that Lodore is more likely drawn from
Beauclerk brothers than from Byron (32on).
11. See Encyclopaedia Britannica, 9th ed. 1878.
12. For information about Birkbeck, see Dictionary of American Biog-
raphy, ed. Allen Johnson (New York: Scribner's, 1929) 2.289.
13. See Newman Ivey White, Shelley, 2 vols. (New York: Knopf,
1940) and Richard Holmes, Shelley: Tlie Pursuit (London: Wei-
denfeld and Nicholson, 1974) for information about the Shelley
family.
14. Poovey discusses this issue in The Proper Lady and the Woman
Writer (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1984) 143-171.
15. Although Frances was a popular name, and many authors
including Henry Fielding and Jane Austen gave their heroines
the name Fanny, Shelley may be paying tribute to her half-sis-
ter, Fanny Imlay, to whom Wollstonecraft poignantly addresses
her fears for her future in Letter Six of A Short Residence in Swe-
den, Norway, and Denmark (1796). Fanny Imlay committed sui-
cide in 1816.
16. See Nancy Armstrong, Desire and Domestic Fiction, (New York:
Oxford UP, 1987) especially 161-176.
17. See Richard Holmes' introduction in his edition of Woll-
stonecraft s Short Residence in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark and
Godwins Memoirs of the Author of'Tlie Rights of Woman (Har-
mondsworth: Penguin, 1987).
18. For a discussion of Queen Victoria and domesticity, see Lang-
land, Nobody's Angels (Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1995) 62-79.
19. For information about Caroline Norton (1818-77),
tne
 daugh-
ter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, see Journals of Mary Shelley
(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1995) 614-616 and Mary
Poovey, Uneven Developments (Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1988)
51-88.
4 0 INTRODUCTION
Note on the Text
WITH Lodore, the matter of copy text is straightforward. The only
edition of Lodore with which Mary Shelley was directly involved was
that published in London by Richard Bentley in three volumes in
1835, and I have followed this text. As one of my aims is to illustrate
the nature of literary production in the 18305, idiosyncrasies of
spelling and punctuation have been left unchanged, as they conform
to acceptable nineteenth-century usage.
1
 A few misprints have been
corrected and are indicated by brackets. Shelley's notes, indicated by
asterisks, are incorporated with the editorial notes, which appear at
the foot the page.
A one volume edition of Lodore was published in Brussels by A.
andW. Galignani of Paris in 1835. As Morton Paley notes, Shelley
took an interest in Galignani and sent some poems for an 1829 edi-
tion of Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats, but had no role in their edition
of Lodore.
2
Other editions are New York: Wallis & Newell, 1835, Franklin
Library; London: Bernard, 1844; an 1846 reprint of the Wallis &
Newell edition and two editions retitled, The Beautiful Widow
Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson and Bros. c. 1865; New York, 1893. These
last two editions identify the author as Mrs. Percy B. Shelley.
3
With respect to the documents included in the appendices, I have
followed the same editorial principle of leaving the text as much in
keeping with its original state as possible, including errors of spelling
and punctuation. I have silently omitted the long V from the selec-
tions from William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. Quotation
marks down the left-hand margin from the selections from Godwin,
Wollstonecraft, and William Cobbett have been removed.
Notes
i Examples of nineteenth-century spellings include "desart,"
"develope," "sopha," "chace," "controul," "etherial," and
"innoffensive."
LODOR E 41
"Note on the Text," Tlie Last Man, ed. Morton Paley (Oxford:
OUP, 1994), xxiv. See also Giles Barber, "Galignani's and the
Publication of English Books in France from 1800 to 1852," The
Library, 5th series, 16 (1961): 267-88, esp. 273, and Betty T. Ben-
nett, "Finding Mary Shelley in Her Letters" Romantic Revisions,
ed. Robert Brinkley and Keith Hanley (Cambridge: Cambridge
UP, 1992) 301.
W. H. Lyles, Mary Shelley: An Annotated Bibliography (New York:
Garland, 1975) 197.
42 A NOTE ON THE TEXT
2
3
Mary Shelley: A Brief Chronology
1797: Marriage of Mary Wollstonecraft to William Godwin (29
March); birth of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin (30 August);
death of Mary Wollstonecraft from puerperal fever (10 Sep-
tember) .
1801: Marriage of William Godwin to Mary Jane Clairmont, who
with her two children Charles and Mary Jane (Claire) live with
Godwin, Mary, and Fanny Imlay (Wollstonecraft s child by
Gilbert Imlay) in SomersTown, near London (21 December).
1808: Publication of her first work, a poem "Mounseer Nongtong-
paw," by M. J. Godwin and Co.
1812: Visit to Dundee, Scotland (June); first meets Percy Shelley (n
November).
1814: Mary returns to London; Mary tells Percy of her love at her
mother's grave in St. Pancras churchyard (26 June); elopement
with Percy and her stepsister Claire Clairmont (28 July); trip
to the Continent (August-September); Shelley in hiding in
London to escape arrest for debt (22 October-9 November).
1815: Birth of her first daughter (22 February) who dies (6 March);
move to Bishopsgate,Windsor (August).
1816: Birth of her son William (24 January); Claire becomes Byron's
mistress (April); second trip to the Continent and meeting
with Byron and Polidori in Geneva (May); Frankenstein begun
(16 June); return to England (September); suicide of her half-
sister Fanny Imlay (9 October); suicide of Percy's wife Harriet
Westbrook (found 10 December); marriage to Percy (30
December).
1817: Birth of Claire's daughter by Byron, Alba, later Allegra (12 Jan-
uary); Percy loses custody of his two children by Harriet West-
brook, Charles and lanthe; moves to Marlow (March);
Frankenstein completed (14 May); birth of her daughter Clara
(2 September); publication of History of a Six Weeks 'Tour by T.
Hookham and C. and J. Oilier (December).
1818: Publication of Frankenstein by Lackington, Hughes, Harding
Mayor, & Jones (January); leave for Italy with Claire and Alba
LODOR E 43
(March); settle in Bagni di Lucca (June); move to Este; death
of Clara (24 September); move to Rome (November); move
to Naples (December).
1819: Move to Rome (March); death of William (7 June); move to
Livorno (June); composition of Matilda (August-February
1820); move to Florence (September); birth of her surviving
son Percy Florence (12 November).
1820: Move to Pisa (January); composition of "Proserpine" and
"Midas" (April-May); move to Livorno (June); move to Bagni
di San Giuliano (August); begins writing Valperga\ move to
Pisa (October).
1821: Meet EmiliaViviani, the inspiration for Percys Epipsychidion
and Mary's Clorinda in Lodore (January); move to Bagni de
San Giuliano (April); move to Pisa (October).
1822: Allegra dies (April); move to Lerici (May); miscarriage (16
June); death of Percy by drowning (8 July); move to Genoa
(September).
1823: Publication of Valperga by Henry Colburn and Richard Bent-
ley (February); of the second edition ofFrankenstein; return to
London (August); Sir Timothy, Percy's father offers a yearly
allowance of ^100.
1824: Begins writing The Last Man\ death of Byron (19 April); pub-
lication of Percy's Posthumous Poems edited by Mary (June),
suppressed by Sir Timothy who raises her yearly allowance to
£200.
1826: Publication of The Last Man by Henry Colburn (26 Febru-
ary); Percys son by Harriet, Charles Bysshe Shelley, dies; Percy
Florence becomes heir apparent (14 September).
1827: Mary agrees to help Thomas Moore with his life of Byron
(June); begins corresponding with Frances Wright.
1828: Begins writing Ttie Fortunes ofPerkin Warbeck (January); begins
her first story for The Keepsake, for which she will write for
the next ten years (March); visits Paris and contracts smallpox
(April).
1829: Allowance increased to ^300 per annum (June).
1830: Publication ofVolume I of Thomas Moore's Letters and Journals
of Lord Byron: With Notices of his Life, which Mary had (18 Jan-
44   CHRONOLOGY
uary); publication of Perkin Warbeck by Colburn and Bentley
(13 May); at Southend (July).
1831: Publication of the second volume of Moore's Byron and
begins writing Lodore (January); publication of Edward John
Trelawnys Adventures of a Younger Son, which Shelley edited by
Colburn and Bentley; publication of revised third edition of
Frankenstein, published by Bentley and Colburn (November).
1832: Percy Florence enters Harrow.
1833: Mary moves to Harrow (April).
1834: Mary rewrites a section of Lodore when part of the manuscript
is lost (June).
1835: Publication ofVolume I of Lives of the Most Eminent Literary
and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain and Portugal for Lardner s Cabi-
net Cyclopedia (February); Lodore published by Richard
Bentley (March);Volume II of Lives published.
1836: Death of her father; moves to London (7 April).
1837: Publication of Falknerby Saunders and Otley (February);Vol-
ume III of Lives published; Percy enters Trinity College, Cam-
bridge (10 October).
1838: Publication of Volume I of Lives of the Most Eminent . . . Men
of France (August).
1839: Publication of her edition of Percy s Poetical Works with prefaces
and notes by Mary (January-May); publication ofVolume II of
Lives\ publication of Percy's Essays and Letters (December).
1840: Yearly allowance increased to £400; trip to tne Continent
with Percy Florence and his friends (June-November).
1841: Percy graduates from Cambridge.
1842-43:Another trip to the Continent; Mary sees Claire in Paris.
1844: Death of Percy's father, succession of Percy Florence to the
estate (24 April); publication of Rambles in Germany and Italy
(July).
1848: Marriage of Percy Florence to Jane St. John.
1849: Move to Field Place (the Shelley family home near Bourne-
mouth, Sussex) with Percy and his wife.
1850: Mary ill.
1851: Death of Mary Shelley from a brain tumour at age 53 (i Feb-
ruary) .
LODOR E 45
This page intentionally left blank 
LODORE .
B Y THE
AUTHO R OF "FRANKENSTEIN. "
In the turmoil of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.
FORD.
1
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON :
RICHAR D BENTLEY, NE W BURLINGTON STREET.
(SUCCESSO R TO HENRY COLBURN.)
1835.
i John Ford, The Lover's Melancholy (1629), 5.1.4-9.
This page intentionally left blank 
L O DO RE .
CHAPTER I.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear.
IN the flattest and least agreeable part of the county of Essex, about
five miles from the sea, is situated a village or small town, which may
be known in these pages by the name of Longfield. Longfield is dis-
tant eight miles from any market town, but the simple inhabitants,
limiting their desires to their means of satisfying them, are scarcely
aware of the kind of desert in which they are placed. Although only
fifty miles from London, few among them have ever seen the metrop-
olis. Some claim that distinction from having visited cousins in Loth-
bury and viewed the lions in the tower.
2
 There is a mansion
belonging to a wealthy nobleman within four miles, never inhabited,
except when a parliamentary election is going forward.
3
 No one of
any pretension to consequence resided in this secluded nook, except
the honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry; she ought to have been the
shining star of the place, and she was only its better angel. Benevolent,
gentle, and unassuming, this fair sprig of nobility had lived from youth
to age in the abode of her forefathers, making a part of this busy
1 "Epistle to Robert Earl of Oxford, and Earl Mortimer" (1722) 13-14.
2 Lothbury is a street on the north side of the Bank of England in the City of Lon-
don; lions were lodged in a royal menagerie in the Tower of London from the four-
teenth century until 1834.
3 Perhaps a topical reference to electoral reform; the first Reform Bill passed in 1832.
LODOR E 49
POPE .
 1
world, only through the kindliness of her disposition, and her con-
stant affection for one who was far away.
The mansion of the Fitzhenry family, which looked upon the vil-
lage green, was wholly incommensurate to our humblest ideas of
what belongs to nobility; yet it stood in solitary splendour, the Great
House of Longfield. From time immemorial, its possessors had been
the magnates of the village; half of it belonged to them, and the whole
voted according to their wishes. Cut off from the rest of the world,
they claimed here a consideration and a deference, which, with the
moderate income of fifteen hundred a-year, they would have vainly
sought elsewhere.
There was a family tradition, that a Fitzhenry had sat in parlia-
ment; but the time arrived, when they were to rise to greater distinc-
tion. The father of the lady, whose name has been already introduced,
enjoyed all the privileges attendant on being an only child. Extraordi-
nary efforts were made for his education. He was placed with a cler-
gyman near Harwich, and imbibed in that neighbourhood so
passionate a love for the sea, that, though tardily and with regret, his
parents at last permitted him to pursue a naval career. He became a
brave, a clever, and a lucky officer. In a contested election, his father
was the means of insuring the success of the government candidate,
and the promotion of his son followed. Those were the glorious days
of the English navy, towards the close of the American war; and when
that war terminated, and the admiral, now advanced considerably
beyond middle life, returned to the Sabine farm,
1
 of which he had, by
course of descent, become proprietor, he returned adorned with the
rank of a peer of the realm, and with sufficient wealth to support
respectably the dignity of the baronial title.
Yet an obscure fate pursued the house of Fitzhenry, even in its
ennobled condition. The new lord was proud of his elevation, as a
merited reward; but next to the deck of his ship, he loved the tranquil
precincts of his paternal mansion, and here he spent his latter days in
peace. Midway in life, he had married the daughter of the rector of
i The war for American Independence (1775-83). The Sabines were a race of ancient
Italy known for their bravery, religious feelings, and simple morality.They were rec-
onciled with their enemies, the Romans, through the captured Sabine woman, and
the two peoples settled in peace.
50 MARY SHELLE Y
Longfield. Various fates had attended the offspring of this union; sev-
eral died, and at the time of his being created a peer, Lord Lodore
found himself a widower, with two children. Elizabeth, who had been
born twelve years before, and Henry, whose recent birth had cost the
life of his hapless and lamented mother.
But those days were long since passed away; and the first Lord
Lodore, with most of his generation, was gathered to his ancestors. To
the new-sprung race that filled up the vacant ranks, his daughter Eliz-
abeth appeared a somewhat ancient but most amiable maiden, whose
gentle melancholy was not (according to innumerable precedents in
the traditions regarding unmarried ladies) attributed to an ill-fated
attachment, but to the disasters that had visited her house, and still
clouded the fortunes of her family. What these misfortunes originated
from, or even in what they consisted, was not exactly known; espe-
cially at Longfield, whose inhabitants were no adepts in the gossip of
the metropolis. It was believed that Mrs. Elizabeth's brother still lived;
that some very strange circumstances had attended his career in life,
was known; but conjecture fell lame when it tried to proceed beyond
these simple facts: it was whispered, as a wonder and a secret, that
though Lord Lodore was far away, no one knew where, his lady (as
the Morning Post testified in its lists of fashionable arrivals and fash-
ionable parties)
1
 was a frequent visitor to London. Once or twice the
bolder gossips, male or female, had resolved to sound (as they called it)
Mrs. Elizabeth on the subject. But the fair spinster, though innoffen-
sive to a proverb, and gentle beyond the wont of her gentle sex, was
yet gifted with a certain dignity of manner, and a quiet reserve, that
checked these good people at their very outset.
Henry Fitzhenry was spoken of by a few of the last generation, as
having been a fine, bold, handsome boy - generous, proud, and dar-
ing; he was remembered, when as a youth he departed for the conti-
nent, as riding fearlessly the best hunter in the field, and attracting the
admiration of the village maidens at church by his tall elegant figure
and dark eyes; or, when he chanced to accost them, by a nameless fas-
cination of manner, joined to a voice whose thrilling silver tones
i The Morning Post was a daily newspaper, founded in London in 1772, which was
amalgamated with the Daily Telegraph in 1937. Godwin's friend Coleridge, as well as
Southey and Wordsworth, wrote for the paper in the 17905.
LODOR E 51
stirred the listener's heart unaware. He left them like a dream, nor
appeared again till after his father's death, when he paid his sister a
brief visit. There was then something singularly grave and abstracted
about him. When he rode, it was not among the hunters, though it
was soft February weather, but in the solitary lanes, or with lightning
speed over the moors, when the sun was setting and shadows gathered
round the landscape.
Again, some years after, he had appeared among them. He was
then married, and Lady Lodore accompanied him. They stayed but
three days. There was something of fiction in the way in which the
appearance of the lady was recorded. An angel bright with celestial
hues, breathing heaven, and spreading a halo of calm and light around,
as it winged swift way amidst the dusky children of earth: such ideas
seemed to appertain to the beautiful apparition, remembered as Lord
Lodore's wife. She was so young, that time played with her as a
favourite child; so etherial in look, that the language of flowers could
alone express the delicate fairness of her skin, or the tints that sat
upon her cheek: so light in motion, and so graceful. To talk of eye or
lip, of height or form, or even of the colour of her hair, the villagers
could not, for they had been dazzled by an assemblage of charms
before undreamt of by them. Her voice won adoration, and her smile
was as the sudden withdrawing of a curtain displaying paradise upon
earth. Her lord's tall, manly figure, was recollected but as a back-
ground - a fitting one - and that was all they would allow to him -
for this resplendent image. Nor was it remembered that any excessive
attachment was exhibited between them. She had appeared indeed
but as a vision - a creature from another sphere, hastily gazing on an
unknown world, and lost before they could mark more than that void
came again, and she was gone.
Since that time, Lord Lodore had been lost to Longfield. Some few
months after Mrs. Elizabeth visited London on occasion of a christen-
ing, and then after a long interval, it was observed, that she never
mentioned her brother, and that the name of his wife acted as a spell,
to bring an expression of pain over her sedate features. Much talk cir-
culated, and many blundering rumours went their course through the
village, and then faded like smoke in the clear air. Some mystery there
was - Lodore was gone - his place vacant: he lived; yet his name, like
5 2 MARY SHELLEY
those of the dead, haunted only the memories of men, and was allied
to no act or circumstance of present existence. He was forgotten, and
the inhabitants of Longfield, returning to their obscurity, proceeded
in their daily course, almost as happy as if they had had their lord
among them, to vary the incidents of their quiet existence with the
proceedings of the "Great House."
Yet his sister remembered him. In her heart his image was traced
indelibly — limned in the colours of life. His form visited her dreams,
and was the unseen, yet not mute, companion of her solitary musings.
Years stole on, casting their clouding shadows on her cheek, and steal-
ing the colour from her hair, but Henry, but Lodore, was before her in
bright youth - her brother - her pride - her hope. To muse on the
possibility of his return, to read the few letters that reached her from
him, till their brief sentences seemed to imply volumes of meaning,
was the employment that made winter nights short, summer days
swift in their progress. This dreamy kind of existence, added to the
old-fashioned habits which a recluse who lives in a state of singleness
is sure to acquire, made her singularly unlike the rest of the world -
causing her to be a child in its ways, and inexpert to detect the crafti-
ness of others.
Lodore, in exile and obscurity, was in her eyes, the first of human
beings; she looked forward to the hour, when he would blaze upon
the world with renewed effulgence, as to a religious promise. How
well did she remember, how in grace of person, how in expression of
countenance, and dignity of manner, he transcended all those whom
she saw during her visit to London, on occasion of the memorable
christening: that from year to year this return was deferred, did not
tire her patience, nor diminish her regrets. He never grew old to her —
never lost the lustre of early manhood; and when the boyish caprice
which kept him afar was sobered, so she framed her thoughts, by the
wisdom of time, he would return again to bless her and to adorn the
world. The lapse of twelve years did not change this notion, nor the
fact that, if she had cast up an easy sum in arithmetic, the parish regis-
ter would have testified, her brother had now reached the mature age
of fifty.
LODOR E 53
CHAPTER II.
Settled in some secret nest,
In calm leisure let me rest;
And far off the public stage,
Pass away my silent age.
SENECA. - Marvell's Trans.
1
TWELV E years previous to the opening of this tale, an English gentle-
man, advanced to middle age, accompanied by an infant daughter, and
her attendant, arrived at a settlement in the district of the Illinois in
North America. It was at the time when this part of the country first
began to be cleared, and a new comer, with some show of property,
was considered a welcome acquisition.
2
 Still the settlement was too
young, and the people were too busy in securing for themselves the
necessaries of life, for much attention to be paid to any thing but the
"overt acts" of the stranger - the number of acres which he bought,
which were few, the extent of his clearings, and the number of work-
men that he employed, both of which were, proportionately to his
possession in land, on a far larger scale than that of any of his fellow
colonists. Like magic, a commodious house was raised on a small
height that embanked the swift river — every vestige of forest disap-
peared from its immediate vicinity, replaced by agricultural cultiva-
tion, and a garden bloomed in the wilderness. His labourers were
many, and golden harvests shone in his fields, while the dark forest, or
untilled plain, seemed yet to set at defiance the efforts of his fellow
settlers; and at the same time comforts of so civilized a description,
that the Americans termed them luxuries, appeared in the abode and
reigned in the domestic arrangements of the Englishman, although to
his eye every thing was regulated by the strictest regard to republican
plainness and simplicity.
1 Seneca,Trag. ex Tliyestes Chorus 2,4-7. Shelley originally intended the motto to be
Coleridge's poem "Tranquillity," but she didn't have a copy of the poem at Harrow.
She provides Oilier with instructions where the poem can be found. Why the
change was made is not known. See Letters 2.196,19?n.
2 Presumably Shelley is thinking of the period in which Morris Birkbeck is writing,
1817-18 (see introduction and Appendix C). Illinois was admitted as a state in 1818.
54 MARY SHELLEY
He did not mingle much in the affairs of the colony, yet his advice
was always to be commanded, and his assistance was readily afforded.
He superintended the operations carried on on his own land; and it
was observed that they differed often both from American and Eng-
lish modes of agriculture. Whe n questioned, he detailed practices in
Poland and Hungary, and gave his reasons why he thought them
applicable to the soil in question.
1
 Many of these experiments of
course failed; others were eminently successful. He did not shun
labour of any sort. He joined the hunting parties, and made one on
expeditions that went out to explore the neighbouring wilds, and the
haunts of the native Indians. He gave money for the carrying on any
necessary public work, and came forward willingly when called upon
for any useful purpose. In any time of difficulty or sorrow — on the
overflowing of the stream, or the failure of a crop, he was earnest in
his endeavours to aid and to console. But with all this, there was an
insurmountable barrier between him and the other inhabitants of the
colony. He never made one at their feasts, nor mingled in the familiar
communications of daily life; his dwelling, situated at the distance of a
full mile from the village, removed him from out of the very hearing
of their festivities and assemblies. He might labour in common with
others, but his pleasures were all solitary, and he preserved the utmost
independence as far as regarded the sacred privacy of his abode, and
the silence he kept in all concerns regarding himself alone.
At first the settlement had to struggle with all the difficulties atten-
dant on colonization. It grew rapidly, however, and bid fair to become
a busy and large town, when it met with a sudden check. A new spot
was discovered, a few miles distant, possessing peculiar advantages for
commercial purposes. An active, enterprising man engaged himself in
the task of establishing a town there on a larger scale and with greater
pretensions. He succeeded, and its predecessor sunk at once into
insignificance.
2
 It was matter of conjecture among them whether Mr.
Fitzhenry (so was named the English stranger) would remove to the
vicinity of the more considerable town, but no such idea seemed to
have occurred to him. Probably he rejoiced in an accident that tended
1 Information Lodore presumably acquired during his travels in these countries.
2 Shelley may be basing this on Birkbeck's account of a projected shipping port at the
mouth of the Bonpas, where it meets the Big Wabash River. See Appendix C.
LODOR E 55
to render his abode so entirely secluded. At first the former town
rapidly declined, and many a log hut fell to ruin; but at last, having
sunk into the appearance and name of a village, it continued to exist,
bearing few marks of that busy enterprising stir which usually charac-
terizes a new settlement in America. The ambitious and scheming had
deserted it - it was left to those who courted tranquillity, and desired
the necessaries of life without the hope of great future gain. It
acquired an almost old-fashioned appearance. The houses began to
look weatherworn, and none with fresh faces sprung up to shame
them. Extensive clearings, suddenly checked, gave entrance to the
forests, without the appendages of a manufacture or a farm. The
sound of the axe was seldom heard, and primeval quiet again took
possession of the wild. Meanwhile Mr. Fitzhenry continued to adorn
his dwelling with imported conveniences, the result of European art,
and to spend much time and labour in making his surrounding land
assume somewhat of the appearance of pleasure-ground.
He lived in peace and solitude, and seemed to enjoy the unchang-
ing tenor of his life. It had not always been so. During the first three
or four years of his arrival in America, he had evidently been unquiet
in his mind, and dissatisfied with the scene around him. He gave
directions to his workmen, but did not overlook their execution. He
took great pains to secure a horse, whose fiery spirit and beautiful
form might satisfy a fastidious connoisseur. Having with much trou-
ble and expense got several animals of English breed together, he was
perpetually seen mounted and forcing his way amid the forest land, or
galloping over the unincumbered country. Sadness sat on his brow,
and dwelt in eyes, whose dark large orbs were peculiarly expressive of
tenderness and melancholy,
"Pietosi a riguardare, a mover parchi."
1
Often, when in conversation on uninteresting topics, some keen sen-
sation would pierce his heart, his voice faltered, and an expression of
unspeakable wretchedness was imprinted on his countenance, mas-
tered after a momentary struggle, yet astounding to the person he
i "Piteous to look at, slow to move."
5 6 MARY SHELLEY
might be addressing. Generally on such occasions he would seize an
immediate opportunity to break away and to remain alone. He had
been seen, believing himself unseen, making passionate gestures, and
heard uttering some wild exclamations. Once or twice he had wan-
dered away into the woods, and not returned for several days, to the
exceeding terror of his little household. He evidently sought loneli-
ness, there to combat unobserved with the fierce enemy that dwelt
within his breast. On such occasions, when intruded upon and dis-
turbed, he was irritated to fury. His resentment was expressed in terms
ill-adapted to republican equality — and no one could doubt that in
his own country he had filled a high station in society, and been edu-
cated in habits of command, so that he involuntarily looked upon
himself as of a distinct and superior race to the human beings that
each day crossed his path. In general, however, this was only shown by
a certain loftiness of demeanour and cold abstraction, which might
annoy, but could not be resented. Any ebullition of temper he was not
backward to atone for by apology, and to compensate by gifts.
There was no tinge of misanthropy in Fitzhenry s disposition. Even
while he shrunk from familiar communication with the rude and
unlettered, he took an interest in their welfare. His benevolence was
active, his compassion readily afforded. It was quickness of feeling, and
not apathy, that made him shy and retired. Sensibility checked and
crushed, an ardent thirst for sympathy which could not be allayed in
the wildernesses of America, begot a certain appearance of coldness,
altogether deceptive. He concealed his sufferings - he abhorred that
they should be pryed into; but this reserve was not natural to him, and
it added to the misery which his state of banishment occasioned.
"Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell."
1
And so was it with him. His passions were powerful, and had been
ungoverned. He writhed beneath the dominion of sameness; and tran-
quillity, allied to loneliness, possessed no charms. He groaned beneath
the chains that fettered him to the spot, where he was withering in
inaction. They caused unutterable throes and paroxysms of despair.
i Byron, Cliilde Harold's Pilgrimage, III (1816) 370; lines on Napoleon. The quotation
helps to establish Lodore as a Byronic hero.
LODOR E 57
Ennui, the daemon, waited at the threshold of his noiseless refuge, and
drove away the stirring hopes and enlivening expectations, which
form the better part of life. Sensibility in such a situation is a curse:
men become "cannibals of their own hearts;" remorse, regret, and
restless impatience usurp the place of more wholesome feeling: every
thing seems better than that which is; and solitude becomes a sort of
tangible enemy, the more dangerous, because it dwells within the
citadel itself. Borne down by such emotions, Fitzhenry was often
about to yield to the yearnings of his soul, and to fly from repose into
action, however accompanied by strife and wretchedness; to leave
America, to return to Europe, and to face at once all the evils which
he had journeyed so far to escape. He did not — he remained. His
motives for flight returned on him with full power after any such
paroxysm, and held him back. He despised himself for his hesitation.
He had made his choice, and would abide by it. He was not so devoid
of manliness as to be destitute of fortitude, or so dependent a wretch
as not to have resources in himself. He would cultivate these, and
obtain that peace which it had been his boast that he should experi-
ence.
It came at last. Time and custom accomplished their task, and he
became reconciled to his present mode of existence. He grew to love
his home in the wilderness. It was all his own creation, and the pains
and thought he continued to bestow upon it, rendered it doubly his.
The murmur of the neighbouring river became the voice of a friend;
it welcomed him on his return from any expedition; and he hailed the
first echo of it that struck upon his ear from afar, with a thrill of joy.
Peace descended upon his soul. He became enamoured of the
independence of solitude, and the sublime operations of surrounding
nature. All further attempts at cultivation having ceased in his neigh-
bourhood, from year to year nothing changed, except at the bidding
of the months, in obedience to the varying seasons; - nothing
changed, except that the moss grew thicker and greener upon the logs
that supported his roof, that the plants he cultivated increased in
strength and beauty, and that the fruit-trees yielded their sweet pro-
duce in greater abundance. The improvements he had set on foot dis-
played in their progress the taste and ingenuity of their projector; and
as the landscape became more familiar, so did a thousand associations
5 8 MARY SHELLEY
twine themselves with its varied appearances, till the forests and glades
became as friends and companions.
As he learnt to be contented with his lot, the inequalities of
humour, and singularities of conduct, which had at first attended him,
died away. He had grown familiar with the persons of his fellow-
colonists, and their various fortunes interested him. Though he could
find no friend, tempered like him, like him nursed in the delicacies
and fastidiousness of the societies of the old world; — though he, a
china vase, dreaded too near a collision with the brazen ones around;
yet, though he could not give his confidence, or unburthen the trea-
sure of his soul, he could approve of, and even feel affection for sever-
al among them. Personal courage, honesty, and frankness, were to be
found among the men; simplicity and kindness among the women.
He saw instances of love and devotion in members of families, that
made him sigh to be one of them; and the strong sense and shrewd
observations of many of the elder settlers exercised his understanding.
They opened, by their reasonings and conversation, a new source of
amusement, and presented him with another opiate for his too busy
memory.
Fitzhenry had been a patron of the fine arts; and thus he had loved
books, poetry, and the elegant philosophy of the ancients. But he had
not been a student. His mind was now in a fit state to find solace in
reading, and excitement in the pursuit of knowledge. At first he sent
for a few books, such as he wished immediately to consult, from New
York, and made slight additions to the small library of classical litera-
ture he had originally brought with him on his emigration. But 'when
once the desire to instruct himself was fully aroused in his mind, he
became aware how slight and inadequate his present library was, even
for the use of one man. Now each quarter brought chests of a com-
modity he began to deem the most precious upon earth. Beings with
human forms and human feelings he had around him; but, as if made
of coarser, half-kneaded clay, they wanted the divine spark of mind
and the polish of taste.
1
 He had pined for these, and now they were
presented to him. Books became his friends: they, when rightly ques-
tioned, could answer to his thoughts. Plato could elevate, Epictetus
i An allusion to the myth of Prometheus.
LODOR E 59
calm, his soul. He could revel with Ovid in the imagery presented by
a graceful, though voluptuous imagination; and hang enchanted over
the majesty and elegance ofVirgil. Homer was as a dear and revered
friend — Horace a pleasant companion. English, Italian, German, and
French, all yielded their stores in turn; and the abstruse sciences were
often a relaxation to a mind, whose chief bane was its dwelling too
entirely upon one idea. He made a study, also, of the things peculiarly
befitting his present situation; and he rose in the estimation of those
around, as they became aware of his talents and his knowledge.
Study and occupation restored to his heart self-complacency,
which is an ingredient so necessary to the composition of human
happiness. He felt himself to be useful, and knew himself to be hon-
oured. He no longer asked himself, "Why do I live?" or looked on the
dark, rapid waves, and longed for the repose that was in their gift.The
blood flowed equably in his veins; a healthy temperance regulated his
hopes and wishes. He could again bless God for the boon of exis-
tence, and look forward to future years, if not with eager anticipation,
yet with a calm reliance upon the power of good, wholly remote from
despair.
6 0 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER III .
Miranda.—Alack! what trouble
Was I then to you!
Prospero.—O, a cherubim
Thou wast, that did preserve me!
THE TEMPEST. l
SUC H was the Englishman who had taken refuge in the furthest
wilds of an almost untenanted portion of the globe. Like a Corinthian
column, left single amidst the ruder forms of the forest oaks, standing
in alien beauty, a type of civilization and the arts, among the rougher,
though perhaps not less valuable, growth of Natures own. Refined to
fastidiousness, sensitive to morbidity, the stranger was respected with-
out being understood, and loved though the intimate of none.
Many circumstances have been mentioned as tending to reconcile
Fitzhenry to his lot; and yet one has been omitted, chiefest of all; — the
growth and development of his child was an inexhaustible source of
delight and occupation. She was scarcely three years old when her
parent first came to the Illinois. She was then a plaything and an
object of solicitude to him, and nothing more. Much as her father
loved her, he had not then learned to discover the germ of the soul
just nascent in her infant form; nor to watch the formation, gradual to
imperceptibility, of her childish ideas. He would watch over her as she
slept, and gaze on her as she sported in the garden, with ardent and
unquiet fondness; and, from time to time, instil some portion of
knowledge into her opening mind: but this was all done by snatches,
and at intervals. His affection for her was the passion of his soul; but
her society was not an occupation for his thoughts. He would have
knelt to kiss her footsteps as she bounded across the grass, and tears
glistened in his eyes as she embraced his knees on his return from any
excursion; but her prattle often wearied him, and her very presence
was sometimes the source of intense pain.
He did not know himself how much he loved her, till she became
old enough to share his excursions and be a companion. This
i 1.2.51-53.
L O D O R E 61
occurred at a far earlier age than would have been the case had she
been in England, living in a nursery with other children. There is a
peculiarity in the education of a daughter, brought up by a father
only, which tends to develop early a thousand of those portions of
mind, which are folded up, and often destroyed, under mere feminine
tuition. He made her fearless, by making her the associate of his rides;
yet his incessant care and watchfulness, the observant tenderness of his
manner, almost reverential on many points, springing from the differ-
ence of sex, tended to soften her mind, and make her spirit ductile
and dependent. He taught her to scorn pain, but to shrink with
excessive timidity from any thing that intrenched on the barrier of
womanly reserve which he raised about her. Nothing was dreaded,
indeed, by her, except his disapprobation; and a word or look from
him made her, with all her childish vivacity and thoughtlessness, turn
as with a silken string, and bend at once to his will.
There was an affectionateness of disposition kneaded up in the
very texture of her soul, which gave it its "very form and pressure."
1
 It
accompanied every word and action; it revealed itself in her voice, and
hung like light over the expression of her countenance.
Her earliest feeling was love of her father. She would sit to watch
him, guess at his thoughts, and creep close, or recede away, as she read
encouragement, or the contrary, in his eyes and gestures. Except him,
her only companion was her servant; and very soon she distinguished
between them, and felt proud and elate when she quitted her for her
father's side. Soon, she almost never quitted it. Her gentle and docile
disposition rendered her unobtrusive, while her inexhaustible spirits
were a source of delightful amusement. The goodness of her heart
endeared her still more; and when it was called forth by any demand
made on it by him, it was attended by such a display of excessive sen-
sibility, as at once caused him to tremble for her future happiness, and
love her ten thousand times more. She grew into the image on which
his eye doated, and for whose presence his heart perpetually yearned.
Was he reading, or otherwise occupied, he was restless, if yet she were
not in the room; and she would remain in silence for hours, occupied
by some little feminine work, and all the while watching him, catch-
i A paraphrase of Hamlet 3.2.28.
6 2 MARY SHELLEY
ing his first glance towards her, and obeying the expression of his
countenance, before he could form his wish into words. When he left
her for any of his longer excursions, her little heart would heave, and
almost burst with sorrow. On his return, she was always on the watch
to see, to fly into his arms, and to load him with infantine caresses.
There was something in her face, that at this early age gave token
of truth and affection, and asked for sympathy. Her large brown eyes,
such as are called hazel, full of tenderness and sweetness, possessed
within their depths an expression and a latent fire, which stirred the
heart. It is difficult to describe, or by words to call before another's
mind, the picture so palpable to our own. The moulding of her cheek,
full just below the eyes, and ending in a soft oval, gave a peculiar
expression, at once beseeching and tender, and yet radiant with vivac-
ity and gladness. Frankness and truth were reflected on her brow, like
flowers in the clearest pool; the thousand nameless lines and mould-
ings, which create expression, were replete with beaming innocence
and irresistible attraction. Her small chiselled nose, her mouth so deli-
cately curved, gave token of taste. In the whole was harmony, and the
upper part of the countenance seemed to reign over the lower and to
ennoble it, making her usual placid expression thoughtful and earnest;
so that not until she smiled and spoke, did the gaiety of her guileless
heart display itself, and the vivacity of her disposition give change and
relief to the picture. Her figure was light and airy, tall at an early age,
and slender. Her rides and rambles gave elasticity to her limbs, and her
step was like that of the antelope, springy and true. She had no fears,
no deceit, no untold thought within her. Her matchless sweetness of
temper prevented any cloud from ever dimming her pure loveliness:
her voice cheered the heart, and her laugh rang so true and joyous on
the ear, that it gave token in itself of the sympathizing and buoyant
spirit which was her great charm. Nothing with her centred in self;
she was always ready to give her soul away: to please her father was
the unsleeping law of all her actions, while his approbation imparted a
sense of such pure but entire happiness, that every other feeling faded
into insignificance in the comparison.
In the first year of exile and despair, Fitzhenry looked forward to
the long drawn succession of future years, with an impatience of woe
difficult to be borne. He was surprised to find, as he proceeded in the
LODOR E 63
quiet path of life which he had selected, that instead of an increase of
unhappiness, a thousand pleasures smiled around him. He had looked
on it as a bitter task to forget that he had a name and country, both
abandoned for ever; now, the thought of these seldom recurred to his
memory. His forest home became all in all to him.
1
 Wherever he
went, his child was by his side, to cheer and enliven him. When he
looked on her, and reflected that within her frame dwelt spotless
innocence and filial piety, that within that lovely "bower of flesh," not
one thought or feeling resided that was not akin to heaven in its puri-
ty and sweetness, he, as by infection, acquired a portion of the calm
enjoyment, which she in her taintless youth naturally possessed.
Even when any distant excursion forced him to absent himself, her
idea followed him to light him cheerily on his way He knew that he
should find her on his return busied in little preparations for his wel-
come. In summer time, the bower in the garden would be adorned; in
the inclement season of winter the logs would blaze on the hearth, his
chair be drawn towards the fire, the stool for Ethel at his feet, with
nothing to remind him of the past, save her dear presence, which
drew its greatest charm, not from that, but from the present. Fitzhenry
forgot the thousand delights of civilization, for which formerly his
heart had painfully yearned. He forgot ambition, and the enticements
of gay vanity; peace and security appeared the greatest blessings of life,
and he had them here.
Ethel herself was happy beyond the knowledge of her own happi-
ness. She regretted nothing in the old country. She grew up among
the grandest objects of nature, and they were the sweet influences to
excite her to love and to a sense of pleasure. She had come to the Illi-
nois attended by a black woman and her daughter, whom her father
had engaged to attend her at New York, and had been sedulously kept
away from communication with the settlers - an arrangement which
it would have been difficult to bring about elsewhere, but in this
secluded and almost deserted spot the usual characteristics of the
Americans were scarcely to be found. Most of the inhabitants were
emigrants from Scotland, a peaceable, hard-working population.
i Perhaps a paraphrase of Wordsworth's "Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tinter n
Abbey" (1798) 75-
6 4 MARY SHELLEY
Ethel lived alone in their lonely dwelling. Had she been of a more
advanced age when taken from England, her curiosity might have
been excited by the singularity of her position; but we rarely reason
about that which has remained unchanged since infancy; taking it as a
part of the immutable order of things, we yield without a question to
its controul. Ethel did not know that she was alone. Her attendants
she was attached to, and she idolized her father; his image filled all her
little heart. Playmate she had none, save a fawn and a kid, a dog grown
old in her service, and a succession of minor favourites of the animal
species.
It was Fitzhenry s wish to educate his daughter to all the perfection
of which the feminine character is susceptible. As the first step, he cut
her off from familiar communication with the unrefined, and, watch-
ing over her with the fondest care, kept her far aloof from the very
knowledge of what might, by its baseness or folly, contaminate the
celestial beauty of her nature. He resolved to make her all that woman
can be of generous, soft, and devoted; to purge away every alloy of
vanity and petty passion — to fill her with honour, and yet to mould
her to the sweetest gentleness: to cultivate her tastes and enlarge her
mind, yet so to controul her acquirements, as to render her ever pliant
to his will. She was to be lifted above every idea of artifice or guile, or
the caballing spirit of the worldling — she was to be single-hearted, yet
mild. A creature half poetry, half love — one whose pure lips had never
been tainted by an untruth — an enthusiastic being, who could give
her life away for the sake of another, and yet who honoured herself as
a consecrated thing reserved for one worship alone. She was taught
that no misfortune should penetrate her soul, except such as visited
her affections, or her sense of right; and that, set apart from the vulgar
uses of the world, she was connected with the mass only through
another — that other, now her father and only friend — hereafter,
whosoever her heart might select as her guide and head. Fitzhenry
drew his chief ideas from Milton's Eve, and adding to this the
romance of chivalry, he satisfied himself that his daughter would be
the embodied ideal of all that is adorable and estimable in her sex.
1
i See Paradise Lost, Book IV. Shelley is drawing upon her mother s discussion of Eve
in Vindication of the Rights of Woman. See Appendix D.
LODOR E 65
The instructor can scarcely give sensibility where it is essentially
wanting, nor talent to the unpercipient block. But he can cultivate
and direct the affections of the pupil, who puts forth, as a parasite, ten-
drils by which to cling, not knowing to what - to a supporter or a
destroyer. The careful rearer of the ductile human plant can instil his
own religion, and surround the soul by such a moral atmosphere, as
shall become to its latest day the air it breathes. Ethel, from her deli-
cate organization and quick parts, was sufficiently plastic in her
fathers hands. When not with him, she was the playmate of nature.
Her birds and pet animals - her untaught but most kind nurse, were
her associates: she had her flowers to watch over, her music, her draw-
ings, and her books. Nature, wild, interminable, sublime, was around
her. The ceaseless flow of the brawling stream, the wide-spread forest,
the changes of the sky, the career of the wide-winged clouds, when
the winds drove them athwart the atmosphere, or the repose of the
still, and stirless summer air, the stormy war of the elements, and the
sense of trust and security amidst their loudest disturbances, were all
circumstances to mould her even unconsciously to an admiration of
all that is grand and beautiful.
A lofty sense of independence is, in man, the best privilege of his
nature. It cannot be doubted, but that it were for the happiness of the
other sex that she were taught more to rely on and act for herself. But
in the cultivation of this feeling, the education of Fitzhenry was lam-
entably deficient. Ethel was taught to know herself dependent; the
support of another was to be as necessary to her as her daily food. She
leant on her father as a prop that could not fail, and she was wholly
satisfied with her condition. Her peculiar disposition of course tinged
Fitzhenry s theories with colours not always their own, and her entire
want of experience in intercourse with her fellow-creatures, gave a
more decided tone to her sense of dependence than she could have
acquired, if the circumstances of her daily life had brought her into
perpetual collision with others. She was habitually cheerful even to
gaiety; yet her character was not devoid of petulence, which might
become rashness or self-will if left to herself. She had a clear and
upright spirit, and suspicion or unkindness roused her to indignation,
or sunk her into the depths of sorrow. Place her in danger, and tell her
she must encounter it, and she called up all her courage and became a
6 6 MARY SHELLEY
heroine; but on less occasions, difficulties dismayed and annoyed her,
and she longed to escape from them into that dreamy existence, for
which her solitary mode of life had given her a taste: active in person,
in mind she was too often indolent, and apt to think that while she
was docile to the injunctions of her parent, all her duties were ful-
filled. She seldom thought, and never acted, for herself.
With all this she was so caressingly affectionate, so cheerful and
obedient, that she inspired her father with more than a father's fond-
ness. He lived but for her and in her. Away, she was present to his
imagination, the loadstone to draw him home, and to fill that home
with pleasure. He exalted her in his fancy into angelic perfection, and
nothing occurred to blot the fair idea. He in prospect gave up his
whole life to the warding off every evil from her dear and sacred
head. He knew, or rather believed, that while we possess one real,
devoted, and perfect friend, we cannot be truly miserable. He said to
himself— though he did not love to dwell on the thought — that of
course cares and afflictions might hereafter befal her; but he was to
stand the shield to blunt the arrows of sorrow — the shelter in which
she might find refuge from every evil ministration. The worst ills of
life, penury and desertion, she could never know; and surely he, who
would stand so fast by her through all — whose nightly dream and
waking thought was for her good, would even, when led to form
other connexions in life, so command her affections as to be able to
influence her happiness.
1
Not being able to judge by comparison, Ethel was unaware of the
peculiarity of her good fortune in possessing such a father. But she
loved him entirely; looked up to him, and saw in him the reward of
every exertion, the object of each day's employment". In early youth
we have no true notion of what the realities of life are formed, and
when we look forward it is without any correct estimate of the
chances of existence. Ethel's visionary ideas were all full of peace,
seclusion, and her father. America , or rather the little village of the
Illinois which she inhabited, was all the world to her; and she had no
idea that nearly every thing that connected her to society existed
beyond the far Atlantic, in that tiny isle which made so small a show
i This seems a paraphrase ofWordsworth's blessing to his sister Dorothy at the end of
"Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey."
LODOR E 67
upon her maps. Fitzhenry never mentioned these things to his daugh-
ter. She arrived at the age of fifteen
1
 without forming a hope that
should lead her beyond the pale which had hitherto enclosed her, or
having imagined that any train of circumstances might suddenly
transplant her from the lonely wilderness to the thronged resorts of
mankind.
Ethel is the age of Miranda in The Tempest.
6 8 MARY SHELLEY
I
CHAPTER IV.
Les deserts sont faits pour les amants, mais 1'amour
ne se fait pas aux deserts.
TWELV E years had led Ethel from infancy to childhood; and from
child's estate to the blooming season of girlhood. It had brought her
father from the prime of a man's life, to the period when it began to
decline. Our feelings probably are not less strong at fifty than they were
ten or fifteen years before; but they have changed their objects, and
dwell on far different prospects. At five-and-thirty a man thinks of what
his own existence is; when the maturity of age has grown into its
autumn, he is wrapt up in that of others. The loss of wife or child then
becomes more deplorable, as being impossible to repair; for no fresh
connexion can give us back the companion of our earlier years, nor a
"new sprung race" compensate for that, whose career we hoped to see
run. Fitzhenry had been a man of violent passions; they had visited his
life with hurricane and desolation; — were these dead within him? The
complacency that now distinguished his physiognomy seemed to vouch
for internal peace. But there was an abstracted melancholy in his dark
eyes - a look that went beyond the objects immediately before him,
that seemed to say that he often anxiously questioned fate, and meditat-
ed with roused fears on the secrets of futurity.
Educating his child, and various other employments, had occupied
and diverted him. He had been content; he asked for no change, but
he dreaded it. Often when packets arrived from England he hesitated
to open them. He could not account for his new-born anxieties. Was
change approaching? "How long will you be at peace?" Such warning
voice startled him in the solitude of the forests: he looked round, but
no human being was near, yet the voice had spoken audibly to his
sense; and when a transient air swept the dead leaves near, he shrunk
as if a spirit passed, invisible to sight, and yet felt by the subtle atmos-
phere, as it gave articulation and motion to it.
2
1 Deserts are made for lovers, but one doesn't make love in a desert.
2 Richard Holmes relates a moment in 1822 when Percy Shelley had a vision in
which he met his double who asked him, "How long do you mean to be content?"
(Shelley 727).
LODOR E 69
L E BARBIER DE PARIS .
1
"How long shall I be at peace ?" A thrill ran through his veins.
"Am I then now at peace? Do love, and hate, and despair, no longer
wage their accustomed war in my heart? and is it true that gently
flowing as my days have lately been, that during their course I have
not felt those mortal throes that once made life so intolerable a bur-
then? It is so. I am at peace; strange state for suffering mortality! And
this is not to last? My daughter! there only am I vulnerable; yet have I
surrounded her with a sevenfold shield. My own sweet Ethel! how
can I avert from your dear head the dark approaching storm?
"But this is folly. These waking dreams are the curse of inaction
and solitude. Yesterday I refused to accompany the exploring party. I
will go — I am not old; fatigue, as yet, does not seem a burthen; but I
shall sink into premature age, if I allow this indolence to overpower
me. I will set out on this expedition, and thus I shall no longer be at
peace." Fitzhenry smiled as if thus he were cheating destiny.
The proposed journey was one to be made by a party of his fel-
low-settlers, to trace the route between their town and a large one,
two hundred miles off, to discover the best mode of communication.
There was nothing very arduous in the undertaking. It was Septem-
ber, and hunting would diversify the tediousness of their way.
Fitzhenry left his daughter under the charge of her attendants, to
amuse herself with her books, her music, her gardening, her needle,
and, more than all, her new and very favourite study of drawing and
sketching. Hitherto the pencil had scarcely been one of her occupa-
tions; but an accident gave scope to her acquiring in it that improve-
ment for which she found that she had prodigious inclination, and
she was assured, no inconsiderable talent.
The occasion that had given rise to this new employment was this.
Three or four months before, a traveller arrived for the purpose of
settling, who claimed a rather higher intellectual rank than those
around him. He was the son of an honest tradesman of the city of
London. He displayed early signs of talent, and parental fondness gave
him opportunities of cultivating it. The means of his family were
small, but some of the boy's drawings having attracted the attention of
an artist, he entered upon the profession of a painter, with sanguine
hopes of becoming hereafter an ornament to it.
Two obstacles were in the way of his success. He wanted that
7 0 MARY SHELLE Y
intense love of his art — that enthusiastic perseverance in labour,
which distinguishes the man of genius from the man of talent merely.
He regarded it as a means, not an end. Probably therefore he did not
feel that capacity in himself for attaining first-rate excellence, which
had been attributed to him. He had a taste also for social pleasures and
vulgar indulgencies, incompatible with industry and with that refine-
ment of mind which is so necessary an adjunct to the cultivation of
the imaginative arts. Whitelock had none of all this; but he was quick,
clever, and was looked on among his associates as a spirited, agreeable
fellow. The death of his parents left him in possession of their little
wealth: depending for the future on the resources which his talent
promised him, he dissipated the two or three hundred pounds which
formed his inheritance: debt, difficulties, with consequent abstraction
from his profession, completed his ruin. He arrived at the Illinois in
search of an uncle, on whose kindness he intended to depend, with
six dollars in his purse. His uncle had long before disappeared from
that part of the country. Whitelock found himself destitute. Neither
his person, which was diminutive, nor his constitution, which was
delicate, fitted him for manual labour; nor was he acquainted with any
mechanic art. What could he do in America? He began to feel very
deeply the inroads of despair, when hearing of the superior wealth of
Mr. Fitzhenry, and that he was an Englishman, he paid him a visit,
feeling secure that he could interest him in his favour.
The emigrant's calculations were just. His distinguished country-
man exerted himself to enable the young man to obtain a subsistence.
He established him in a school, and gave him his best counsels how to
proceed. Whitelock thanked him; commenced the most odious task
of initiating the young Americans in the rudiments of knowledge, and
sought meanwhile to amuse himself to the best of his power. Fitzhen-
ry's house he first made his resort. He was not to be baffled by the
reserved courtesy of his host. The comfort and English appearance of
the exile's dwelling were charming to him; and while he could hear
himself talk, he fancied that every one about him must be satisfied.
Fitzhenry was excessively annoyed. There was an innate vulgarity in
his visitant, and an unlicensed familiarity that jarred painfully with the
refined habits of his sensitive nature. Still, in America he had been
forced to tolerate even worse than this, and he bore Whitelock's
LODOR E 71
intrusions as well as he could, seeking only to put such obstacles in
the way of his too frequent visits, as would best serve to curtail them.
Whitelock s chief merit was his talent; he had a real eye for the out-
ward forms of nature, for the tints in which she loves to robe herself,
and the beauty in which she is for ever invested. He occupied himself
by sketching the surrounding scenery, and gave life and interest to
many a savage glade and solitary nook, which, till he came, had not
been discovered to be picturesque. Ethel regarded his drawings with
wonder and delight, and easily obtained permission from her father to
take lessons in the captivating art. Fitzhenry thought that of all occu-
pations, that of the pencil, if pursued earnestly and with real taste,
most conduced to the student's happiness. Its scope is not personal
display, as is the case most usually with music, and yet it has a visible
result which satisfies the mind that something has been done. It does
not fatigue the attention like the study of languages, yet it suffices to
call forth the powers, and to fill the mind with pleasurable sensations.
It is a most feminine occupation, well replacing, on a more liberal and
rational scale, the tapestry of our grandmothers. Ethel had already
shown a great inclination for design, and her father was glad of so
favourable an opportunity for cultivating it. A few difficulties present-
ed themselves. Whitelock had brought his own materials with him,
but he possessed no superfluity — and they were not to be procured at
the settlement. The artist offered to transfer them all for Ethel's conve-
nience to her own abode, so that he might have free leave to occupy
himself there also. Fitzhenry saw all the annoyances consequent on
this plan, and it was finally arranged that his daughter should, three or
four times a week, visit the school-house, and in a little room, built
apart for her especial use, pursue her study.
The habit of seeing and instructing his lovely pupil awoke new
ideas in Whitelock's fruitful brain. Who was Mr. Fitzhenry? What did
he in the Illinois? Whitelock sounded him carefully, but gathered no
information, except that this gentleman showed no intention of ever
quitting the settlement. But this was much. He was evidently in easy
circumstances — Ethel was his only child. She was here a garden-rose
amidst briars, and Whitelock flattered himself that his position was not
materially different/Could he succeed in the scheme that all these
considerations suggested to him, his fortune was made, or, at least, he
7 2 MARY SHELLE Y
should bid adieu for ever to blockhead boys and the dull labours of
instruction. As these views opened upon him, he took more pains to
ingratiate himself with Fitzhenry. He became humble; he respectfully
sought his advice - and while he contrived a thousand modes of
throwing himself in his way, he appeared less intrusive than before -
and yet he felt that he did not get on. Fitzhenry was kind to him, as a
countryman in need of assistance; he admired his talent as an artist,
but he shrunk from the smallest approach to intimacy. Whitelock
hoped that he was only shy, but he feared that he was proud; he tried
to break through the barrier of reserve opposed to him, and he
became a considerable annoyance to the recluse. He waylaid him dur-
ing his walks with his daughter - forced his company upon them, and
forging a thousand obliging excuses for entering their dwelling, he
destroyed the charm of their quiet evenings, and yet tempered his
manners with such shows of humility and gratitude as Fitzhenry
could not resist.
Whitelock next tried his battery on the young lady herself. Her
passion for her new acquirement afforded scope for his enterprizing
disposition. She was really glad to see him whenever he came; ques-
tioned him about the pictures which existed in the old world, and,
with a mixture of wonder and curiosity, began to think that there was
magic in an art, that produced the effects which he described. With all
the enthusiasm of youth, she tried to improve herself, and the alacrity
with which she welcomed her master, or hurried to his school,
looked almost like — Whitelock could not exactly tell what, but here
was ground to work upon.
When Fitzhenry went on the expedition already mentioned, Ethel
gave up all her time, with renewed ardour, to her favourite pursuit.
Early in the morning she was seen tripping down to the school-
house, accompanied by her faithful negro woman. The attendant used
her distaff and spindle, Ethel her brush, and the hours flew unheeded.
Whitelock would have been glad that her eyes had not always been so
intently fixed on the paper before her. He proposed sketching from
nature. They made studies from trees, and contemplated the changing
hues of earth and sky together. While talking of tints, and tones of
colour spread over the celestial hemisphere and the earth beneath,
were it not an easy transition to speak of those which glistened in a
LODOR E 73
lady's eye, or warmed her cheek? In the solitude of his chamber, thus
our adventurer reasoned; and wondered each night why he hesitated
to begin. Whitelock was short and ill-made. His face was not of an
agreeable cast: it was impossible to see him without being impressed
with the idea that he was a man of talent; but he was otherwise decid-
edly ugly. This disadvantage was counterbalanced by an overweening
vanity, which is often to be remarked in those whose personal defects
place them a step below their fellows. He knew the value of an
appearance of devotion, and the power which an acknowledgment of
entire thraldom exercises over the feminine imagination. He had suc-
ceeded ill with the father; but, after all, the surest way was to captivate
the daughter: the affection of her parent would induce him to ratify-
any step necessary to her happiness; and the chance afforded by this
parent's absence for putting his plan into execution, might never again
occur - why then delay?
It was, perhaps, strange that Fitzhenry, alive to the smallest evil that
might approach his darling child, and devoted to her sole guardian-
ship, should have been blind to the sort of danger which she ran dur-
ing his absence. But the paternal protection is never entirely efficient.
A father avenges an insult; but he has seldom watchfulness enough to
prevent it. In the present instance, the extreme youth of Ethel might
well serve as an excuse. She was scarcely fifteen; and, light-hearted and
blithe, none but childish ideas had found place in her unruffled mind.
Her father yet regarded her as he had done when she was wont to
climb his knee, or to gambol before him: he still looked forward to
her womanhood as to a distant event, which would necessitate an
entire change in his mode of living, but which need not for several
years enter into his calculations.Thus, when he departed, he felt glad
to get rid, for a time, of Whitelock s disagreeable society; but it never
crossed his imagination that his angelic girl could be annoyed or
injured, meanwhile, by the presumptuous advances of a man whom
he despised.
Ethel knew nothing of the language of love. She had read of it in
her favourite poets; but she was yet too young and guileless to apply
any of its feelings to herself. Love had always appeared to her blended
with the highest imaginative beauty and heroism, and thus was in her
eyes, at once awful and lovely Nothing had vulgarized it to her. The
7 4 MARY SHELLE Y
greatest men were its slaves, and according as their choice fell on the
worthy or unworthy, they were elevated or disgraced by passion. It
was the part of a woman so to refine and educate her mind, as to be
the cause of good alone to him whose fate depended on her smile.
There was something of the Orondates' vein
1
 in her ideas; but they
were too vague and general to influence her actions. Brought up in
American solitude, with all the refinement attendant on European
society, she was aristocratic, both as regarded rank and sex; but all
these were as yet undeveloped feelings — seeds planted by the careful
paternal hand, not yet called into life or growth.
Whitelock began his operations, and was obliged to be explicit to
be at all understood. He spoke of misery and despair; he urged no
plea, sought no favour, except to be allowed to speak of his wretched-
ness. Ethel listened — Eve listened to the serpent, and since then, her
daughters have been accused of an aptitude to give ear to forbidden
discourse. He spoke well, too, for he was a man of unquestioned tal-
ent. It is a strange feeling for a girl, when first she finds the power put
into her hand of influencing the destiny of another to happiness or
misery. She is like a magician holding for the first time a fairy wand,
not having yet had experience of its potency. Ethel had read of the
power of love; but a doubt had often suggested itself, of how far she
herself should hereafter exercise the influence which is the attribute
of her sex. Whitelock dispelled that doubt. He impressed on her mind
the idea that he lived or died through her fiat.
For one instant, vanity awoke in her young heart; and she tripped
back to her home with a smile of triumph on her lips.The feeling was
short-lived. She entered her father's library; and his image appeared to
rise before her, to regulate and purify her thoughts. If he had been
there, what could she have said to him — she who never concealed a
thought? - or how would he have received the information she had
to give? What had happened, had not been the work of a day; White-
lock had for a week or two proceeded in an occult and mysterious
manner: but this day he had withdrawn the veil; and she understood
much that had appeared strange in him before. The dark, expressive
eyes of her father she fancied to be before her, penetrating the depths
i Orondates was the son of a Scythian king who loved Statira, the widow of
Alexander the Great. His love for her led him to undergo a number of trials.
LODOR E 75
of her soul, discovering her frivolity, and censuring her lowly vanity;
and, even though alone, she felt abashed. Our faults are apt to assume
giant and exaggerated forms to our eyes in youth, and Ethel felt
degraded and humiliated; and remorse sprung up in her gentle heart,
substituting itself for the former pleasurable emotion.
The young are always in extremes. Ethel put away her drawings
and paintings. She secluded herself in her home; and arranged so well,
that notwithstanding the freedom of American manners, Whitelock
contrived to catch but a distant glimpse of her during the one other
week that intervened before her father's return. Troubled at this
behaviour, he felt his bravery ooze out. To have offended Fitzhenry,
was an unwise proceeding, at best; but when he remembered the
haughty and reserved demeanour of the man, he recoiled, trembling,
from the prospect of encountering him.
Ethel was very concise in the expressions she used, to make her
father, on his return, understand what had happened during his
absence. Fitzhenry heard her with indignation and bitter self-
reproach. The natural impetuosity of his disposition returned on him,
like a stream which had been checked in its progress, but which had
gathered strength from the delay On a sudden, the future, with all its
difficulties and trials, presented itself to his eyes; and he was deter-
mined to go out to meet them, rather than to await their advent in his
seclusion. His resolution formed and he put it into immediate execu-
tion: he would instantly quit the Illinois. The world was before him;
1
and while he paused on the western shores of the Atlantic, he could
decide upon his future path. But he would not remain where he was
another season. The present, the calm, placid present, had fled like
morning mist before the new risen breeze: all appeared dark and tur-
bid to his heated imagination. Change alone could appease the sense
of danger that had risen within him. Change of place, of circum-
stances, - of all that for the last twelve years had formed his life. "How
long am I to remain at peace?" - the prophetic voice heard in the
silence of the forests, recurred to his memory, and thrilled through his
frame. "Peace! was I ever at peace? Was this unquiet heart ever still, as,
one by one, the troubled thoughts which are its essence, have risen
i Paradise Lost 12.646.
7 6 MARY SHELLE Y
and broken against the barriers that embank them? Peace! My own
Ethel! - all I have done - all I would do - is to gift thee with that
blessing which has for ever fled the thirsting lips of thy unhappy par-
ent." And thus, governed by a fevered fancy and untamed passions,
Fitzhenry forgot the tranquil lot which he had learnt to value and
enjoy; and quitting the haven he had sought, as if it had never been a
place of shelter to him, unthankful for the many happy hours which
had blessed him there, he hastened to reach the stormier seas of life,
whose breakers and whose winds were ready to visit him with ship-
wreck and destruction.
LODOR E 77
CHAPTER V.
"The boy is father of the man."
WORDSWORTH. 1
FITZHENR Y having formed his resolution, acted upon it immedi-
ately: and yet, while hastening every preparation for his departure, he
felt return upon him that inquietude and intolerable sense of suffer-
ing, which of late years had subsided in his soul. Now and then it
struck him as madness to quit his house, his garden, the trees of his
planting, the quiet abode which he had reared in the wilderness. He
gave his orders, but he was unable to command himself to attend to
any of the minutiae of circumstance connected with his removal. As
when he first arrived, again he sought relief in exercise and the open
air. He felt each ministration of nature to be his friend, and man, in
every guise, to be his enemy. He was about to plunge among them
again. What would be the result?
Yet this was no abode for the opening bloom of Ethel. For her
good his beloved and safe seclusion must be sacrificed, and that he
was acting for her benefit, and not his own, served to calm his mind.
She contemplated their migration with something akin to joy. We
could almost believe that we are destined by Providence to an
unsettled position on the globe, so invariably is a love of change
implanted in the young. It seems as if the eternal Lawgiver intended
that, at a certain age, man should leave father, mother, and the
dwelling of his infancy, to seek his fortunes over the wide world. A
few natural tears Ethel shed - they were not many.
2
 She, usually so
resigned and quiet in her feelings, was now in a state of excitement:
dreamy, shadowy visions floated before her of what would result
from her journey, and curiosity and hope gave life and a bright
colouring to the prospect.
The day came at last. On the previous Sunday she had knelt for the
last time in church on the little hassock which had been her's from
infancy, and walked along the accustomed pathway towards her home
1 A paraphrase of "The Child is father of the Man," (1802) from the epigraph
Wordsworth added to "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" (1807).
2 Paradise Lost 12.645.
7 8 MARY SHELLEY
for the last time. During the afternoon, she visited the village to bid
adieu to her few acquaintances. The sensitive refinement of Fitzhenry
had caused him to guard his daughter jealously from familiar inter-
course with their fellow settlers, even as a child. But she had been
accustomed to enter the poorer cottages, to assist the distressed, and
now and then to partake of tea drinking with the minister. This per-
sonage, however, was not stationary. At one time they had had a ven-
erable old man whom Ethel had begun to love; but latterly, the pastor
had not been a person to engage her liking, and this had loosened her
only tie with her fellow colonists.
The day came. The father and daughter, with three attendants,
entered their carriage, and wound along the scarcely formed road.
One by one they passed, and lost sight of objects, that for many years
had been woven in with the texture of their lives. Fitzhenry was sad.
Ethel wept, unconstrainedly, plentiful showery tears, which cost so
much less to the heart, than the few sorrowful drops which, in after
life, we expend upon our woes. Still as they proceeded the objects that
met their eyes became less familiar and less endeared. They began to
converse, and when they arrived at their lodging for the night, Ethel
was cheerful, and her father, mastering the unquiet feelings which dis-
turbed him, exerted himself to converse with her on such topics as
would serve to introduce her most pleasantly to the new scenes
which she was about to visit.
There was one object, however, which lay nearest to the emigrant's
heart, to which he had not yet acquired courage to allude; his own
position in the world, his former fortunes, and the circumstances that
had driven him from Europe, to seek peace and obscurity in the
wilderness. It was a strange tale; replete with such incidents as could
scarcely be made intelligible to the nursling of solitude — one difficult
for a father to disclose to his daughter; involving besides a considera-
tion of his future conduct, to which he did not desire to make her a
party. Thus they talked of the cities they might see, and the strange
sights she would behold, and but once did her father refer to their
own position. After a long silence, on his part sombre and abstracted -
as Prospero asked the ever sweet Miranda, so did Fitzhenry inquire of
his daughter, if she had memory of aught preceding their residence in
LODOR E 79
the Illinois? And Ethel, as readily as Miranda, replied in the affirma-
tive.
1
"And what, my love, do you remember? Gold-laced liveries and
spacious apartments?"
Ethel shook her head. "It may be the memory of a dream that
haunts me," she replied, "and not a reality; but I have frequently the
image before me, of having been kissed and caressed by a beautiful
lady, very richly dressed."
Fitzhenry actually started at this reply. "I have often conjectured,"
continued Ethel, "that that lovely vision was my dear mother; and that
when — when you lost her, you despised all the rest of the world, and
exiled yourself to America."
Ethel looked inquiringly at her father as she made this leading
remark; but he in a sharp and tremulous accent repeated the words,
"Lost her!"
"Yes," said Ethel,"! mean, is she not lost — did she not die?"
Fitzhenry sighed heavily, and turning his head towards the window
on his side, became absorbed in thought, and Ethel feared to disturb
him by continuing the conversation.
It has not been difficult all along for the reader to imagine, that the
lamented brother of the honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry and the
exile of the Illinois are one; and while father and daughter are pro-
ceeding on their way towards New York, it will be necessary, for the
interpretation of the ensuing pages, to dilate somewhat on the previ-
ous history of the father of our lovely heroine.
It may be remembered, that Henry Fitzhenry was the only son of
Admiral Lord Lodore. He was, from infancy, the pride of his father
and the idol of his sister; and the lives of both were devoted to exer-
tions for his happiness and well-being. The boy soon became aware of
their extravagant fondness, and could not do less in consequence than
fancy himself a person of considerable importance. The distinction
that Lord Lodore s title and residence bestowed upon Longfield made
his son and heir a demigod among the villagers. As he rode through it
on his pony, every one smiled on him and bowed to him; and the
habit of regarding himself superior to all the world, became too much
i TheTernpest 1.2.38-52.
8 0 MARY SHELLE Y
an habit to afford triumph, though any circumstances that had less-
ened his consequence in his own eyes would have been matter of
astonishment and indignation. His personal beauty was the delight of
the women, his agility and hardihood the topic of the men of the vil-
lage. For although essentially spoiled, he was not pampered in luxury.
His father, with all his fondness, would have despised him heartily had
he not been inured to hardship and rendered careless of it. Rousseau
might have passed his approbation upon his physical education, while
his moral nurture was the most perniciously indulgent. Thus, at the
same time, his passions were fostered, and he possessed none of those
habits of effeminacy, which sometimes stand in the gap, preventing
our young self-indulged aristocracy from rebelling against the
restraints of society. Still generous and brave as was his father, benevo-
lent and pious as was his sister, Henry Fitzhenry was naturally led to
love their virtues, and to seek their approbation by imitating them. He
would not wantonly have inflicted a pang upon a human being; yet
he exerted any power he might possess to quell the smallest resistance
to his desires; and unless when they were manifested in the most
intelligible manner, he scarcely knew that his fellow-creatures had any
feelings at all, except pride and gladness in serving him, and gratitude
when he showed them kindness. Any poor family visited by rough
adversity, any unfortunate child enduring unjust oppression, he assist-
ed earnestly and with all his heart. He was courageous as a lion, and,
upon occasion, soft-hearted and pitiful; but once roused to anger by
opposition, his eyes darted fire, his little form swelled, his boyish voice
grew big, nor could he be pacified except by the most entire submis-
sion on the part of his antagonist. Unfortunately for him, submission
usually followed any stand made against his authority, for it was always
a contest with an inferior, and he was never brought into wholesome
struggle with an equal.
At the age of thirteen he went to Eton, and here every thing wore
an altered and unpleasing aspect. Here were no servile menials nor
humble friends. He stood one among many - equals, superiors, inferi-
ors, all full of a sense of their own rights, their own powers; he desired
to lead, and he had no followers; he wished to stand aloof, and his dig-
nity, even his privacy, was perpetually invaded. His schoolfellows soon
discovered his weakness - it became a bye-word among them, and
LODOR E 81
was the object of such practical jokes, as seemed to the self-idolizing
boy, at once frightful and disgusting. He had no resource. Did he lay
his length under some favourite tree to dream of home and indepen-
dence, his tormentors were at hand with some new invention to rouse
and molest him. He fixed his large dark eyes on them, and he curled
his lips in scorn, trying to awe them by haughtiness and frowns, and
shouts of laughter replied to the concentrated passion of his soul. He
poured forth vehement invective, and hootings were the answer. He
had one other resource, and that in the end proved successful: - a
pitched battle or two elevated him in the eyes of his fellows, and as
they began to respect him, so he grew in better humour with them
and with himself. His good-nature procured him friends, and the sun
once more shone unclouded upon him.
Yet this was not all. He put himself foremost among a troop of
wild and uncivilized schoolboys; but he was not of them. His tastes,
fostered in solitude, were at once more manly and dangerous than
theirs. He could not distinguish the nice line drawn by the customs of
the place between a pardonable resistance, or rather evasion of
authority, and rebellion against it; and above all, he could not submit
to practise equivocation and deceit. His first contests were with his
school-fellows, his next were with his masters. He would not stoop to
shows of humility, nor tame a nature accustomed to take pride in dar-
ing and independence. He resented injustice wherever he encoun-
tered or fancied it; he equally spurned it when practised on himself,
or defended others when they were its object - freedom was the
watchword of his heart. Freedom from all trammels, except those of
which he was wholly unconscious, imposed on him by his passions
and pride. His good-nature led him to side with the weak; and he was
indignant that his mere fiat did not suffice to raise them to his own
level, or that his representations did not serve to open the eyes of all
around him to the true merits of any disputed question.
He had a friend at school. A youth whose slender frame, fair,
effeminate countenance, and gentle habits, rendered him ridiculous to
his fellows, while an unhappy incapacity to learn his allotted tasks
made him in perpetual disgrace with his masters. The boy was unlike
the rest; he had wild fancies and strange inexplicable ideas. He said he
was a mystery to himself- he was at once so wise and foolish.The
8 2 MARY SHELLEY
mere aspect of a grammar inspired him with horror, and a kind of
delirious stupidity seized him in the classes; and yet he could dis-
course with eloquence, and pored with unceasing delight over books
of the abstrusest philosophy. He seemed incapable of feeling the
motives and impulses of other boys: when they jeered him, he would
answer gravely with some story of a ghastly spectre, and tell wild leg-
ends of weird beings, who roamed through the dark fields by night, or
sat wailing by the banks of streams: was he struck, he smiled and
turned away; he would not fag; he never refused to learn, but could
not; he was the scoff, and butt, and victim, of the whole school.
Fitzhenry stood forward in his behalf, and the face of things was
changed. He insisted that his friend should have the same respect paid
him as himself, and the boys left off tormenting him. When they
ceased to injure, they began to like him, and he had soon a set of
friends whom he solaced with his wild stories and mysterious
notions. But his powerful advocate was unable to advance his cause
with his masters, and the cruelty exercised on him revolted Fitzhen-
ry's generous soul. One day, he stood forth to expostulate, and to
show wherefore Derham should not be punished for a defect, that
was not his fault. He was ordered to be silent, and he retorted the
command with fierceness. As he saw the slender, bending form of his
friend seized to be led to punishment, he sprang forward to rescue
him. This open rebellion astounded every one; a kind of consterna-
tion, which feared to show the gladness it felt, possessed the boyish
subjects of the tyro kingdom. Force conquered; Fitzhenry was led
away; and the masters deliberated what sentence to pass on him. He
saved them from coming to a conclusion by flight.
He hid himself during the day in Windsor Forest, and at night he
entered Eton, and scaling a wall, tapped at the bedroom window of
his friend. "Come," said he, "come with me. Leave these tyrants to eat
their own hearts with rage — my home shall be your home."
Derham embraced him, but would not consent. "My mother," he
said, "I have promised my mother to bear all;" and tears gushed from
his large light blue eyes; "but for her, the green grass of this spring
were growing on my grave. I dare not pain her."
"Be it so," said Fitzhenry; "nevertheless, before the end of a month,
you shall be free. I am leaving this wretched place, where men rule
LODOR E 83
because they are strong, for my father's house. I never yet asked for a
thing that I ought to have, that it was not granted me. I am a boy here,
there I am a man - and can do as men do. Representations shall be
made to your parents; you shall be taken from school; we shall be free
and happy together this summer at Longfield. Good night; I have far
to walk, for the stage coachmen would be shy of me near Eton; but I
shall get to London on foot, and sleep to-morrow in my father's
house. Keep up your heart, Derham, be a man — this shall not last
long; we shall triumph yet."
8 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER VI .
What is youth? a dancing billow,
Winds behind, and rocks before!
WORDSWORTH. 1
THI S exploit terminated Fitzhenry's career at Eton. A private tutor
was engaged, who resided with the family, for the purpose of prepar-
ing him for college, and at the age of seventeen he was entered at
Oxford. He still continued to cultivate the friendship of Derham.This
youth was the younger son of a rich and aristocratic family, whose
hopes and cares centred in their heir, and who cared little for the
comfort of the younger. Derham had been destined for the sea, and
scarcely did his delicate health, and timid, nervous disposition exempt
him from the common fate of a boy, whose parents did not know
what to do with him. The next idea was to place him in the church;
and at last, at his earnest entreaty, he was permitted to go abroad, to
study at one of the German universities, so to prepare himself, by a
familiarity with modern languages, for diplomacy.
It was singular how well Fitzhenry and his sensitive friend agreed;
— the one looked up with unfeigned admiration — the other felt
attracted by a mingled compassion and respect, that flattered his vani-
ty, and yet served as excitement and amusement. From Derham,
Fitzhenry imbibed in theory much of that contempt of the world's
opinion, and carelessness of consequences, which was inherent in the
one, but was an extraneous graft on the proud and imperious spirit of
the other. Derham looked with calm yet shy superiority on his fel-
low-creatures. Yet superiority is not the word, since he did not feel
himself superior to, but different from — incapable of sympathizing or
extracting sympathy, he turned away with a smile, and pursued his
lonely path, thronged with visions and fancies - while his friend,
when he met check or rebuff, would fire up, his eyes sparkling, his
bosom heaving with intolerable indignation.
"Inscriptions Supposed to Be Found In and Near A Hermit's Cell" (1820) 1.29-30.
Shelley slightly misquotes the poem in her journal entry for 14 November 1833
(Journals 532).
LODOR E 85
I
After two years spent at Oxford, instead of remaining to take his
degree, Fitzhenry made an earnest request to be permitted to visit his
friend, who was then at Jena.
1
 It was but anticipating the period for
his travels, and upon his promise to pursue his studies abroad, he won
a somewhat reluctant consent from his father. Once on the continent,
the mania of travelling seized him. He visited Italy, Poland, and Rus-
sia: he bent his wayward steps from north to south, as the whim seized
him. He became of age, and his father earnestly desired his return: but
again and again he solicited permission to remain, from autumn till
spring, and from spring till autumn, until the very flower of his youth
seemed destined to be wasted in aimless rambles, and an intercourse
with foreigners, that must tend to unnationalize him, and to render
him unfit for a career in his own country. Growing accustomed to
regulate his own actions, he changed the tone of request into that of
announcing his intentions. At length, he was summoned home to
attend the death-bed of his father. He paid the last duties to his
remains, provided for the comfortable establishment of his sister in the
family mansion at Longfield, and then informed her of his determina-
tion of returning immediately to Vienna.
During this visit he had appeared to live rather in a dream than in
the actual world. He had mourned for his father; he paid the most
affectionate attentions to his sister; but this formed, as it were, the sur-
face of things; a mightier impulse ruled his inner mind. His life
seemed to depend upon certain letters which he received; and when
the day had been occupied by business, he passed the night in writing
answers. He was often agitated in the highest degree, almost always
abstracted in reverie. The outward man — the case of Lodore was in
England - his passionate and undisciplined soul was far away, evident-
ly in the keeping of another.
Elizabeth, sorrowing for the loss of her father, was doubly afflicted
when she heard that it was her brother's intention to quit England
immediately. She had fondly hoped that he would, adorned by his
newly-inherited title, and endowed with the gifts of fortune, step
upon the stage of the world, and shine forth the hero of his age and
i Jena is a city in southwest Germany famed for its university. At the end of the eigh-
teenth century the Schlegel brothers, LudwigTieck, and Novalis lived in Jena, mak-
ing it a centre for German Romanticism.
8 6 MARY SHELLEY
country. Her affections, her future prospects, her ambition, were all
centred in him; and it was a bitter pang to feel that the glory of these
was to be eclipsed by the obscurity and distant residence which he
preferred. Accustomed to obedience, and to regard the resolutions of
the men about her, as laws with which she had no right to interfere,
she did not remonstrate, she only wept. Moved by her tears, Lord
Lodore made the immense sacrifice of one month to gratify her,
which he spent in reading and writing letters at Longfield, in pacing
the rooms or avenues absorbed in reverie, or in riding over the most
solitary districts, with no object apparently in view, except that of
avoiding his fellow-creatures. Elizabeth had the happiness of seeing
the top of his head as he leant over his desk in the library, from a little
hillock in the garden, which she sought for the purpose of beholding
that blessed vision. She enjoyed also the pleasure of hearing him pace
his room during the greater part of the night. Sometimes he con-
versed with her, and then how like a god he seemed! His extensive
acquaintance with men and things, the novel but choice language in
which he clothed his ideas; his vivid descriptions, his melodious voice,
and the exquisite grace of his manner, made him rise like the planet
of day upon her. Too soon her sun set. If ever she hinted at the pro-
longation of his stay, he grew moody, and she discovered with tearful
anguish that his favourite ride was towards the sea, often to the very
shore: "I seem half free when I only look upon the waves," he said;
"they remind me that the period of liberty is at hand, when I shall
leave this dull land for - "
A sob from his sister checked his speech, and he repented his
ingratitude. Yet when the promised month had elapsed, he did not
defer his journey a single day: already had he engaged his passage at
Harwich. A fair wind favoured his immediate departure. Elizabeth
accompanied him on board, almost she wished to be asked to sail
with him. No word but that of a kind adieu was uttered by him. She
returned to shore, and watched his lessening sail. Wherefore did he
leave his native country? Wherefore return to reside in lands, whose
language, manners, and religion, were all at variance with his own?
These questions occupied the gentle spinsters thoughts; she had little
except such meditations to vary the hours, as years stole on unob-
LODOR E 87
served, and she continued to spend her blameless tranquil days in her
native village.
The new Lord Lodore was one of those men, not unfrequently
met with in the world, whose early youth is replete with mighty
promise; who, as they advance in life, continue to excite the expecta-
tion, the curiosity, and even the enthusiasm of all around them; but as
the sun on a stormy day now and then glimmers forth, giving us
hopes of conquering brightness, and yet slips down to its evening
eclipse without redeeming the pledge; so do these men present every
appearance of one day making a conspicuous figure, and yet to the
end, as it were, they only gild the edges of the clouds in which they
hide themselves, and arrive at the term of life, the promise of its dawn
unfulfilled. Passion, and the consequent engrossing occupations,
usurped the place of laudable ambition and useful exertion. He wast-
ed his nobler energies upon pursuits which were mysteries to the
world, yet which formed the sum of his existence. It was not that he
was destitute of loftier aspirations. Ambition was the darling growth of
his soul — but weeds and parasites, an unregulated and unpruned over-
growth, twisted itself around the healthier plant, and threatened its
destruction.
Sometimes he appeared among the English in the capital towns of
the continent, and was always welcomed with delight. His manners
were highly engaging, a little reserved with men, unless they were
intimates, attentive to women, and to them a subject of interest, they
scarcely knew why. A mysterious fair one was spoken of as the cyno-
sure of his destiny, and some desired to discover his secret, while oth-
ers would have been glad to break the spell that bound him to this
hidden star. Often for months he disappeared altogether, and was spo-
ken of as having secluded himself in some unattainable district of
northern Germany, Poland, or Courland.
1
 Yet all these erratic move-
ments were certainly governed by one law, and that was love; — love
unchangeable and intense, else wherefore was he cold to the attrac-
tions of his fair countrywomen? And why, though he gazed with
admiration and interest on the families of lovely girls, whose succes-
sive visitations on the continent strike the natives with such wonder,
i Courland is a region in western Latvia.
MAR Y SHELLEY 88
why did he not select some distinguished beauty, with blue eyes, and
auburn locks, as the object of his exclusive admiration? He had often
conversed with such with seeming delight; but he could withdraw
from the fascination unharmed and free. Sometimes a very kind and
agreeable mamma contrived half to domesticate him; but after loung-
ing, and turning over music-books, and teaching steps for a week, he
was gone - a farewell card probably the only token of regret.
Yet he was universally liked, and the ladies were never weary of
auguring the time to be not far off, when he would desire to break
the chains that bound him; - and then - he must marry. He was so
quiet, so domestic, so gentle, that he would make, doubtless, a kind
and affectionate husband. Among Englishmen, he had a friend or two,
by courtesy so called, who were eager for him to return to his native
country, and to enter upon public life. He lent a willing ear to these
persuasions, and appeared annoyed at some secret necessity that pre-
vented his yielding to them. Once or twice he had said, that his pre-
sent mode of life should not last for ever, and that he would come
among them at no distant day. And yet years stole on, and mystery and
obscurity clouded him. He grew grave, almost sombre, and then
almost discontented. Any one habituated to him might have discov-
ered struggles beneath the additional seriousness of his demeanour -
struggles that promised final emancipation from his long-drawn thral-
dom.
LODOR E 89
CHAPTER VII .
Men oftentimes prepare a lot,
Which ere it finds them, is not what
Suits with their genuine station.
AT the age of thirty-two, Lord Lodore returned to England. It was
subject of discussion among his friends, whether this was to be a
merely temporary visit, or whether he was about to establish himself
finally in his own country. Meanwhile, he became the lion of the day
As the reputed slave of the fair sex, he found favour in their gentle
eyes. Even blooming fifteen saw all that was romantic and winning in
his subdued and graceful manners, and in the melancholy which
dwelt in his dark eyes. The chief fault found with him was, that he
was rather taciturn, and that, from whatever cause, woman had
apparently ceased to influence his soul to love. He avoided intimacies
among them, and seemed to regard them from afar, with observant
but passionless eyes. Some spoke of a spent volcano — others of a fer-
tile valley ravaged by storms, and turned into a desert; while many
cherished the hope of renewing the flame, or of replanting flowers
on the arid soil.
Lord Lodore had just emancipated himself from an influence,
which had become the most grievous slavery, from the moment it had
ceased to be a voluntary servitude. He had broken the ties that had so
long held him; but this had not been done without such difficulties
and struggles, as made freedom less delightful, from the languor and
regret that accompanied victory. Lodore had formed but one resolve,
which was not to entangle himself again in unlawful pursuits, where
the better energies of his mind were to be spent in forging decep-
tions, and tranquillizing the mind of a jealous and unhappy woman.
He entertained a vague wish to marry, and to marry one whom his
judgment, rather than his love, should select; - an unwise purpose,
good in theory, but very defective in practice. Besides this new idea of
marrying, which he buried as a profound secret in his own bosom, he
i Peter Bell the Third (1839) 270-272. Shelley gives a preview of a poem that remained
unpublished until the second edition of of Percy Shelley's Poetical Works (1839).
9 0 MARY SHELLEY
SHELLEY .
1
wished to accustom himself to the manners and customs of his own
country, so as to enable him to enter upon public life. He was fond of
the country in England, and entered with zeal upon the pleasures of
the chace. He liked the life led at the seats of the great, and endeav-
oured to do his part in amusing those around him.
Yet he did not feel one of them. Above all, he did not feel within
him the charm of life, the glad spirit that looks on each returning day
as a blessing; and which, gilding every common object with its own
brightness, requires no lustre unborrowed from itself.
1
 All things
palled upon Lodore.The light laughter and gentle voices of women
were vacant of attraction; his sympathy was not excited by the discus-
sions or pursuits of men. After striving for a whole year to awaken in
himself an interest for some one person or thing, and finding all to be
"vanity," - towards the close of a season in town, of extreme brilliancy
and variety to common eyes — of dulness and sameness to his morbid
sense, he suddenly withdrew himself from the haunts of men, and
plunging into solitude, tried to renovate his soul by self-communings,
and an intercourse with silent, but most eloquent, Nature.
2
Youth wasted; affections sown on sand, barren of return; wealth
and station flung as weeds upon the rocks; a name, whose "gold" was
"o'erdusted"by the inertness of its wearer;- such were the retrospec-
tions that haunted his troubled mind. He envied the ploughboy, who
whistled as he went; and the laborious cottager, who each Saturday
bestowed upon his family the hard-won and scanty earnings of the
week. He pined for an aim in life - a bourne - a necessity, to give zest
to his palled appetite, and excitement to his satiated soul. It seemed to
him that he could hail poverty and care as blessings; and that the dear-
est gifts of fortune — youth , health, rank, and riches — were disguised
curses. All these he possessed, and despised. Gnawing discontent; ener-
gy, rebuked and tamed into mere disquietude, for want of a proper
object, preyed upon his soul. Where could a remedy be found? No
"green spot" of delight soothed his memory; no cheering prospect
1 Perhaps a paraphrase of Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality."
2 This passage sounds like a conflation of Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, III and
Percy Shelley's "Ode to Intellectual Beauty," two poems composed during the sum-
mer of 1816 that draw upon Wordsworth. Mary Shelley put the poems into fair
copy for their authors.
LODOR E 91
appeared in view; all was arid, gloomy, unsunned upon.
He had wandered into Wales. He was charmed with the scenery
and solitude about Rhyaider Gowy, in Radnorshire, which lies amidst
romantic mountains, and in immediate vicinity to a cataract of the
Wye. He fixed himself for some months in a convenient mansion,
which he found to let, at a few miles from that place. Here he was
secure from unwelcome visitors, or any communication with the
throng he had left. He corresponded with no one, read no newspa-
pers. He passed his day, loitering beside waterfalls, clambering the
steep mountains, or making longer excursions on horseback, always
directing his course away from high roads or towns. His past life had
been sufficiently interesting to afford scope for reverie; and as he
watched the sunbeams as they climbed the hills at evening, or the
shadows of the clouds as they careered across the valleys, his heart by
turns mourned or rejoiced over its freedom, and the change that had
come over it and stilled its warring passions.
The only circumstance that in the least entrenched upon his feel-
ing of entire seclusion, was the mention, not unfrequently made to
him, by his servants, of the "ladies at the farm." The idea of these
"ladies" at first annoyed him; but the humble habitation which they
had chosen - humble to poverty - impressed him with the belief that,
however the "ladies" might awe-strike the Welsh peasantry, he should
find in them nothing that would impress him with the idea of station.
Two or three times, at the distant sight of a bonnet, instead of the
Welsh hat, he had altered his course to avoid the wearer. Once he had
suddenly come on one of these wonders of the mountains: she might
have passed for a very civilized kind of abigail;
1
 but, of course, she was
one of the "ladies."
As Lodore was neither a poet nor a student, he began at last to tire
of loneliness. He was a little ashamed when he remembered that he
had taken his present abode for a year: however, he satisfied his con-
science by a resolve to return to it; and began seriously to plan cross-
ing the country, to visit his sister in Essex. He was, during one of his
rides, deliberating on putting this resolve into execution on the very
next morning, when suddenly he was overtaken by a storm. The val-
i An "abigail" is a lady's maid.
9 2 MARY SHELLEY
ley, through which his path wound, was narrow, and the gathering
clouds over head made it dark as night; the lightning flashed with
peculiar brightness; and the thunder, loud and bellowing, was re-
echoed by the hills, and reverberated along the sky in terrific pealings.
It was more like a continental storm than any which Lodore had ever
witnessed in England, and imparted to him a sensation of thrilling
pleasure; till, as the rain came down in torrents, he began to think of
seeking some shelter, at least for his horse. Looking round for this, he
all at once perceived a vision of white muslin beneath a ledge of rock,
which could but half protect the gentle wearer: frightened she was,
too, as a slight shriek testified, when a bright flash, succeeded instanta-
neously by a loud peal of thunder, bespoke the presence of something
like danger. Lodore s habitual tenderness of nature rendered it no sec-
ond thought with him to alight and offer his services; and he was fully
repaid when he saw her, who hailed with gladness a protector, though
too frightened to smile, or scarcely to speak. She was very young, and
more beautiful, Lodore was at once assured, than any thing he had
ever before beheld. Her fairness, increased by the paleness of terror,
was even snowy; her hair, scarcely dark enough for chesnut, too dark
for auburn, clustered in rich curls on her brow; her eyes were dark
grey, long, and full of expression, as they beamed from beneath their
deeply-fringed lids. But such description says little; it was not the
form of eye or the brow's arch, correct and beautiful as these were, in
this lovely girl, that imparted her peculiar attraction; beyond these,
there was a radiance, a softness, an angel look, that rendered her coun-
tenance singular in its fascination; an expression of innocence and
sweetness; a pleading gentleness that desired protection; a glance that
subdued, because it renounced all victory; and this, now animated by
fear, quickly excited, in Lodore, the most ardent desire to re-assure
and serve her. She leant, as she stood, against the rock — now hiding
her face with her hands - now turning her eyes to her stranger com-
panion, as if in appeal or disbelief; while he again and again protested
that there was no danger, and strove to guard her from the rain, which
still descended with violence. The thunder died away, and the light-
ning soon ceased to flash, but this continued; and while the colour
revisited the young girl's cheek, and her smiles, displaying a thousand
dimples, lighted up new charms, a fresh uneasiness sprung up in her of
LODOR E 93
how she could get home. Her chaussure, ill-fitted even for the moun-
tains, could not protect her for a moment from the wet. Lodore
offered his horse, and pledged himself for its quietness, and his care, if
she could contrive to sit in the saddle. He lifted her light form on to
it; but the high-bred animal, beginning a little to prance, she threw
herself off into the arms of her new friend, in a transport of terror,
which Lodore could by no means assuage. What was to be done? He
felt, light as she was, that he could carry her the short half-mile to her
home; but this could not be offered. The rain was now over; and her
only resource was to brave the humid soil in kid slippers. With con-
siderable difficulty, half the journey was accomplished, when they met
the "lady" whom Lodore had before seen; - really the maid in atten-
dance, who had come out to seek her young mistress, and to declare
that "my lady" was beside herself with anxiety on her account.
Lodore still insisted on conducting his young charge to her home;
and the next day it was but matter of politeness to call to express his
hope that she had noft]
1
 suffered from her exposure to the weather.
He found the lovely girl, fresh as the morning, with looks all light and
sweetness, seated beside her mother, a lady whose appearance was not
so prepossessing, though adorned with more than the remains of
beauty. She at once struck Lodore as disagreeable and forbidding. Still
she was cordial in her welcome, grateful for his kindness, and so per-
fectly engrossed by the thought of, and love for, her child, that Lodore
felt his respect and interest awakened.
An acquaintance, thus begun between the noble recluse and the
"ladies of the farm," proceeded prosperously. A month ago, Lodore
would not have believed that he should feel glad at finding two fair
off-shoots of London fashion dwelling so near his retreat; but even if
solitude had not rendered him tolerant, the loveliness of the daughter
might well perform a greater miracle. In the mother, he found good
breeding, good nature, and good sense. He soon became almost
domesticated in their rustic habitation.
Lady Santerre was of humble birth, the daughter of a solicitor of a
country town. She was handsome, and won the heart of Mr. Santerre,
then a minor, who was assisted by her father in the laudable endeavour
i "no" in first edition.
9 4 MARY SHELLEY
to obtain more money than his father allowed him. The young gentle-
man saw, loved, and married. His parents were furiously angry, and
tried to illegalize the match; but he confirmed it when he came of age,
and a reconciliation with his family never took place. Mr. Santerre sold
reversions, turned expectations into money, and lived in the world. For
six years, his wife bloomed in the gay parterre of fashionable society,
when her husband s father died. Prosperity was to dawn on this event:
the new Sir John went down to attend his father's funeral; thence to
return to town, to be immersed in recoveries, settlements, and law. He
never returned. Riding across the country to a neighbour, his horse
shyed, reared, and threw him. His head struck against a fragment of
stone: a concussion of the brain ensued; and a fortnight afterwards, he
was enclosed beside his father, in the ancestral vault.
His widow was the mother of a daughter only; and her hopes and
prospects died with her husband. His brother, and heir, might have
treated her better in the sequel; but he was excessively irritated by the
variety of debts, and incumbrances, and lawsuits, he had to deal with.
He chose to consider the wife most to blame, and she and her child
were treated as aliens. He allowed them two hundred a year, and
called himself generous.
1
 This was all (for her father was not rich, and
had a large family) that poor Lady Santerre had to depend upon. She
struggled on for some little time, trying to keep up her connexions in
the gay world; but poverty is a tyrant, whose laws are more terrible
than those of Draco. Lady Santerre yielded, retired to Bath, and fixed
her hopes on her daughter, whom she resolved should hereafter make
a splendid match. Her excessive beauty promised to render this
scheme feasible; and now that she was nearly sixteen, her mother
began to look forward anxiously. She had retired to Wales this sum-
mer, that, by living with yet stricter economy, she might be enabled,
during the winter, to put her plans into execution with greater ease.
Lord Lodore became intimate with the mother and daughter, and
his imagination speedily painted both in the most attractive colours.
Here was the very being his heart had pined for - a girl radiant in
innocence and youth, the nursling, so he fancied, of mountains,
i A little sarcastic remark directed at Sir Timothy Shelley, Percy's father, whom Shel-
ley felt was not generous with financial support for her and her surviving son.
LODOR E 95
waterfalls, and solitude; yet endowed with all the softness and refine-
ment of civilized society. Long forgotten emotions awoke in his heart,
and he gave himself up to the bewildering feelings that beset him.
Every thing was calculated to excite his interest. The desolate situa-
tion of the mother, devoted to her daughter only, and that daughter
fairer than imagination could paint, young, gentle, blameless, knowing
nothing beyond obedience to her parent, and untaught in the guile of
mankind. It was impossible to see that intelligent and sweet face, and
not feel that to be the first to impress love in the heart which it mir-
rored, was a destiny which angels might envy. How proud a part was
his, to gift her with rank, fortune, and all earthly blessings, and to
receive in return, gratitude, tenderness, and unquestioning submis-
sion! If love did not, as thus he reasoned, show itself in the tyrant guise
it had formerly assumed in the heart of Lodore, it was the more wel-
come a guest. It spoke not of the miseries of passion, but offered a
bright view of lengthened days of peace and contentedness. He was
not a slave at the feet of his mistress, but he could watch each gesture
and catch each sound of her voice, and say, goodness and beauty are
there, and I shall be happy.
He found the lovely girl somewhat ignorant; but white paper to be
written upon at will, is a favourite metaphor among those men who
have described the ideal of a wife. That she had talent beyond what he
had usually found in women, he was delighted to remark. At first she
was reserved and shy. Little accustomed to society, she sat beside her
mother in something of a company attitude; her eyes cast down, her
lips closed. She was never to be found alone, and zjeune personne in
France could scarcely be more retired and tranquil. This accorded bet-
ter with Lodore's continental experience, than the ease of English
fashionable girls, and he was pleased. He conversed little with Cor-
nelia until he had formed his determination, and solicited her moth-
ers consent to their union. Then they were allowed to walk together,
and she gained on him, as their intimacy increased. She was very live-
ly, witty, and full of playful fancy. Aware of her own deficiencies in
education, she was the first to laugh at herself, and to make such
remarks as showed an understanding worth all the accomplishments
in the world. Lodore now really found himself in love, and blessed the
day that led him from among the fair daughters of fashion to this
9 6 MARY SHELLEY
child of nature. His wayward feelings were to change no more - his
destiny was fixed. At thirty-four to marry, to settle into the father of a
family, his hopes and wishes concentrated in a home adorned by one
whose beauty was that of angels, was a prospect that he dwelt upon
each day with renewed satisfaction. Nothing in after years could dis-
turb his felicity, and the very security with which he contemplated
the future, imparted a calm delight, at once new and grateful to a
heart, weary of storms and struggles, and which, in finding peace,
believed that it possessed the consummation of human happiness.
LODOR E 97
CHAPTER VIII .
Hopes, what are they? beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass,
Or a spider's web adorning,
In a strait and treacherous pass.
THE months of July, August, and September had passed away. Lord
Lodore enjoyed, during the two last, a singularly complacent state of
mind. He had come to Wales with worn-out spirits, a victim to that
darker species of ennui, which colours with gloomy tints the future as
well as the present, and is the ministering angel of evil to the rich and
prosperous. He despised himself, contemned his pursuits, and called all
vanity beneath the vivifying sun of heaven. Real misfortunes have
worn the guise of blessings to men so afflicted, but he was withdrawn
from this position, by a being who wore the outward semblance of an
angel, and from whom he felt assured nothing but good could flow.
Cornelia Santerre was lovely, vivacious, witty, and good-
humoured; yet strange to say, her new lover was not rendered happy
so much by the presence of these qualities, as by the promise which
they gave for the future. He loved her; he believed that she would be
to the end of his life a blessing and a delight; yet passion was scarcely
roused in his heart; it was "a sober certainty of waking bliss,"
2
 and a
reasonable belief in the continuance of this state, that made him, while
he loved her, regard her rather as a benefactress than a mistress.
Benefactress is a strange word to use, especially as her extreme
youth was probably the cause that more intimate sympathies did not
unite them, and why passion entered so slightly into their intercourse.
It is possible, so great was the discrepancy of their age, and conse-
quently of their feelings and views of life, that Lodore would never
have thought of marrying Cornelia, but that Lady Santerre was at
hand to direct the machinery of the drama. She inspired him with the
wish to gift her angelic child with the worldly advantages which his
wife must possess; to play a god-like part, and to lift into prosperity
1 "Hermit's Cell" 1.1-4.
2 Milton, Comus 263.
9 8 MARY SHELLEY
WORDSWORTH.1
and happiness, one who seemed destined by fortune to struggle with
adversity. Lady Santerre was a worldly woman and an oily flatterer;
Lodore had been accustomed to feminine controul, and he yielded
with docility to her silken fetters.
The ninth of October was Cornelia's sixteenth birthday, and on it
she became the wife of Lord Lodore. This event took place in the
parish church of Rhyaider Gowy, and it was communicated to "the
world" in the newspapers. Many discussions then arose as to who Miss
Santerre could be. "The only daughter of the late Sir John." The only
late Sir John Santerre remembered, was, in fact, the grandfather of the
bride, and the hiatus in her genealogy, caused by her father's death
before he had been known as a baronet, puzzled every fashionable
gossip. The whole affair, however, had been forgotten, when curiosity
was again awakened in the ensuing month of March, by an
announcement in the Morning Post, of the arrival of the noble pair at
Mivarts.
1
 Lord Lodore had always rented a box at the King's Theatre.
2
It had been newly decorated at the beginning of the season, and on
the first Saturday in April all eyes turned towards it as he entered, hav-
ing the loveliest, fairest, and most sylph-like girl, that ever trod dark
earth, leaning on his arm. There was a child-like innocence, a fascinat-
ing simplicity, joine d to an expression of vivacity and happiness, in
Lady Lodore's countenance, which impressed at first sight, as being
the completion of feminine beauty. She looked as if no time could
touch, no ill stain her; artless affection and amiable dependence spoke
in each graceful gesture. Others might be beautiful, but there was that
in her, which seemed allied to celestial loveliness.
1 Mivart's hotel in Brook Street, Mayfair, was founded by French chef Jacques Mivart
in 1815. It was a favourite place for visiting nobility and foreign dignitaries; the
Prince Regent had a suite reserved there. Mivart's is now Claridge s Hotel.
2 The King's Theatre in the Haymarket (1704-1867) was London's premier Italian
Opera House until 1846 when the Royal Italian Opera was established at Covent
Garden. Mary Shelley attended opera there. It was rebuilt after a fire in 1789 and by
1796 there were 163 boxes, which by 1807 cost 300 guineas per season to purchase.
Certainly its cost made the opera a place to be seen; its list of box holders was a
kind of social register. In 1837 it became Her Majesty's Theatre, and the theatre
burnt in 1867. Shelley's mention of opera reflects her own taste. Afte r Thomas Love
Peacock introduced Percy to opera in 1817, the Shelleys attended a number of
operas in London and in Italy; Mary continued to see opera at the King's Theatre
upon her return to London after Percy's death.
LODOR E 99
Such was the prize Lord Lodore had won. The new-married pair
took up their residence in Berkeley-square, and here Lady Santerre
joined them, and took possession of the apartments appropriated to
her use, under her daughter's roof. All appeared bright on the outside,
and each seemed happy in each other. Yet had any one cared to
remark, they had perceived that Lodore looked even more abstracted
than before his marriage. They had seen, that, in the domestic coterie,
mother and daughter were familiar friends, sharing each thought and
wish, but that Lodore was one apart, banished, or exiling himself from
the dearest blessings of friendship and love. There might be no con-
cealment, but also there was no frankness between the pair. Neither
practised disguise, but there was no outpouring of the heart - no
"touch of nature," which, passing like an electric shock, made their
souls one. An insurmountable barrier stood between Lodore and his
happiness - between his love and his wife's confidence; that this
obstacle was a shadow — undefined — formless — nothing — yet every
thing, made it trebly hateful, and rendered it utterly impossible that it
should be removed.
The magician who had raised this ominous phantom, was Lady
Santerre. She was a clever though uneducated woman: perfectly selfi-
sh, soured with the world, yet clinging to it. To make good her second
entrance on its stage, she believed it necessary to preserve unlimited
sway over the plastic mind of her daughter. If she had acted with
integrity, her end had been equally well secured; but unfortunately,
she was by nature framed to prefer the zig-zag to the straight line;
added to which, she was imperious, and could not bear a rival near
her throne. From the first, therefore, she exerted herself to secure her
empire over Cornelia; she spared neither flattery nor artifice; and, well
acquainted as she was with every habit and turn of her daughter's
mind, her task was comparatively easy.
The fair girl had been brought up (ah! how different from the sen-
timents which Lodore had thought to find the natural inheritance of
the mountain child!) to view society as the glass by which she was to
set her feelings, and to which to adapt her conduct. She was ignorant,
accustomed to the most frivolous employments, shrinking from any
mental exercise, so that although her natural abilities were great, they
lay dormant, producing neither bud nor blossom, unless such might
10 0 MARY SHELLEY
be called the elegance of her appearance, and the charm of the softest
and most ingenuous manners in the world. When her husband would
have educated her mind, and withdrawn her from the dangers of dis-
sipation, she looked on his conduct as tyrannical and cruel. She
retreated from his manly guidance, to the pernicious guardianship of
Lady Santerre, and she sheltered herself at her side, from any effort
Lodore might make for her improvement.
Those who have never experienced a situation of this kind, cannot
understand it; the details appear trivial: there seems wanting but one
effort to push away the flimsy web, which, after all, is rather an imagi-
nary than real bondage. But the slightest description will bring it
home to those who have known it, and groaned beneath a despotism
the more intolerable, as it could be less defined. Lord Lodore found
that he had no home, no dear single-hearted bosom where he could
find sympathy and to which to impart pleasure. When he entered his
drawing-room with gaiety of spirit to impart some agreeable tidings,
to ask his wife's advice, or to propose some plan, Lady Santerre was
ever by her side, with her hard features and canting falsetto voice,
checking at once the kindling kindness of his soul, and he felt that all
that he should say would be turned from its right road, by some insid-
ious remark, and the words he was about to speak died upon his lips.
When he looked forward through the day, and would have given the
world to have had his wife to himself, and to have sought, in some
drive or excursion, for the pleasant unreserved converse he sighed for,
Lady Santerre must be consulted; and though she never opposed him,
she always carried her point in opposition to his. His wishes were
made light of, and he was left to amuse himself, and to know that his
wife was imbibing the lessons of one, whom he had learnt to despise
and hate.
Lord Lodore cherished an ideal of what he thought a woman
ought to be; but he had no lofty opinion of women as he had usually
found her. He had believed that the germ of all the excellencies
which he esteemed was to be found in Cornelia, and he found him-
self mistaken. He had expected to find truth, clearness of spirit, and
complying gentleness, the adorning qualities of the unsophisticated
girl, and he found her the willing disciple of one whose selfish and
artful character was in direct contradiction to his own. Once or twice
LODOR E 101
at the beginning, he had attempted to withdraw his wife from this
sinister influence, but Lady Lodore highly resented any effort of this
kind, and saw in it an endeavour to make her neglect her first and
dearest duties. Lodore, angry that the wishes of another should be
preferred to his, drew back with disappointed pride; he disdained to
enforce by authority, that which he thought ought to be yielded to
love. The bitter sense of wounded affections was not to be appeased
by knowing that, if he chose, he could command that, which was
worthless in his eyes, except as a voluntary gift.
And here his error began; he had married one so young, that her
education, even if its foundation had been good, required finishing,
and who as it was, had every thing to learn. During the days of
courtship he had looked forward with pleasure to playing the tutor to
his fair mistress: but a tutor can do nothing without authority, either
open or concealed - a tutor must sacrifice his own pursuits and
immediate pleasures, to study and adapt himself to the disposition of
his pupil. As has been said of those who would acquire power in the
state - they must in some degree follow, if they would lead, and it is
by adapting themselves to the humour of those they would com-
mand, that they establish the law of their own will, or of an apparent
necessity. But Lodore understood nothing of all this. He had been
accustomed to be managed by his mistress; he had been yielding, but
it was because she contrived to make his will her own; otherwise he
was imperious: opposition startled and disconcerted him, and he saw
heartlessness in the want of accommodation and compliance he met
at home. He had expected from Cornelia a girl's clinging fondness,
but that was given to her mother; nor did she feel the womanly ten-
derness, which sees in her husband the safeguard from the ills of life,
the shield to stand between her and the world, to ward off its cruel-
ties; a shelter from adversity, a refuge when tempests were abroad.
How could she feel this, who, proud in youth and triumphant beauty,
knew nothing of, and disbelieved the tales which sages and old
women tell of the perils of life? The world looked to her a velvet
strewn walk, canopied from every storm — her husband alone, who
endeavoured to reveal the reality of things to her, and to disturb her
visions, was the source of any sorrow or discomfort. She was buoyed
up by the supercilious arrogance of youth; and while inexperience
10 2 MARY SHELLE Y
rendered her incapable of entering into the feelings of her husband,
she displayed towards him none of that deference, and yielding sub-
mission, which might reasonably have been expected from her youth,
but that her mother was there to claim them for herself, and to incul-
cate, as far as she could, that while she was her natural friend, Lodore
was her natural enemy.
He, with strong pride and crushed affections, gave himself up for a
disappointed man. He disdained to struggle with the sinister influence
of his mother-in-law; he did not endeavour to discipline and invigo-
rate the facile disposition of his bride. He had expected devotion,
attention, love; and he scorned to complain or to war against the
estrangement that grew up between them. If at any time he was
impelled by an overflowing heart to seek his fair wife s side, the eter-
nal presence of Lady Santerre chilled him at once; and to withdraw
her from this was a task difficult indeed to one who could not forgive
the competition admitted between them. At first he made one or two
endeavours to separate them; but the reception his efforts met with
galled his haughty soul; and while he cherished a deep and passionate
hatred for the cause, he grew to despise the victim of her arts. He
thought that he perceived duplicity, low-thoughted pride, and cold-
ness of heart, the native growth of the daughter of such a mother. He
yielded her up at once to the world and her parent, and resolved to
seek, not happiness, but occupation elsewhere. He felt the wound
deeply, but he sought no cure; and pride taught him to mask his sore-
ness of spirit by a studied mildness of manner, which, being joined to
cold indifference, and frequent contradiction, soon begot a consider-
able degree of resentment, and even dislike on her part. Her mothers
well-applied flatteries and the adulation of her friends were contrasted
with his half-disguised contempt. The system of society tended to
increase their mutual estrangement. She embarked at once on the
stream of fashion; and her whole time was given up to the engage-
ments and amusements that flowed in on her on all sides; while he -
one other regret added to many previous ones - one other disap-
pointment in addition to those which already corroded his heart -
bade adieu to every hope of domestic felicity, and tried to create new
interests for himself, seeking, in public affairs, for food for a mind
eager for excitement.
LODOR E 103
LOR D Lodore was disgusted at the very threshold of his new pur-
pose. His long residence abroad prevented his ever acquiring the habit
of public speaking; nor had he the respect for human nature, nor the
enthusiasm for a party or a cause, which is necessary for one who
would make a figure as a statesman. His sensitive disposition, his pride,
which, when excited, verged into arrogance; his uncompromising
integrity, his disdain of most of his associates, his incapacity of yielding
obedience, rendered his short political career one of struggle and
mortification. "And this is life!" he said; "abroad, to mingle with the
senseless and the vulgar; and at home, to find a - wife, who prefers the
admiration of fools, to the love of an honest heart!"
Within a year after her marriage, Lady Lodore gave birth to a
daughter. This circumstance, which naturally tends to draw the par-
ents nearer, unfortunately in this instance set them further apart. Lady
Santerre had been near, with so many restrictions and so much inter-
ference, which though probably necessary, considering Cornelia's
extreme youth, yet seemed vexatious and impertinent to Lodore. All
things appeared to be permitted, except those which he proposed. A
drive, a ride, even a walk with him, was to be considered fatal; while,
at the same time, Lady Lodore was spending whole nights in heated
rooms, and even dancing. Her confinement was followed by a long
illness; the child was nursed by a stranger, secluded in a distant part of
the house; and during her slow recovery, the young mother seemed
scarcely to remember that it existed. The love for children is a passion
often developed most fully in the second stage of life. Lodore idolized
his little offspring, and felt hurt and angry when his wife, after it had
been in her room a minute or two, on the first approach it made to a
i "Hermits Cell" 1.5-8.
10 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER IX.
What are fears, but voices airy
Whisp'ring harm, where harm is not?
And deluding the unwary,
Till the fatal bolt is shot?
WORDSWORTH .
 :
squall, ordered it to be taken away. At the time, in truth, she was
reduced to the lowest ebb of weakness; but Lodore, as men are apt to
do, was slow to discern her physical suffering, while his cheeks burnt
with indignation, as she peevishly repeated the command that his
child should go.
When she grew better this was not mended. She was ordered into
the country for air, at a time when the little girl was suffering from
some infantine disorder, and could not be moved. It was left with its
nurses, but Lodore remained also, and rather suffered his wife to travel
without him, so to demonstrate openly, that he thought her treatment
of her baby unmotherly; not that he expressed this sentiment, nor did
Lady Lodore guess at it; she saw only his usual spirit of contradiction
and neglect, in his desertion of her at this period.
The mother pressed with careless lips the downy cheek of the little
cherub, and departed; while Lodore passed most of his time in the
child's apartment, or, turning his library into a nursery, it was continu-
ally with him there. "Here," he thought, "I have something to live for,
something to love. And even though I am not loved in return, my
heart's sacrifice will not be repaid with insolence and contempt." But
when the infant began to show tokens of recognition and affection,
when it smiled and stretched out its little hands on seeing him, and
crowed with innocent pleasure; and still more, when the lisped pater-
nal name fell from its roseate lips - the father repeated more emphat-
ically, "Here is something that makes it worth while to have been
born — to live! "An illness of the child overwhelmed him with anxiety
and despair. She recovered; and he thanked God, with a lively emo-
tion of joy, to which he had long been a stranger.
His affection for his child augmented the annoyance which he
derived from his domestic circle. He had been hitherto sullenly yield-
ing on any contest; but whatever whim, or whatever plan, he formed
with regard to his daughter, he abided by unmoved, and took pleasure
in manifesting his partiality for her. Lodore was by nature a man of
violent and dangerous passions, added to which, his temper was sus-
ceptible to irritability. He disdained to cope with the undue influence
exercised by Lady Santerre over his wife. He beheld in the latter, a
frivolous childish puppet, endowed with the usual feminine infirmi-
ties-
LODOR E 105
"The love of pleasure, and the love of sway;"
1
and destitute of that tact and tenderness of nature which should teach
her where to yield and how to reign. He left her therefore to her own
devices, resolved only that he would not give up a single point relative
to his child, and consequently, according to the weakness of human
nature, ever ready to find fault with and prohibit all her wishes on the
subject.
Cornelia, accustomed to be guided by her mother's watchful
artifices, and to submit to a tyranny which assumed the guise of servi-
tude, felt only with the feelings implanted by her parent. She was not,
like Lady Santerre, heartless; but cherished pride, the effect of perpet-
ual misrepresentation, painted her as such. She looked on her husband
as a man essentially selfish - one who, worn out by passion, had mar-
ried her to beguile his hours during a visitation of ennui, and inca-
pable of the softness of love or the kindness of friendship. On
occasion of his new conduct with regard to her child, her haughty
soul was in arms against him, and something almost akin to hatred
sprung up within her. She resented his interference; she believed that
his object was to deprive her of the consolation of her daughters love,
and that his chief aim was to annoy and insult her. She was jealous of
her daughter with her husband, of her husband with her daughter. If
by some chance a word or look passed that might have softened the
mutual sentiment of distrust, the evil genius of the scene was there to
freeze again the genial current; and any approach to kindness, by an
inexplicable but certain result, only tended to place them further
apart than before.
Three winters had passed since their marriage, and the third spring
was merging into summer, while they continued in this state of war-
like neutrality. Any slight incident might have destroyed the fictitious
barriers erected by ill-will and guile between them; or, so precarious
was their state, any new event might change petty disagreements into
violent resentment, and prevent their ever entertaining towards each
other those feelings which, but for one fatal influence, would natural-
i Alexander Pope, "Epistle to a Lady. Of the Characters ofWomen" (1735) 210.
10 6 MARY SHELLEY
ly have had root between them. The third summer was come. They
were spending the commencement of it in London, when circum-
stances occurred, unanticipated by either, which changed materially
the course of their domestic arrangements.
Lord Lodore returned home one evening at a little after eleven,
from a dinner-party, and found, as usual, his drawing-room deserted -
Lady Lodore had gone to a ball. He had returned in that humour to
moralize, which we so often bring from society into solitude; and he
paced the empty apartments with impatient step. "Home! — yes, this is
my home! I had hoped that gentle peace and smiling love would be
its inmates, that returning as now, from those who excite my spleen
and contempt, one eye would have lighted up to welcome me, a dear
voice have thanked me for my return. Home! a Tartar beneath his tent
- a wild Indian in his hut, may speak of home - I have none. Where
shall I spend the rest of this dull, deserted evening?" - for it may be
supposed that, sharing London habits, eleven o'clock was to him but
an evening hour.
He went into his dressing-room, and casting his eyes on the table, a
revulsion came over him, a sudden shock - for there lay a vision,
which made his breath come thick, and caused the blood to recede to
his heart - a like vision has had the same effect on many, though it
took but the unobtrusive form of a little note — a note, whose fold,
whose seal, whose superscription, were all once so familiar, and now so
strange. Time sensibly rolled back; each event of the last few years was
broken off, as it were, from his life, leaving it as it had been ten years
ago. He seized the note, and then threw it from him. "It is a mere mis-
take," he said aloud, while he felt, even to the marrow of his bones, the
thrill and shudder as of an occurrence beyond the bounds of nature.
Yet still the note lay there, and half as if to undeceive himself, and to set
witchcraft at nought, he again took it up - this time in a less agitated
mood, so that when the well-known impression of a little foreign
coronet on the seal met his eye, he became aware that however unex-
pected such a sight might be, it was in the moral course of things, and
he hastily tore open the epistle: it was written in French, and was very
concise. "I arrived in town last night," the writer said; "I and my son
are about to join my husband in Paris. I hear that you are married; I
hope to see you and your lady before I leave London."
LODOR E 107
After reading these few lines, Lord Lodore remained for a consid-
erable time lost in thought. He tried to consider what he should do,
but his ideas wandered, as they sadly traced the past, and pictured to
him the present. Never did life appear so vain, so contemptible, so
odious a thing as now, that he was reminded of the passions and
sufferings of former days, which, strewed at his feet like broken glass,
might still wound him, though their charm and their delight could
never be renewed. He did not go out that night; indeed it seemed as if
but a minute had passed, when, lo! morning was pouring her golden
summer beams into his room — when Lady Lodore's carriage drove
up; and early sounds in the streets told him that night was gone and
the morrow come.
That same day Lord Lodore requested Cornelia to call with him
on a Polish lady of rank, with whom he had formerly been acquaint-
ed, to whom he was under obligations. They went. And what Lodore
felt when he stood with his lovely wife before her, who for many by-
gone years had commanded his fate, had wound him to her will,
through the force of love and woman's wiles — who he knew could
read every latent sentiment of his soul, and yet towards whom he was
resolved now, and for ever in future, to adopt the reserved manners of
a mere acquaintance - what of tremor or pain all this brought to
Lodore's bosom was veiled, at least beyond Cornelia's penetration,
who seldom truly observed him, and who was now occupied by her
new acquaintance.
The lady had passed the bloom of youth, and even mid life; she
was verging on fifty, but she had every appearance of having been
transcendently beautiful. Her dark full oriental eyes still gleamed from
beneath her finely-arched brows, and her black hair, untinged by any
grizzly change, was gathered round her head in such tresses as
bespoke an admirable profusion. Her person was tall and command-
ing: her manners were singular, for she mingled so strangely, statelines
and affability, disdain and sweetness, that she seemed like a princess
dispensing the favour of her smile, or the terror of her frown on her
submissive subjects; her sweetest smiles were for Cornelia, who yet
turned from her to another object, who attracted her more peculiar
attention. It was her son; a youth inheriting all his mother's beauty,
added to the fascination of early manhood, and a frank and ingenuous
10 8 MARY SHELLE Y
address, which his parent could never have possessed.
The party separated, apparently well pleased with each other. Lady
Lodore offered her services, which were frankly accepted; and after an
hour spent together, they appointed to meet again the next day, when
the ladies should drive out together to shop and see sights.
They became not exactly intimate, yet upon familiar terms. There
was a dignity and even a constraint in the Countess Lyzinski s manner
that was a bar to cordiality; but they met daily, and Lady Lodore intro-
duced her new friend everywhere. The Countess said that motives of
curiosity had induced her to take this country in her way to Paris.
Her wealth was immense, and her rank among the first in her own
country. The Russian ambassador treated her with distinction, so that
she gained facile and agreeable entrance into the highest society. The
young Count Casimir was an universal favourite, but his dearest plea-
sure was to attend upon Lady Lodore, who readily offered to school
him on his entrance into the English world. They were pretty exactly
the same age; Casimir was somewhat the junior, yet he looked the
elder, while the lady, accustomed to greater independence, took the
lead in their intercourse, and acted the monitress to her docile schol-
ar.
Lord Lodore looked on, or took a part, in what was passing around
him, with a caprice perfectly unintelligible. With the Countess he was
always gentle and obliging, but reserved. While she treated him with a
coldness resembling disdain, yet whose chiefest demonstration was
silence. Lodore never altered towards her; it was with regard to her
son that he displayed his susceptible temper. He took pains to procure
for him every proper acquaintance; he was forward in directing him
he watched over his mode of passing his time, he appeared to be
interested in every thing he did, and yet to hate him. His demeanour
towards him was morose, almost insulting. Lodore, usually so forbear-
ing and courteous, would contradict and silence him, as if he had
been a child or a menial. It required all Casimir's deference for one
considerably his senior, to prevent him from resenting openly this
style of treatment; it required all the fascination of Lady Lodore to
persuade him to encounter it a second time. Once he had complained
to her, and she remonstrated with her husband. His answer was to
reprimand her for listening to the impertinence of the stripling. She
LODOR E 109
coloured angrily, but did not reply. Cold and polite to each other, the
noble pair were not in the habit of disputing. Lady Santerre guarded
against that. Any thing as familiar as a quarrel might have produced a
reconciliation, and with that a better understanding of each other's
real disposition. The disdain that rose in Cornelia's bosom on this
taunt, fostered by conscious innocence, and a sense of injustice, dis-
played itself in a scornful smile, and by an augmentation of kindness
towards Casimir. He was now almost domesticated at her house; he
attended her in the morning, hovered round her during the evening;
and she, given up to the desire of pleasing, did not regard, did not
even see, the painful earnestness with which Lord Lodore regarded
them. His apparent jealousy, if she at all remarked it, was but a new
form of selfishness, to which she was not disposed to give quarter. Yet
any unconcerned spectator might have started to observe how, from
an obscure corner of the room, Lodore watched every step they took,
every change of expression of face during their conversation; and
then approaching and interrupting them, endeavoured to carry
Count Casimir away with him; and when thwarted in this, dart
glances of such indignation on the youth, and of scorn upon his wife,
as might have awoke a sense of danger, had either chanced to see the
fierce, lightning-like passions written in those moments on his coun-
tenance, as letters of fire and menace traced upon the prophetic wall.
The Countess appeared to observe him indeed, and sometimes it
seemed as if she regarded the angry workings of his heart with mali-
cious pleasure. Once or twice she had drawn near, and said a few
words in her native language, on which he endeavoured to stifle each
appearance of passion, answering with a smile, in a low calm voice,
and retiring, left, as it were, the field to her. Lady Santerre also had
remarked his glances of suspicion or fury; they were interpreted into
new sins against her daughter, and made with her the subject of
ridicule or bitter reproach.
Lord Lodore was entirely alone. To no one human being could he
speak a word that in the least expressed the violence of his feelings.
Perhaps the only person with whom he felt the least inclined to
overflow in confidence, was the Countess Lyzinski. But he feared her:
he feared the knowledge she possessed of his character, and the power
she had once exercised to rule him absolutely; the barrier between
1 1 0 MARY SHELLE Y
them must be insuperable, or the worst results would follow: he
redoubled his own cautious reserve, and bore patiently the proud
contempt which she exhibited, resolved not to yield one inch in the
war he waged with his own heart, with regard to her. But he was
alone, and the solitude of sympathy in which he lived, gave force and
keenness to all his feelings. Had they evaporated in words, half their
power to wound had been lost; as it was, there was danger in his med-
itations, and each one in collision with him had occasion to dread that
any sudden overflow of stormy rage would be the more violent for
having been repressed so long.
One day the whole party, with the exception of Lady Santerre,
dined at the house of the Russian ambassador. As Lord and Lady
Lodore proceeded towards their destination, he, with pointed sarcasm
of manner, requested her to be less marked in her attentions to Count
Casimir. The unfounded suspicions of a lover may please as a proof of
love, but those of a husband, who thus claims affections which he has
ceased to endeavour to win, are never received except as an imperti-
nence and an insult. Those of Lord Lodore appeared to his haughty
wife but a new form of cold-hearted despotism, checking her plea-
sures whencesoever they might arise. She replied by a bitter smile, and
afterwards still more insultingly, by the display of kindness and partial-
ity towards the object of her husband's dislike. Her complete sense of
innocence, roused to indignation, by the injury she deemed offered to
it, led her thus to sport with feelings, which, had she deigned to
remark, she might have seen working with volcano-power in the
breast of Lodore.
The ladies retired after dinner. They gathered together in groups in
the drawing-room, while Lady Lodore, strange to say, sat apart from
all. She placed herself on a distant sopha, apparently occupied by
examining various specimens of bijouterie, nic-nacs of all kinds,
which she took up one after the other, from the table near her. One
hand shaded her eyes as she continued thus to amuse herself. She was
not apt to be so abstracted; as now, that intent on self-examination, or
self-reproach, or on thoughts that wandered to another, she forgot
where she was, and by whom surrounded. She did not observe the
early entrance of several gentlemen from the dining-room, nor
remark a kind of embarrassment which sat upon their features,
LODOR E 111
spreading a sort of uncomfortable wonder among the guests. The first
words that roused her, were addressed to her by her husband: "Your
carriage waits, Cornelia; will you come?"
"So early?" she asked.
"I particularly wish it," he replied."
1
"You can go, and send them back for me - and yet it is not worth
while, we shall see most of the people here at Lady C s to night."
She glanced round the room, Casimir was not there; as she passed
the Countess Lyzinski, she was about to ask her whether they should
meet again that evening, when she caught the lady's eye fixed on her
husband, meeting and returning a look of his. Alarm and disdain were
painted on her face, and added to this, a trace of feeling so peculiar, so
full of mutual understanding, that Lady Lodore was filled with no
agreeable emotion of surprise. She entered the carriage, and the reit-
erated "Home!" of Lord Lodore, prevented her intended directions.
Both were silent during their short drive. She sat absorbed in a variety
of thoughts, not one of which led her to enter into conversation with
her companion; they were rather fixed on her mother, on the obser-
vations she should make to, and the conjectures she should share
with, her. She became anxious to reach home, and resolved at once to
seek Lady Santerre s advice and directions by which to regulate her
conduct on this occasion.
i Extra quotation marks included in first edition.
1 1 2 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER X.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.
BACON .
 l
THE Y arrived in Berkeley-square. Lady Lodore alighted, and per-
ceived with something of a beating heart, that her husband followed
her, as she passed on to the inner drawing-room. Lady Santerre was
not there. Taking a letter from the table, so to give herself the appear-
ance of an excuse for having entered a room she was about immedi-
ately to quit, she was going, when Lodore, who stood hesitating,
evidently desirous of addressing her, and yet uncertain how to begin,
stopped her by speaking her name,"Cornelia!"
She turned — she was annoyed; her conscience whispered what was
in all probability the subject to which her attention was to be called.
Her meditations in the drawing-room of the Russian Ambassador,
convinced her that she had, to use the phrase of the day, flirted too
much with Count Casimir, and she had inwardly resolved to do so no
more. It was particularly disagreeable therefore, that her husband
should use authority, as she feared that he was about to do, and exact
from his wife's obedience, what she was willing to concede to her
own sense of propriety. She was resolved to hear as little as she could
on the subject, and stood as if in haste to go. His faltering voice
betrayed how much he felt, and once or twice it refused to frame the
words he desired to utter: how different was their import from that
expected by his impatient auditress!
"Cornelia," said he, at length, "can you immediately, and at once -
this very night - prepare to quit England?"
"Quit England! Why? — whither?" she exclaimed.
"I scarcely know," replied Lodore, "nor is it of the slightest import.
The world is wide, a shelter, a refuge can be purchased any where —
and that is all I seek."
The gaming table, the turf, loss of fortune, were the ideas naturally
conveyed into the lady's mind by this reply. "Is all - every thing gone
i "A Poetical Essay" 7-8.
LODOR E 113
- lost?" she asked.
"My honour is," he answered, with an effort, "and the rest is of lit-
tle worth."
He paused, and then continued in a low but distinct voice, as if
every word cost him a struggle, yet as if he wished each one to be
fraught with its entire meaning to his hearer;"! cannot well explain to
you the motives of my sudden determination, nor will I complain of
the part you have had in bringing on this catastrophe. It is over now.
No power on earth — no heavenly power can erase the past, nor
change one iota of what, but an hour ago, did not exist, but which
now exists; altering all things to both of us for ever; I am a dishon-
oured man."
"Speak without more comment," cried Lady Lodore;"for Heaven's
sake explain — I must know what you mean."
"I have insulted a gentleman," replied her husband, "and I will
yield no reparation. I have disgraced a nobleman by a blow, and I will
offer no apology, could one be accepted — and it could not; nor will I
give satisfaction."
Lady Lodore remained silent. Her thoughts speedily ran over the
dire objects which her husband's speech presented. A quarrel - she
too readily guessed with whom — a blow, a duel; her cheek blanched —
yet not so; for Lodore refused to fight. In spite of the terror with
which an anticipated rencontre had filled her, the idea of cowardice in
her husband, or the mere accusation of it, brought the colour back to
her face. She felt that her heedlessness had given rise to all this harm;
but again she felt insulted that doubts of her sentiments or conduct
should be the occasion of a scene of violence. Both remained silent.
Lodore stood leaning on the mantelpiece, his cheek flushed, agitation
betraying itself in each gesture, mixed with a resolve to command
himself. Cornelia had advanced from the door to the middle of the
room; she stood irresolute, too indignant and too fearful to ask further
explanation, yet anxious to receive it. Still he hesitated. He was
desirous of finding some form of words which might convey all the
information that it was necessary she should receive, and yet conceal
all that he desired should remain untold.
At last he spoke. "It is unnecessary to allude to the irretrievable past.
The future is not less unalterable for me. I will not fight with, nor
1 1 4 MARY SHELLE Y
apologize to, the boy I have insulted; I must therefore fly — fly my
country and the face of man; go where the name of Lodore will not be
synonymous with infamy - to an island in the east - to the desert
wilds of America — it matters not whither. The simple question is,
whether you are prepared on a sudden to accompany me? I would not
ask this of your generosity, but that, married as we are, our destinies are
linked, far beyond any power we possess to sunder them. Miserable as
my future fortunes will be, far other than those which I invited you
but four years ago to share, you are better off incurring the worst with
me, than you could be, struggling alone for a separate existence."
"Pardon me, Lodore," said Cornelia, somewhat subdued by the
magnitude of the crisis brought about, she believed, however involun-
tarily by herself, and by the sadness that, as he spoke, filled the dark
eyes of her companion with an expression more melancholy than
tears; "pardon me, if I seek for further explanation. Your antagonist"
(they neither of them ventured to speak a name, which hung on the
lips of both) "is a mere boy. Your refusal to fight with him results of
course from this consideration; while angry, and if I must allude to so
distasteful a falsehood, while unjust suspicion prevent your making
him fitting and most due concessions. Were the occasion less terrible,
I might disdain to assert my own innocence; but as it is, I do most
solemnly declare, that Count Casimir "
"I ask no question on that point, but simply wish to know
whether you will accompany me," interrupted Lodore, hastily; "the
rest I am sorry for - but it is over. You, my poor girl, though in some
measure the occasion, and altogether the victim, of this disaster, can
exercise no controul over it. No foreign noble would accept the most
humiliating submissions as compensation for a blow, and this urchin
shall never receive from me the shadow of any."
"Is there no other way?" asked Cornelia.
"Not any," replied Lodore, while his agitation increased, and his
voice grew tremulous; "No consideration on earth could arm me
against his life. One other mode there is. I might present myself as a
mark for his vengeance, with a design of not returning his fire, but I am
shut out even from this resource. And this," continued Lodore, losing as
he spoke, all self-command, carried away by the ungovernable passions
he had hitherto suppressed, and regardless, as he strode up and down the
LODOR E 115
room, of Cornelia, who half terrified had sunk into a chair; "this - these
are the result of my crimes - such, from their consequences, I now
term, what by courtesy I have hitherto named my follies - this is the
end! Bringing into frightful collision those who are bound by sacred
ties — changing natural love into unnatural, deep-rooted, unspeakable
hate — arming blood against kindred blood — and making the innocent
a parricide. O Theodora, what have you not to answer for!"
Lady Lodore started. The image he presented was too detestable.
She repressed her emotions, and assuming that air of disdain, which
we are so apt to adopt to colour more painful feelings, she said, "This
sounds very like a German tragedy, being at once disagreeable and
inexplicable."
1
"It is a tragedy," he replied; "a tragedy brought now to its last dark
catastrophe. Casimir is my son. We may neither of us murder the
other; nor will I, if again brought into contact with him, do other
than chastise the insolent boy. The tiger is roused within me.You have
a part in this."
A flash of anger glanced from Cornelia's eyes. She did not reply -
she rose — she quitted the room — she passed on with apparent com-
posure, till reaching the door of her mother's chamber, she rushed
impetuously in. Overcome with indignation, panting, choked, she
threw herself into her arms, saying,
 {>
Save me! "A violent fit of hyster-
ics followed.
At first Lady Lodore could only speak of the injury and insult she
had herself suffered; and Lady Santerre, who by no means wished to
encourage feelings, which might lead to violence in action, tried to
soothe her irritation. But when allusions to Lodore's intention of
quitting England and the civilized world for ever, mingled with Cor-
nelia's exclamations, the affair assumed a new aspect in the wary lady's
eyes. The barbarity of such an idea excited her utmost resentment. At
once she saw the full extent of the intended mischief, and the risk she
incurred of losing the reward of years of suffering and labour. When
an instantaneous departure was mentioned, an endless, desolate jour-
ney, which it was doubtful whether she should be admitted to share,
to be commenced that very night, she perceived that her measures to
i A common sentiment; see Wordsworth's comment about "sickly and stupid Ger-
man Tragedies" in his Preface to Lyrical Ballads (1800).
116 MARY SHELLEY
prevent it must be promptly adopted. The chariot was still waiting
which was to have conveyed Lord and Lady Lodore to their assembly;
dressed as she was for this, without preparation, she hurried her
daughter into the carriage, and bade the coachman drive to a villa
they rented at Twickenham; leaving, in explanation, these few lines
addressed to her son-in-law.
"The scene of this evening has had an alarming effect upon Cor-
nelia. Time will soften the violence of her feelings, but some immedi-
ate step was necessary to save, I verily believe, her life. I take her to
Twickenham, and will endeavour to calm her: until I shall have in
some measure succeeded, I think you had better not follow us; but let
us hear from you; for although my attention is so painfully engrossed
by my daughters sufferings, I am distressed on your account also, and
shall continue very uneasy until I hear from you.
"Friday Evening!'
Lady Santerre and her daughter reached Twickenham. Lady Lodore
went to bed, and assisted by a strong composing draught, administered
by her mother, her wrongs and her anger were soon hushed in pro-
found sleep. Night, or rather morning, was far spent before this
occurred, so that it was late in the afternoon of the ensuing day before
she awoke, and recalled to her memory the various conflicting senti-
ments which had occupied her previous to her repose.
During the morning, Lady Santerre had despatched a servant to
Berkeley-square, to summon her daughter's peculiar attendants. He
now brought back the intelligence that Lord Lodore had departed for
the continent, about three hours after his wife had quitted his house.
But to this he added tidings of another circumstance, for which both
ladies were totally unprepared. Cornelia had entered the carriage the
preceding night, without spending one thought on the sleeping
cherub in the nursery. What was her surprise and indignation, when
she heard that her child and its attendant formed a part of his lord-
ship's travelling suite. The mother's first impulse was to follow her
offspring; but this was speedily exchanged for a bitter sense of wrong,
aversion to her husband, and a resolve not to yield one point, in the
open warfare thus declared by him.
LODOR E 117
CHAPTER XI.
Amid two seas, on one small point of land,
Wearied, uncertain, and amazed, we stand;
On either side our thoughts incessant turn,
Forward we dread, and looking back we mourn.
PRIOR .
 1
ACCUSTOME D to obey the more obvious laws of necessity, those
whose situation in life obliges them to earn their daily bread, are
already broken in to the yoke of fate. But the rich and great are van-
quished more slowly. Their time is their own; as fancy bids them, they
can go east, west, north, or south; they wish, and accomplish their
wishes; and cloyed by the too easy attainment of the necessaries, and
even of the pleasures of life, they fly to the tortures of passion, and to
the labour of overcoming the obstacles that stand in the way of their
forbidden desires, as resources against ennui and satiety. Reason is lost
in the appetite for excitement, and a kind of unnatural pleasure
springs from their severest pains, because thus alone are they roused to
a full sense of their faculties; thus alone is existence and its purposes
brought home to them.
In the midst of this, their thoughtless career, the eternal law which
links ill to ill, is at hand to rebuke and tame the rebel spirit; and such a
tissue of pain and evil is woven from their holiday pastime, as checks
them midcourse, and makes them feel that they are slaves. The young
are scarcely aware of this; they delight to contend with Fate, and laugh
as she clanks their chains. But there is a period - sooner or later
comes to all - when the links envelop them, the bolts are shot, the
rivets fixed, the iron enters the flesh, the soul is subdued, and they fly
to religion or proud philosophy, to seek for an alleviation, which the
crushed spirit can no longer draw from its own resources.
This hour! this fatal hour! How many can point to the shadow on
the dial, and say, "Then it was that I felt the whole weight of my
humanity, and knew myself to be the subject of an unvanquishable
i Matthew Prior, Solomon on the Vanity of the World: A Poem in Three Books (1718)
3.613-616.
1 1 8 MARY SHELLEY
power!"This dark moment had arrived for Lodore. He had spent his
youth in passion, and exhausted his better nature in a struggle for, and
in the enjoyment of, pleasure. He found disappointment, and desired
change. It came at his beck. He married. He was not satisfied; but still
he felt that it was because he did not rouse himself, that the bonds sate
so heavily upon him. He was enervated. He sickened at the idea of
the struggle it would require to cast off his fetters, and he preferred
adapting his nature to endure their weight. But he believed that it was
only because he did not raise his hand, nor determine on one true
effort, that he was thus enslaved. And now his hand was raised — the
effort made; but no change ensued; and he felt that there was no
escape from the inextricable bonds that fastened him to misery.
He had believed that he did right in introducing his wife to the
Countess Lyzinski. He felt that he could not neglect this lady; and
such was her rank, that any affectation of a separate acquaintance
would invite those observations which he deprecated. It was, after all,
matter of trivial import that he should be the person to bring them
acquainted. Moving in the same circles, they must meet — they might
clash: it was better that they should be on friendly terms. He did not
foresee the intimacy that ensued; and still less, that his own violent
passions would be called into action. That they were so, was, to the
end, a mystery even to himself. He no longer loved the Countess; and,
in the solitude of his chamber, he often felt his heart yearn towards
the noble youth, her son; but when they met - when Cornelia spent
her blandest smiles upon him, and when the exquisitely beautiful
countenance of Casimir became lighted up with gladness and grati-
tude, a fire of rage was kindled in his heart, and he could no more
command himself, than can the soaring flames of a conflagration
bend earthward. He felt ashamed; but new fury sprung from this very
sensation. For worlds, he would not have his frenzy pried into by
another; and yet he had no power to controul its manifestation. His
wife expostulated with him concerning Casimir, and laughed his
rebuke to scorn. But she did not read the tumult of unutterable jeal
ousy and hate, that slept within his breast, like an earthquake beneath
the soil, the day before a city falls.
All tended to add fuel to this unnatural flame. His own exertions
to subdue its fierceness but kindled it anew. Often he entered the
LODOR E 119
same room with the young Count, believing that he had given his
suspicions to the winds - that he could love him as a son, and rejoice
with a fathers pride in the graces of his figure and the noble qualities
of his mind. For a few seconds the fiction endured: he felt a pang - it
was nothing - gone; it would not return again: - another! was he fo
ever to be thus tortured? And then a word a look, an appearance of
slighting him on the part of Casimir, an indiscreet smile on Cornelia's
lips, would at once set a-light the whole devastating blaze. The
Countess alone had any power over him; but though he yielded to
her influence, he was the more enraged that she should behold his
weakness; and that while he succeeded in maintaining an elevated
impassibility with regard to herself, his heart, with all its flaws and
poverty of purpose, should, through the ill-timed interference of this
boy, be placed once more naked in her hand.
Such a state of feeling, where passion combated passion, while rea-
son was forgotten in the strife, was necessarily pregnant with ruin.
The only safety was in flight ; - and Lodore would have flown - h
would have absented himself until the cause of his sufferings had
departed - but that, more and more, jealousy entered into his feelings
— a jealousy, wound up by the peculiarity of his situation, into a sensi-
tiveness that bordered on insanity, which saw guilt in a smile, and
overwhelming, hopeless ruin, in the simplest expression of kindness.
Cornelia herself was disinclined to quit London, and tenacious pride
rendered him averse to proposing it, since he could frame no plausible
pretext for his change of purpose, and it had been previously arranged
that they should remain till the end of July. The presence of the
Countess Lyzinski was a tie to keep her; and to have pleaded his feel-
ings with regard to Casimir, could he have brought himself so to do,
would probably have roused her at once into rebellion. There was no
resource; he must bear, and also he must forbear; - but the last was
beyond his power, and his attempt at the first brought with it destruc-
tion. In the last instance, at the Russian Ambassador's, irritated by
Cornelia's tone of defiance, and subsequent levity, he levelled a scorn-
ful remark at the guiltless and unconscious offender. Casimir had
endured his arrogance and injustice long. He knew of no tie, no
respect due, beyond that which youth owes to maturer years; yet the
natural sweetness of his disposition inclined him to forbearance, until
12 0 MARY SHELLE Y
now, that surrounded by his own countrymen and by Russians, it
became necessary that he should assert himself. He replied with
haughtiness; Lodore rejoined with added insult; — and when again
Casimir retorted, he struck him.The young nobles eyes flashed fire:
several gentlemen interposed between them; — and yielding to the
expediency of the moment, the Pole, with admirable temper, with-
drew.
Humiliated and dismayed, but still burning with fury, Lodore saw
at once the consequences of his angry transport. With all the impetu-
osity of his fiery spirit, he resolved to quit at once the scene in which
he had played his part so ill. There was no other alternative. The most
frightful crimes blocked up every other outlet: this was his sole
escape, and he must seize on it without delay. Lady Lodore had not
even deigned to answer his request that she should accompany him;
and her mother's note appeared the very refinement of insolence.
They abandoned him. They left the roof from which he was about to
exile himself, even before he had quitted it, as if in fear of contamina-
tion during his brief delay. Thus he construed their retreat; and
worked up, as he was, almost to madness, he considered their depar-
ture as the commencement of that universal ban, which for ever,
hereafter, was to accompany his name. It opened anew the wound his
honour had sustained; and he poured forth a vow never more to ally
himself in bonds of love or amity with one among his kind.
His purpose was settled, and he did not postpone its execution.
Post-horses were ordered, and hasty preparations made, for his depar-
ture. Alone, abandoned, disgraced, in another hour he was to quit his
home, his wife, all that endears existence, for ever: yet the short inter-
val that preceded his departure hung like a long-drawn day upon
him; and time seemed to make a full stop, at a period when he would
have rejoiced had it leaped many years to come.The hearts prayer in
agony did not avail: he was still kept lingering, when a knocking at
the door announced a visitor, who, at that late hour, could come for
one purpose only. Lord Lodore ordered himself to be denied, and
Count Casimir s second departed to seek him elsewhere. Cold dew-
drops stood on Lodore s brow as he heard this gentleman parley in a
foreign accent with the servant; trying, doubtless, to make out where
it was likely that he should meet with him: the door closed at last, and
LODOR E 121
he listened to the departing steps of his visitor, who could scarcely
have left the square, before his travelling chariot drove up. And now,
while final arrangements were making, with a heart heavy from bitter
self-condemnation, he visited the couch of his sleeping daughter,
once more to gaze on her sweet face, and for the last time to bestow a
father s blessing on her. The early summer morning was abroad in the
sky; and as he opened her curtains, the first sun-beam played upon her
features. He stooped to kiss her little rosy lips: - "And I leave this
spotless being to the blighting influence of that woman!" His mur-
murs disturbed the child's slumbers: she woke, and smiled to see her
father; and then insisted upon rising, as he was up, and it was day
"But I am come to say good-bye, sweet," he said; "I am going a
long journey."
"O take me with you!" cried the little girl, springing up, and fas-
tening her arms round his neck. He felt her soft cheek prest to his; her
hands trying to hold fast, and to resist his endeavours to disengage
them. His heart warmed within him. "For a short distance I may
indulge myself," he said, and he thought how her prattle would solace
his darker cares, during his road to Southampton. So, causing her
attendant to make speedy preparation, he took her in the carriage
with him; and her infantine delight so occupied him, that he scarcely
remembered his situation, or 'what exactly he was doing, as he drove
for the last time through the lightsome and deserted streets of the
metropolis.
And now he had quitted these; and the country, in all its summer
beauty, opened around him - meadows and fields with their hedge-
rows, tufted groves crowning the uplands, and "the blue sky bent over
all."
1
 "From these they cannot banish me," he thought; "in spite of dis-
honour and infamy, the loveliness of nature, and the freedom of my
will, still are mine: - and is this all?" - his child had sunk to sleep, nes-
tled close in his arms; "Ah ! what will these be to me, when I have lost
this treasure, dearest of all? - yet why lose her?"This question, when it
first presented itself to him, he put aside as one that answered itself-
to deprive a mother of her child were barbarity beyond that of sav-
ages; - but again and again it came across him, and he began to reason
i Coleridge, Christabel (1816) 330.
12 2 MARY SHELLEY
with it, and to convince himself that he should be unjust towards
himself in relinquishing this last remaining blessing. His arguments
were false, his conclusions rash and selfish; but of this he was not
aware. Our several minds, in reflecting to our judgments the occur-
rences of life, are like mirrors of various shapes and hues, so that we
none of us perceive passing objects with exactly similar optics; and
while all pretend to regulate themselves by the quadrant of justice, the
deceptive medium through which the reality is viewed, causes our
ideas of it to be at once various and false. This is the case in immater-
ial points; how much more so, when self-love magnifies, and passion
obscures, the glass through which we look upon others and ourselves.
The chief task of the philosopher is to purify and correct the intellec-
tual prism; - but Lodore was the reverse of a philosopher; and the
more he gazed and considered, the more imperfect and distorted
became his perception.
To act justly by ourselves and others, is the aim of every well-con-
ditioned mind: for the sight of pain in our fellow-creatures, and the
sense of self-condemnation within ourselves, is fraught with a pang
from which we would willingly escape; and every heart not formed
of the coarsest materials is keenly alive to such emotions. Lodore
resolved to judge calmly, and he reviewed coolly, and weighed (he
believed) impartially, the various merits of the question. He thought
of Lady Santerre's worldliness, her vulgar ambition, her low-born
contempt for all that is noble and elevating in human nature. He
thought of Cornelias docility to her mothers lessons, her careless dis-
regard of the nobler duties of life, of her frivolity and unfeeling
nature: - then, almost against his will, his own many excellencies rose
before him; - his lofty aspirations, his self-sacrifice for the good of
others, the affectionateness of his disposition, his mildness, his desire
to be just and kind to all, his willingness to devote every hour of the
day, and every thought of his mind, to the well-bringing-up of his
daughter: a person must be strangely blind who did not perceive that,
as far as the child was concerned, she would be far better off with
him.
And then, in another point of view: Lady Lodore had her mother
- and she had the world. She had not only beauty, rank, and wealth;
but she had a taste for enjoying the advantages yielded by these on the
LODOR E 123
common soil of daily life. He cared for nothing in the wide world —
he loved nothing but this little child. He would willingly exchange
for her the far greater portion of his fortune, which Lady Lodore
should enjoy; reserving for himself such a pittance merely as would
suffice for his own and his daughters support. He had neither home,
nor friends, nor youth, nor taintless reputation; nor any of all the
blessings of life, of which Cornelia possessed a superabundance. Her
child was as nothing in the midst of these. She had left her without a
sigh, even without a thought; while but to imagine the moment of
parting was a dagger to her fathers heart.What a fool he had been to
hesitate so long — to hesitate at all! There she was, this angel of com-
fort; her little form was cradled in his arms, he felt her soft breath
upon his hand, and the regular heaving of her bosom responded to
the beatings of his own heart; her golden, glossy hair, her crimsoned
cheek, her soft, round limbs; — all this matchless "bower of flesh," that
held in the budding soul, and already expanding affections of this
earthly cherub, was with him. And had he imagined that he could
part with her? Rather would he return to Lady Lodore, to dishonour,
to scenes of hate and of the world's contempt, so that thus he pre-
served her: it could not be required of him; but if Cornelia's heart was
animated by a tithe of the fondness that warmed his, she would not
hesitate in her choice; but, discarding every unworthy feeling, follow
her child into the distant and solitary abode he was about to select.
Thus pacifying his conscience, Lodore came to the conclusion of
making his daughter the partner of his exile. Soon after mid-day, they
arrived at Southampton; a small vessel was on the point of sailing for
Havre, and on board this he hurried. Before he went he gave one
hasty retrospective view to those he was leaving behind - his wife, his
sister, the filial antagonist from whom he was flying; he could readily
address himself to the first of these, when landed on the opposite
coast; but as he wished to keep his destination a secret from the latter,
and to prevent, if possible, his being followed and defied by him, an
event still to be feared, he employed the few remaining minutes,
before quitting his country for ever, in writing a brief letter to the
Countess Lyzinski, which he gave in charge to a servant whom he
dismissed, and sent back to town. And thus he now addressed her,
who, in his early life, had been as the moon to raise the tide of pas-
12 4 MARY SHELLE Y
sion, incapable, alas! of controlling its waves when at the full.
"It is all over: I have fulfilled my part - the rest remains with you.
To prevent the ruin which my folly has brought down, from crushing
any but myself, I quit country, home, good name — all that is dear to
man. I do not complain, nor will I repine. But let the evil, I entreat
you, stop here. Casimir must not follow me; he must not know
whither I am gone; and while he brands his antagonist with the name
of coward, he must not guess that for his sake I endure this stain. I
leave it to your prudence and sagacity to calm or to mislead him, to
prevent his suspecting the truth, or rashly seeking my life. I sacrifice
more, far more, than my heart's blood on his account — let that satisfy
even your vengeance.
"I would not write harshly. The dream of life has long been over
for me; it matters not how or where the last sands flow out. I do not
blame you even for this ill-omened journey to England, which could
avail you nothing. Once before we parted for ever, Theodora; but that
separation was as the pastime of children in comparison with the
tragic scene we now enact. A thousand dangers yawn between us, and
we shall neither dare to repass the gulf that divides us. Forget me; — be
happy, and forget me! May Casimir be a blessing to you, and while
you glory in his perfections and prosperity, cast into oblivion every
thought of him, who now bids you an eternal adieu."
LODOR E 125
CHAPTER XII.
Her virtue, like our own was built
Too much on that indignant fuss,
Hypocrite pride stirs up in us,
To bully out another's guilt.
SHELLEY .
 l
TH E fifth day after Lord Lodore s departure brought Cornelia a letter
from him. She had spent the interval at Twickenham, surrendering her
sorrows and their consolation to her mother's care; and inspired by
her with deep resentment and angry disdain. The letter she received
was dated Havre: the substance of it was as follows.
"Believe me I am actuated by no selfish considerations, when I ask
you once again to reflect before the Atlantic divides us - probably for
ever. It is for your own sake, your own happiness only, that I ask you
to hesitate. I will not urge your duty to me; the dishonour that has
fallen on me I am most ready to bear alone; mine towards you, as far
as present circumstances permit, I am desirous to fulfil, and this feeling
dictates my present address.
"Consider the solitary years you will pass alone, even though in a
crowd, divided from your husband and your child — your home deso-
late - calumny and ill-nature at watch around you - not one protect
ing arm stretched over you. Your mother's presence, it is true, will
suffice to prevent your position from being in the least equivocal; but
the time will soon come when you will discover your mistake in her,
and find how unworthy she is of your exclusive affection. I will not
urge the temptations and dangers that will beset you; your pride will,
I doubt not, preserve you from these, yet they will be near you in
their worst shape: you will feel their approaches; you will shudder at
their menaces, you will desire my death, and the faith pledged to me
at the altar will become a chain and a torture to you.
"I can only offer such affection as your sacrifice will deserve to
adorn a lonely and obscure home; rank, society, flatterers, the luxuries
i Peter Bell the Third (1839) 289-292. "His" altered to "Her."
12 6 MARY SHELLEY
of civilization — all these blessings you must forego. Your lot will be
cast in solitude.The wide forest, the uninhabited plain, will shelter us.
Your husband, your child; in us alone you must view the sum and aim
of your life. I will not use the language of persuasion, but in inviting
you to share my privations, I renew, yet more solemnly, the vows we
once interchanged; and it shall be my care to endeavour to fulfil mine
with more satisfaction to both of us than has until now been the case.
"It is useless to attempt to veil the truth, that hitherto our hearts
have been alienated from each other. The cause is not in ourselves,
and must never again be permitted to influence either of us. If amidst
the avocations of society, the presence of a third person has been suffi-
cient to place division between us; - if, on the flowery path of our
prosperous life, one fatal interference has strewn thorns and burning
ashes beneath our feet, how much more keenly would this interven-
tion be felt in the retirement in which we are hereafter to spend our
days. — In the lonely spot to which it will be necessary to contract all
our thoughts and hopes, love must alone reign; or hell itself would be
but pastime in comparison to our ever-renewing and sleepless tor-
ments. The spirit of worldliness, of discord, of paltry pride, must not
enter the paling which is to surround our simple dwelling. Come,
attended by affection, by open-hearted confidence; - come to me -
to your child! - you will find with us peace and mutual love, the true
secret of life. All that can make your mother happy in England, shall
be provided with no niggard hand: - but come alone, Cornelia, my
wife! — come, to take possession of the hearts that are truly yours, and
to learn a new lesson, in a new world, from him who will dedicate
himself entirely to you.
"Alas ! I fear that I speak an unknown language, and one that you
will never deign to understand. Still I again implore you to reflect
before you decide. On one point I am firm - I feel that I am in the
right - that every thing depends upon it. Our daughter's guileless
heart shall never be tainted by all that I abhor and despise. For her
sake, for yours, more than for my own, I am as rock upon one ques-
tion. Do not strive to move me — it will be useless! Come alone! and
ten thousand welcomes and blessings shall hail your arrival!
"A vessel, in which I have engaged a passage, sails for New York,
from this place, in five days time. You must not delay your decision;
LODOR E 127
but hasten, if such be your gracious resolve, to join me here.
"If you decide to sacrifice yourself to one who will never repay
that sacrifice, and to the world, - that dreary, pain-haunted jungle, - at
least you shall receive from me all that can render your situation there
prosperous. You shall not complain of want of generosity on my part. I
shall, in my new course of life, require little myself; the remainder of
my fortune shall be at your disposal.
"I need not recommend secrecy to you as to the real motive of my
exile - your own sense of delicacy will dictate reserve and silence.
This letter will be delivered to you by Fenton: he will attend you back
here, or bring me your negative — the seal, I feel assured, of your
future misery God grant that you choose wisely and well! Adieu."
The heart of Lady Lodore burnt within her bosom as she read
these lines. Haughty and proud, was she to be dictated to thus? and to
follow, an obedient slave, the master that deigned to recall her to his
presence, after he had (so she termed his abrupt departure) deserted
her? Her mother sate by, looking at her with an anxious and inquiring
glance, as she read the letter. She saw the changes of her countenance,
as it expressed anger, scorn, and bitter indignation. She finished — she
was still silent; - how could she show this insulting address to her par-
ent? Again she seemed to study its contents — to ponder.
Lady Santerre rose — gently she was taking the paper from Cor-
nelias hand. "You must not read it," she cried; - "and yet you must; -
and thus one other wrong is heaped upon the many."
Lady Santerre read the letter; silently she peruse d it - folded it -
placed it on the table. Cornelia looked up at her. "I do not fear your
decision," she said; "you will not abandon a parent, who has devoted
herself to you from your cradle — who lives but for you."
The unhappy girl, unable to resist her mothers appeal, threw her-
self into her arms. Even the cold Lady Santerre was moved - tears
flowed from her eyes: — "My dear child!" she exclaimed.
"My dear child!" - the words found an echo in Lady Lodore's
bosom;-"I am never to see my child more!"
"Such is his threat," said her mother, "knowing thus the power he
has over you; but do not fear that it will be accomplished. Lord
Lodore's conduct is guided by no principle - by no deference to the
12 8 MARY SHELLE Y
opinion of the world — by no just or sober motives. He is as full of
passion as a madman, and more vacillating. This is his fancy now — to
quit England for the wilderness, and to torture you into following
him. You are as lost as he, if you yield. A little patience, and all will be
right again. He will soon grow tired of playing the tragic hero on a
stage surrounded by no spectators; he will discover the folly of his
conduct; he will return, and plead for forgiveness, and feel that he is
too fortunate in a wife, who has preserved her own conduct free from
censure and remark, while he has made himself a laughing stock to
all. Do not permit yourself, dear Cornelia, to be baffled in this war of
passion with reason; of jealousy, selfishness, and tyranny, with natural
affection, a child's duty, and the respect you owe to yourself. Even if
he remain away, he will quickly become weary of being accompanied
by an infant and its nurse, and too glad to find that you will still be
willing to act the mother towards his child. Firmness and discretion
are the arms you must use against folly and violence. Yield, and you
are the victim of a despotism without parallel, the slave of a taskmas-
ter, whose first commands are gentle, soft, and easy injunctions to
desert your mother: to exile yourself from your country, and to bury
yourself alive in some unheard-of desert, whose name even he does
not deign to communicate. All this would be only too silly and too
wild, were it not too wicked and too cruel. Believe me, my love, trust
yourself to my guidance, and all will be well; Lodore himself will
thank, if such thanks be of value, the prudence and generosity you
will display."
Cornelia listened, and was persuaded. Above all, Lady Santerre tried
to impress upon her mind, that Lodore, finding her firm, would give
up his rash schemes, and remain in Europe; that even he had, probably,
never really contemplated crossing the Atlantic. At all events, that she
must not be guided by the resolves, changeable as the moon, of a man
governed by no sane purpose; but that, by showing herself determined,
he would be brought to bend to her will. In this spirit Lady Lodore
replied to her husbands letter. Fenton, Lord Lodore's valet, who had
been the bearer, had left it, and proceeded to London. He returned the
day following, to receive his lady's orders. Cornelia saw him and ques-
tioned him. She heard that Lord Lodore was to dismiss him and all his
English servants before embarking for America, with the exception of
LODOR E 129
the child's nurse, whom he had promised to send back on his arrival at
New York. He had engaged his passage, and fitted up cabins for his
convenience, so that there could be no doubt of his having finally
resolved to emigrate. This was all he knew; Cornelia gave him her let-
ter, and he departed on the instant for Southampton.
In giving his wife so short an interval in which to form her deter-
mination, Lodore conceived that her first impulse would be to join
her child, that she would act upon it, and at least come as far as Havre,
though perhaps her mother would accompany her, to claim her
daughter, even if she did not besides foster a hope of changing his
resolves. Lodore had an unacknowledged reserve in his own mind,
that if she would give up her mother, and for a time the world, he
would leave the choice of their exile to her, and relinquish the dreary
scheme of emigrating to America. With these thoughts in his mind, he
anxiously awaited each day the arrival of the packets from England.
Each day he hoped to see Cornelia disembark from one of them; and
even though accompanied by Lady Santerre, he felt that his heart
would welcome her. During this interval, his thoughts had recurred
to his home; and imagination had already begun to paint the memory
of that home, in brighter colours than the reality. Lady Lodore had
not been all coldness and alienation; in spite of dissension, she had
been his; her form, graceful as a nymph's, had met his eyes each
morning; her smile, her voice, her light cheering laugh, had animated
and embellished, how many hours during the long days, grown vacant
without her. Cherishing a hope of seeing her again, he forgot her
petulance — her self-will — her love of pleasure; and remembering
only her beauty and her grace, he began, in a lover-like fashion, to
impart to this charming image, a soul in accordance to his wishes,
rather than to the reality. Each day he attended less carefully to the
preparations of his long voyage. Each day he expected her; a chill
came over his heart at each evenings still recurring disappointment,
till hope awoke on the ensuing morning. More than once he had
been on the eve of sailing to England to meet and escort her; a thou-
sand times he reproached himself for not having made Southampton
the place of meeting, and he was withheld from proceeding thither
only by the fear of missing her. Giving way to these sentiments, the
tide of affection, swelling into passion, rose in his breast. He doubted
13 0 MARY SHELLEY
not that, ere long, she would arrive, and taxed himself for modes to
show his gratitude and love.
The American vessel was on the point of sailing - it might have
gone without him, he cared not; when on the sixth day Fenton
arrived, and put into his hand Cornelia s letter. This then was the end
of his expectation, this little paper coldly closed in the destruction of
his hopes; yet might it not merely contain a request for delay? There
was something in the servant's manner, that looked not like that; but
still, as soon as the idea crossed him, he tore open the seal. The words
were few, they were conceived in all the spirit of resentment.
"You add insult to cruelty," it said, "but I scorn to complain. The
very condition you make displays the hollowness and deceit of your
proceeding. You well know that I cannot, that I will not, desert my
mother; but by calling on me for this dereliction of all duty and virtu-
ous affection, you contrive to throw on me the odium of refusing to
accompany you; this is a worthy design, and it is successful.
"I demand my child — restore her to me. It is cruelty beyond com-
pare, to separate one so young from maternal tenderness and foster-
age. By what right — through what plea, do you rob me of her? The
tyranny and dark jealousy of your vindictive nature display themselves
in this act of unprincipled violence, as well as in your insulting treat-
ment of my mother. You alone must reign, be feared, be thought of; all
others are to be sacrificed, living victims, at the shrine of your self-
love. What have you done to merit so much devotion? Ask your heart
- if it be not turned to stone, ask it what you have done to compare
with the long years of affection, kindness, and never-ceasing care that
my beloved parent has bestowed on me. I am your wife, Lodore; I
bear your name; I will be true to the vows I have made you, nor will I
number the tears you force me to shed; but my mother's are sacred,
and not one falls in vain for me.
"Give me my child - let the rest be yours - depart in peace! If
Heaven have blessings for the coldly egotistical, the unfeeling despot,
may these blessings be yours; but do not dare to interfere with emo-
tions too pure, too disinterested for you ever to understand. Give me
my child, and fear neither my interference nor resentment. I am con-
tent to be as dead to you — quite content never to see you more."
LODOR E 131
CHAPTER XIII.
And so farewell; for we will henceforth be
As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see.
HEYWOOD .
 :
LODOR E had passed many days upon the sea, on his voyage to Ameri-
ca, before he could in the least calm the bitter emotions to which Cor-
nelia's violent letter had given birth. He was on the wide Atlantic; the
turbid ocean swelled and roared around him, and heaven, the mansion
of the winds, showed on its horizon an extent of water only. He was
cut off from England, from Europe, for ever; and the vast continents he
quitted dwindled into a span; but still the images of those he left
behind dwelt in his soul, engrossing and filling it. They could no
longer personally taunt nor injure him; but the thought of them, of all
that they might say or do, haunted his mind; it was like an unreal strife
of gigantic shadows beneath dark night, which, when you approach,
dwindles into thin air, but which, contemplated at a distance, fills the
hemisphere with star-reaching heads, and steps that scale mountains.
There was a sleepless tumult in Lodore s heart; it was a waking dream
of the most painful description. Again and again Cornelia assailed him
with reproaches, and Lady Santerre poured out curses upon him; his
fancy lent them words and looks full of menace, hate, and violence.
Sometimes the sighing of the breeze in the shrouds assumed a tone
that mocked their voices; his sleep was disturbed by dreams more
painful than his daylight fancies; and the sense which they imparted of
suffering and oppression, was prolonged throughout the day.
He occasionally felt that he might become mad, and at such
moments, the presence of his child brought consolation and calm; her
caresses, her lisped expressions of affection, her playfulness, her smiles,
were spells to drive away the fantastic reveries that tortured him. He
looked upon her cherub face, and the world, late so full of wretched-
ness and ill, assumed brighter hues; the storm was allayed, the dark
clouds fled, sunshine poured forth its beams; by degrees, tender and
i Thomas Heywood, A Woman Killed With Kindness (1607) 13.179-180, slightly mis-
quoted: "So, farewell, Nan, for we will henceforth be / As we had never seen, ne'er
more shall see."
13 2 MARY SHELLE Y
gentle sensations crept over his heart; he forgot the angry contentions
in which, in imagination, he had been engaged, and he felt, that alone
on the sea, with this earthly angel of peace near him, he was divided
from every evil, to dwell with tranquillity and love.
To part with her had become impossible. She was all that rendered
him human - that plucked the thorn from his pillow, and poured one
mitigating drop into the bitter draught administered to him.
Cornelia, Casimir, Theodora, his mother-in-law, these were all var-
ious names and shapes of the spirit of evil, sent upon earth to torture
him: but this heavenly sprite could set at nought their machinations
and restore him to the calm and hopes of childhood. Extreme in all
things, Lodore began more than ever to doat upon her and to bind up
his life in her.Yet sometimes his heart softened at the recollection of
his wife, of her extreme youth, and of the natural pang she must feel
at being deprived of her daughter. He figured her pining, and in tears
- he remembered that he had vowed to protect and love her for ever;
and that deprived of him, never more could the soft attentions and
sweet language of love soothe her heart or meet her ear, unattended
with a sense of guilt and degradation. He knew that hereafter she
might feel this — hereafter , when passion might be roused, and he
could afford no remedy. Influenced by such ideas, he wrote to her;
many letters he wrote during his voyage, destroying them one after
another, dictated by the varying feelings that alternately ruled him.
Reason and persuasion, authority and tenderness, reigned by turns in
these epistles; they were written with all the fervour of his ardent
soul, and breathed irresistible power. Had some of these papers met
Cornelia s eye, she had assuredly been vanquished; but fate ordained it
otherwise: fate that blindly weaves our web of life, culling her materi-
als at will, and often wholly refusing to make use of our own desires
and intentions, as forming a part of our destiny.
Lodore arrived at New York, and found, by some chance, letters
already waiting for him there. He had concluded one to his wife full
of affection and kindness, when a letter with the superscription writ-
ten by Lady Santerre was delivered to him. It spoke of law proceed-
ings, of eternal separation, and announced her daughter's resolve to
receive no communication, to read no address, that was not prefaced
by the restoration of her child; it referred him to a solicitor as the
LODOR E 133
medium of future intercourse. With a bitter laugh Lodore tore to
pieces the eloquent and heart-felt appeal he had been on the point of
sending; he gave up his thoughts to business only; he wrote to his
agent, he arranged for his intended journey; in less than a month he
was on his road to the Illinois.
Thus ended all hope of reconciliation, and Lady Santerre won the
day. She had worked on the least amiable of her daughter's feelings,
and exalted anger into hatred, disapprobation into contempt and aver-
sion. Soon after Cornelia had dismissed the servant, she felt that she
had acted with too little reflection. Her heart died within her at the
idea, that too truly Lodore might sail away with her child, and leave
her widowed and solitary for ever. Her proud heart knew, on this
account, no relenting towards her husband, the author of these painful
feelings, but she formed the resolve not to lose all without a struggle.
She announced her intention of proceeding to Havre to obtain her
daughter. Lady Santerre could not oppose so natural a proceeding,
especially as her companionship was solicited as in the highest degree
necessary. They arrived at Southampton; the day was tempestuous, the
wind contrary. Lady Santerre was afraid of the water, and their voyage
was deferred. On the evening of the following day, Fenton arrived
from Havre. Lord Lodore had sailed, the stormy waves of the Atlantic
were between him and the shores of England; pursuit were vain; it
would be an acknowledgment of defeat to follow him to America.
Cornelia returned to Twickenham, maternal sorrow contending in
her heart with mortified pride, and a keen resentful sense of injury.
Lady Lodore was nineteen; an age when youth is most arrogant,
and most heedless of the feelings of others. Her beauty and the admi-
ration it acquired, sate her on the throne of the world, and, to her
own imagination, she looked down like an eastern princess, upon
slaves only: her sway she had believed to be absolute; it was happiness
for others to obey. Exalted by adulation, it was natural that all that
lowered her elevation in her own eyes, should appear impertinent and
hateful. She had not learned to feel with or for others. To act in con-
tradiction to her wishes was a crime beyond compare, and her soul
was in arms to resent the insolence which thus assailed her majesty of
will. The act of Lodore, stepping beyond common-place opposition
into injury and wrong, found no mitigating excuses in her heart. No
13 4 MARY SHELLE Y
gentle return of love, no compassion for the unhappy exile - no gen-
erous desire to diminish the sufferings of one, who was the victim of
the wildest and most tormenting passions, softened her bosom. She
was injured, insulted, despised, and her swelling soul was incapable of
any second emotion to the scorn and hate with which she visited the
author of her degradation. She was to become the theme of the
world's discourse, of its ill-natured censure or mortifying pity. In
whatever light she viewed her present position, it was full of annoy-
ance and humiliation; her path was traced through a maze of pointed
angles, that pained her at every turn, and her reflections magnifying
the imprudence of which she accused herself, suggested no excuse for
her husband, but caused her wounds to fester and burn. Cornelia was
not of a lachrymose disposition; she was a woman who in Sparta had
formed an heroine; who in periods of war and revolution, would
unflinchingly have met calamity, sustaining and leading her own sex.
But through the bad education she had received, and her extreme
youth, elevation of feeling degenerated into mere personal pride, and
heroism was turned into obstinacy; she had been capable of the most
admirable self-sacrifice, had she been taught the right shrine at which
to devote herself; but her mind was narrowed by the mode of her
bringing up, and her loftiest ideas were centered in worldly advan-
tages the most worthless and pitiable. To defraud her of these, was to
deprive her of all that rendered life worth preserving.
Lady Santerre soothed, flattered, and directed her. She poured the
balm of gratified vanity upon injured pride. She bade her expect
speedy repentance from her husband, and impressed her with the
idea, that if she were firm, he must yield. His present blustering prog-
nosticated a speedy calm, when he would regret all that he had done,
and seek, by entire submission, to win back his wife. Any appearance
of concession on her part would spoil all. Cornelia's eyes flashed fire
at the word. Concession! and to whom? To him who had wronged
and insulted her? She readily gave into her mother's hands the man-
agement of all future intercourse with him, reserving alone, for her
own satisfaction, an absolute resolve never to forgive.
The correspondence that ensued, carried on across the Atlantic,
and soon with many miles of continent added to the space, only pro-
duced an interchange of letters written with cool insolence on one
LODOR E 135
side, with heart-burning and impatience on the other. Each served to
widen the breach. When Cornelia was not awakened to resent for
herself, she took up arms on her mother's account. When Lodore
blamed her for being the puppet of one incapable of any generous
feeling, one dedicated to the vulgar worship of Mammon, she
repelled the taunt, and denied the servitude of soul of which she was
accused; she declared that every virtue was enlisted on her mother's
side, and that she would abide by her for ever. In truth, she loved her
the more for Lodore's hatred, and Lady Santerre spared no pains to
impress her with the belief, that she was wholly devoted to her .
Thus years passed away. At first Lady Lodore had lived in some
degree of retirement, but persuaded again to emerge, she soon entered
into the very thickest maze of society. Her fortune was sufficient to
command a respectable station, her beauty gained her partizans, her
untainted reputation secured her position in the world. Attractive as
she was, she was so entirely and proudly correct, that even the women
were not afraid of her. All her intimate associates were people whose
rank gave weight and brilliancy to her situation, but who were con-
spicuous for their domestic virtues. She was looked upon as an
injured and deserted wife, whose propriety of conduct was the more
admirable from the difficulties with which she was surrounded; she
became more than ever the fashion, and years glided on, as from sea-
son to season she shone a bright star among many luminaries,
improving in charms and grace, as knowledge of the world and the
desire of pleasing were added to her natural attractions.
The stories at first in circulation on Lodore s departure, all suffi-
ciently wide from the truth, were half forgotten, and served merely as
an obscure substratum for Cornelia's bright reputation. He was gone:
he could no longer injure nor benefit any, and was therefore no
longer an object of fear or love. The most charitable construction put
upon his conduct was, that he was mad, and it was piously observed,
that his removal from this world would be a blessing. Lady Santerre
triumphed. Withering away in unhonoured age, still she appeared in
the halls of the great, and played the part of Cerberus in her daugh-
ters drawing-room. Lady Lodore, beautiful and admired, intoxicated
with this sort of prosperity, untouched by passion, unharmed by the
temptations that surrounded her, believed that life was spent most
13 6 MARY SHELLE Y
worthily in following the routine observed by those about her, and
securing the privilege of being exclusive. She was the glass of fashion
- the imitated by a vast sect of imitators. The deprivation of her child
was the sole cloud that came between her and the sun. In despite of
herself, she never saw a little cherub with rosy cheeks and golden
hair, but her heart was visited by a pang; and in her dreams she often
beheld, instead of the image of the gay saloons in which she spent her
evenings, a desert wild - a solitary home - and tiny footsteps on the
dewy grass, guiding her to her baby daughter, whose soft cooings,
remembered during absence, were agonizing to her. She awoke, and
vowed her soul to hatred of the author of her sufferings - the cruel-
hearted, insolent Lodore; and then fled to pleasure as the means of
banishing these sad and disturbing emotions. She never again saw
Casimir. Long before she re-appeared in the world, he and his mother
had quitted England. Taught by the slight tinge of weakness that had
mingled with her intercourse with him, she sedulously avoided like
trials in future; and placing her happiness in universal applause, love
saw her set his power at nought, and pride become a more impenetra-
ble shield than wisdom.
LODOR E 137
CHAPTER XIV.
Time and Change together take their flight.
L.E.L.
l
FITZHENR Y and his daughter travelled for many days in rain and
sunshine, across the vast plains of America. Conversation beguiled the
way, and Ethel, delighted by the novelty and variety of all she saw,
often felt as if springing from her seat with a new sense of excitement
and gladness. So much do the young love change, that we have often
thought it the dispensation of the Creator, to show that we are
formed, at a certain age, to quit the parental roof, like the patriarch,
2
to seek some new abode where to pitch our tents, and pasture our
flocks. The clear soft eyes of the fair girl glistened with pleasure at
each picturesque view, each change of earth and sky, each new aspect
of civilization and its results, as they were presented to her.
Fitzhenry — or as he approaches the old world, so long deserted by
him, he may resume his title — Lord Lodore had quitted his abode in
the Illinois upon the spur of the moment; he had left his peaceful
dwelling impatiently, and in haste, giving himself no time for second
thoughts - scarcely for recollection. As the fever of his mind subsided,
he saw no cause to repent his proceeding, and yet he began to look
forward with an anxious and foreboding mind. He had become aware
that the village of the Illinois was not the scene fitted for the
developement of his daughters first social feelings, and that he ought
to take her among the educated and refined, to give her a chance for
happiness. A Gertrude or an Haidee,
3
 brought up in the wilds, inno-
cent and free, and bestowing the treasure of their hearts on some
accomplished stranger, brought on purpose to realize the ideal of their
1 Letitia Elizabeth Landon,"The Ring: the German Minnesinger's Tale" 39, from The
Golden Violet (1827).The line is slightly misquoted: "Change and time take together
their flight."
2 The progenitors of the twelve tribes of Israel: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, or any of
Jacob's twelve sons.
3 The references are to Cantos 2, 3 and 4 of Byron's Don Juan (1819-24) and Thomas
Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming (1809). Shelley's comment is directed to the male
fantasy contained in these depictions of women. Miranda in Shakespeare's The Tem-
pest is another likely comparison.
13 8 MARY SHELLEY
dreamy existences, is a picture of beauty, that requires a miracle to
change into an actual event in life; and that one so pure, so guileless,
and so inexperienced as Ethel, should, in sheer ignorance, give her
affections away unworthily, was a danger to be avoided beyond all
others. Whitelock had performed the part of the wandering stranger,
but he was ill-fitted for it; and Lodore s first idea was to hurry his
daughter away before she should invest him, or any other, with attrib-
utes of glory, drawn from her own imagination and sensibility, wholly
beyond his merits.
This was done. Father and daughter were on their way to New
York, having bid an eternal adieu to the savannas and forests of the
west. For a time, Lodore s thoughts were haunted by the image of the
home they had left. The murmuring of its stream was in his ears, the
shape of each distant hill, the grouping of the trees, surrounding the
wide-spread prairie, the winding pathway and trellised arbour were
before his eyes, and he thought of the changes that the seasons would
operate around, and of his future plans unfulfilled, as any home-bred
farmer might, when his lease was out, and he was forced to remove to
another county.
As their steps drew near the city which was their destination, these
recollections became fainter, and, except in discourse with Ethel,
when their talk usually recurred to the prairie, and their late home, he
began to anticipate the future, and to reflect upon the results of his
present journey.
Whither was he about to go? To England? What reception should
he there meet? and under what auspices introduce his child to her
native country? There was a stain upon his reputation that no future
conduct could efface. The name of Lodore was a by-word and a mark
for scorn; it was introduced with a sneer, followed by calumny and
rebuke. It could not even be forgotten. His wife had remained to keep
alive the censure or derision attached to it. He, it is true, might have
ceased to live in the memories of any. He did not imagine that his
idea ever recurred to the thoughtless throng, whose very name and
identity were changed by the lapse of twelve years. But when it was
mentioned, when he should awaken the forgotten sound by his pres-
ence, the echo of shame linked to it would awaken also; the love of a
sensation so rife among the wealthy and idle, must swell the sound,
LODOR E 139
and Ethel would be led on the world's stage by one who was the
object of its opprobrium.
What then should he do? Solicit Lady Lodore to receive and bring
out her daughter? Deprive himself of her society; and after having
guarded her unassailed infancy, desert her side at the moment when
dangers grew thick, and her mother's example would operate most
detrimentally on her? He thought of his sister, with whom he kept up
a regular though infrequent correspondence. She was ill fitted to
guide a young beauty on a path which she had never trod. He
thought of France, Italy, and Germany, and how he might travel about
with her during the two or three succeeding years, enlarging and
storing her mind, and protracting the happy light-hearted years of
youth. His own experience on the continent would facilitate this
plan; and though it presented, even on this very account, a variety of
objections, it was that to which he felt most attracted.
There was yet another — another image and another prospect to
which he turned with a kind of gasping sensation, which was now a
shrinking aversion to — now an ardent desire for, its fulfilment. This
was the project of a reconciliation with Cornelia, and that they should
henceforth unite in their labours to render each other and their child
happy
Twelve years had passed since their separation: twelve years, which
had led him from the prime of life to its decline — which forced Cor-
nelia to number, instead of nineteen, more than thirty years — bring-
ing her from crude youth to fullest maturity. What changes might not
time have operated in her mind! Latterly no intercourse had passed
between them, they were as dead to each other; and yet the fact of the
existence of either was a paramount law with both, ruling their
actions and preventing them from forming any new tie. Cornelia
might be tired of independence, have discovered the hollowness of
her mother's system, and desire, but that pride prevented her, a
reunion with her long-exiled husband. Her understanding was good;
intercourse with the world had probably operated to cultivate and
enlarge it — maternal love might reign in full force, causing her heart
to yearn towards the blooming Ethel, and a thousand untold sorrows
might make her regard the affection of her child's father, as the prop,
the shelter, the haven, where to find peace, if not happiness.
14 0 MARY SHELLE Y
And yet Cornelia was still young, still beautiful, still admired: he
was on the wane - a healthy life had preserved the uprightness of his
form and the spring of his limbs; but his countenance, how changed
from the Lodore who pledged his faith to her in the rustic church at
Rhyaider Gowy! The melting softness of his dark eyes was altered to
mere sadness - his brow, from which the hair had retreated, was
delved by a thousand lines; grey sprinkled his black hair, - a wintry
morning stealing drearily upon night — each year had left its trace, and
with no Praxitelean hand, engraven lines upon the rounded cheek,
and sunk and diminished the full eye. Twelve years had scarcely oper-
ated so great a change as here described; but thus he painted it to
himself, exaggerating and deforming the image his mirror presented —
and where others had only marked the indications of a thoughtful
mind, and the traces of over-wrought sensibility, he beheld careful
furrows and age-worn wrinkles.
And was he thus to claim the beautiful, the courted - she who still
reigned supreme on Love's own throne? and to whom, so had he
been told, time had brought increased charms as its gift, strewing roses
and fragrance on her lovely head, so proving that neither grief nor
passion had disturbed the proud serenity of her heart.
Lodore had lived many years the life of a recluse, having given up
ambition, hope, almost life itself, inasmuch as that existence is scarcely
to be termed life, which does not bring us into intimate connexion
with our fellow-creatures, nor develope in its progress some plan of
present action or anticipation for the future. He was roused from his
lethargy as he approached peopled cities; a desire to mingle again in
human affairs was awakened, together with an impatience under the
obscurity to which he had condemned himself. He grew at last to
despise his supineness, which had prevented him from struggling with
and vanquishing his adverse fortunes. He resolved no longer to be
weighed down by the fear of obloquy, while he was conscious of the
bravery and determination of his soul, and with what lofty indigna-
tion he was prepared to sweep away the stigma attached to him, and
to assert the brightness of his honour. This, for his daughter's sake, as
well as for his own, he determined to do.
He had no wish, however, to enter upon the task in America. His
native country must be the scene of his exertions, as to re-assert him-
LODOR E 141
self among his countrymen was their object. He felt, also, that, from
the beginning, he must take no false step; and it behoved him fully to
understand the state of things in England as regarded him, before he
presented himself. He delayed his voyage, therefore, till he had
exchanged letters with Europe. He wrote to his sister, immediately on
arriving at New York, asking for intelligence concerning Lady
Lodore; and communicating his intention to return immediately, and,
if possible, to effect a reconciliation with his estranged wife. He
besought an immediate reply, as he did not wish to defer his voyage
beyond the spring months.
Having sent this letter, he gave himself up to the society of his
daughter. He occupied himself by endeavouring to form her for the
new scenes on which she was about to enter, and to divest her of the
first raw astonishment excited by the contrast formed by the busy,
commercial eastern, with the majestic tranquillity of the western por-
tion of the new world. He wished to accustom her to mingle with
her fellow-creatures with ease and dignity; and he sought to enlarge
her mind, and to excite her curiosity, by introducing her to the effects
of civilization. He would willingly have formed acquaintances for her
sake, but that such a circumstance might interfere with the incognito
he meant to preserve while away from his native country. We can
never divest ourselves of our identity and consciousness, and are apt to
fancy that others are equally alive to our peculiar individuality. It was
not probable that the name of Lodore, or of Fitzhenry, should be
known in New York; but as the title had been bestowed as a reward
for victories obtained over the Americans, he who bore it was less to
be blamed for fancying that they had heard with pleasure the story of
his disgrace, and would be ready to visit his fault with malignant
severity.
An accident, however, brought him into contact with an English
lady, and he gladly availed himself of this opportunity to bring Ethel
into the society of her country people. One day he received an ele-
gant little note, such as are written in London by the fashionable and
the fair, which, with many apologies, contained a request. The writer
had heard that he was about to return to England with his daughter.
Would he refuse to take under his charge a young lady, who was
desirous of returning thither? The distance from their native land
14 2 MARY SHELLE Y
drew English people together, and usually made them kindly disposed
towards each other. The circumstances under which this request was
made were peculiar; and if he would call to hear them explained, his
interest would be excited, and he would not refuse a favour which
would lay the writer under the deepest obligation.
Lodore answered this application in person. He found an English
family residing in one of the best streets of New York, and was intro-
duced to the lady who addressed him. Her story, the occasion of her
request, was detailed without reserve. Her husband s family had for-
merly been American royalists, refugees in England, where they had
lived poor and forgotten. A brother of his father had remained behind
in the new country, and acquired a large fortune. He had lived to
extreme old age; and dying childless, left his wealth to his English
nephew, upon condition that he settled in America. This had caused
their emigration. While in England, they had lived at Bath, and been
intimate with a clergyman, who resided near. This clergyman was a
singular man - a recluse, and a student - a man of ardent soul, held
down by a timid, nervous disposition. He was an outcast from his
family, which was wealthy and of good station, on account of having
formed a mes-alliance. How indeed he could have married his
unequal partner was matter of excessive wonder. She was illiterate and
vulgar — coarse-minded, though good-natured. This ill-matched pair
had two daughters; — one, the younger, now about fourteen years old,
was the person whom it was desired to commit to Lodore s protec-
tion.
The lady continued: — She had a large family of boys, and but one
girl, of the age of Fanny Derham; — they had been for some years
companions and friends. When about to emigrate, she believed that
she should benefit equally her daughter and her friend, if she made
the latter a companion in their emigration. With great reluctance, Mr.
Derham had consented to part with his child: he had thought it for
her good, and he had let her go. Fanny obeyed her father. She mani-
fested no disinclination to the plan; and it seemed as if the benevolent
wishes of Mrs. Greville were fulfilled for the benefit of all. They had
been in America nearly a year, and now Fanny was to return. She her-
self had borne her absence from her father with fortitude: yet it
required an exertion of fortitude to bear it, which was destroying the
LODOR E 143
natural vivacity of her disposition. Gloom gathered over her mind; she
fled society; she sought solitude; and spent day after day in reverie.
Mrs. Greville strove to rouse her, and Fanny lent herself with good
grace to any exertion demanded of her; yet it was plain, that even
when she gave herself most up to her desire to please her hostess, her
thoughts were far away, her eye was tracing the invisible outline of
objects divided from her by the ocean; and her inmost sense was
absorbed by the recollection of one far distant; while her ear and
voice were abstractedly lent to those immediately around her. Mrs.
Greville endeavoured vainly to amuse and distract her thoughts. The
only pleasure which attracted her young mind was study - a deep and
unremitted application to those profound acquirements, to the
knowledge of which her father had introduced her.
"When you know my young friend," continued Mrs. Greville,
"you will understand the force of character which renders her unlike
every other child. Fanny never was a child. Mrs. Derham and her
daughter Sarah bustled through the business of life - of the farm and
the house; while it devolved on Fanny to attend to, to wait upon, her
father. She was his pupil - he her care. The relation of parent and
child subsisted between them, on a different footing than in ordinary
cases. Fanny nursed her father, watched over his health and humours,
with the tenderness and indulgence of a mother; while he instructed
her in the dead languages, and other sorts of abstruse learning, which
seldom make a part of a girl's education. Fanny, to use her own singu-
lar language, loves philosophy, and pants after knowledge, and indulges
in a thousand Platonic dreams, which I know nothing about; and this
mysterious and fanciful learning she has dwelt upon with tenfold fer-
vour since her arrival in America. ["]*
"The contrast," continued Mrs. Greville, "between this wonderful,
but strange girl, and her parent, is apparent in nothing more than the
incident that made me have recourse to your kindness. Fanny pined
for home, and her father. The very air of America was distasteful to
her — we were not congenial companions. But she never expressed
discontent. As much as she could, she shut herself up in the world of
her own mind; but outwardly, she was cheerful and uncomplaining. A
i Double quotation marks omitted in the first edition.
14 4 MARY SHELLE Y
week ago we had letters from her parents, requesting her immediate
return. Mr. Derham wasted away without her; his health was seriously
injured by what, in feminine dialect, is called fretting; and both he and
her mother have implored me to send her back to them without
delay"
Lord Lodore listened with breathless interest, asking now and then
such questions as drew on Mrs. Greville to further explanation. He
soon became convinced that he was called upon to do this act of
kindness for the daughter of his former school-fellow — for Francis
Derham, whom he had not known nor seen since they had
exchanged the visions of boyhood for the disappointing realities of
maturer age. And this was Derham's fate! - poor, mis-matched,
destroyed by a morbid sensibility, an object of pity to his own young
child, yet adored by her as the gentlest and wisest of men. How differ-
ent — and yet how similar — the destinies of both! It warmed the heart
of Lodore to think that he should renew his boyish intimacy. Derham
would not reject him — would not participate in the world's blind
scorn: in his bosom no harsh nor unjust feeling could have place; his
simple, warm heart would yearn towards him as of yore; and the
school-fellows become again all the world to each other.
After this explanation, Mrs. Greville introduced her young friend.
Her resemblance to her father was at first sight remarkable, and awoke
with greater keenness the roused sensibility of Lodore. She was pale
and fair; her light, golden hair clustered in short ringlets over her
small, well-formed head, leaving unshaded a high forehead, clear as
opening day. Her blue eyes were remarkably light and penetrating,
with defined and straight brows. Intelligence, or rather understanding,
reigned in every feature; independence of thought, and firmness,
spoke in every gesture. She was a mere child in form and mien — even
in her expressions; but within her was discernible an embryo of
power, and a grandeur of soul, not to be mistaken. Simplicity and
equability of temper were her characteristics: these smoothed the
ruggedness which the singularity of her character might otherwise
have engendered.
Lodore rejoiced in the strange accident that gave such a compan-
ion to his daughter. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than these
two girls; - the fairy form, the romantic and yielding sweetness of
LODOR E 145
Ethel, whose clinging affections formed her whole world, - with the
studious and abstracted disciple of ancient learning. Notwithstanding
this want of similarity, they soon became mutually attached. Lodore
was a link between them. He excited Ethel to admire the concentrat-
ed and independent spirit of her new friend; and entered into conver-
sation with Fanny on ancient philosophy, which was unintelligible
and mysterious to Ethel. The three became inseparable: they pro-
longed their excursions in the neighbouring country; while each
enjoyed peculiar pleasures in the friendship and sympathy of their
companions.
This addition to their society, and an intimacy cultivated with Mrs.
Greville, whose husband was absent at Washington, formed, as it were,
a weaning time for Lodore, from the seclusion of the Illinois. There he
had lived, cut off from the past and the future, existing in the present
only. He had been happy there; cured of the wounds which had pen-
etrated his heart so deeply, through the ministration of all-healing
nature. He felt the gliding of the hours as a blessing; and the occupa-
tions of each day were replete with calm enjoyment. He thought of
England, as a seaman newly saved from a wreck would of the tempes-
tuous ocean, with fear and loathing, and with heart-felt gladness that
he was no longer the sport of its waves. He cultivated such a philo-
sophic turn of mind as often brought a smile of self-pity on his lips, at
the recollection of scenes which, during their passage, had provoked
bitter and burning sensations. What was all this strife of passion, this
eager struggle for something, he knew not what, to him now? The
healthy labours of his farm, the tranquillity of his library, the endear-
ing caresses of his child, were worth all the vanities of life.
Thus he had felt in the Illinois; and now again he looked back to
his undisturbed life there, wondering how he had endured its monot-
onous loneliness. A desire for action, for mingling with his fellow-
men, had arisen in his heart. He felt like a strong swimmer, who longs
to battle with the waves. He desired to feel and to exert his powers, to
fill a space in the eyes of others, to re-assert himself in their esteem, or
to resent their scorn. He could no longer regard the past with imper-
turbability. Again his passions were roused, as he thought of his moth-
er-in-law, of his wife, and of the strange scenes which had preceded
and caused his flight from England. These ideas had long occupied his
1 4 6 MARY SHELLE Y
mind, without occasioning any emotion. But now again they were
full of interest; and pain and struggle again resulted from the recollec-
tion. At such times he was glad that Ethel had a companion, that he
might leave her and wander alone. He became a prey to the same vio-
lence of passion, the same sense of injury and stinging hurry of
thought, which for twelve years had ceased to torture him. But no
tincture of cowardice entered into his sensations. His soul was set
upon victory over the evil fortune to which he had so long submit-
ted. When he thought of returning to England, from which he had
fled with dishonour, his cheek tingled as a thousand images of insult
and contumely passed rapidly through his mind, as likely to visit him.
His heart swelled within him - his very soul grew faint; but instead of
desiring to fly the anticipated opprobrium, he longed to meet it and
to wash out shame, if need were, with his life's blood; and, by resolu-
tion and daring, to silence his enemies, and redeem his name from
obloquy.
One day, occupied by such thoughts, he stood watching that vast
and celebrated cataract, whose everlasting and impetuous flow mir-
rored the dauntless but rash energy of his own soul.
1
 A vague desire of
plunging into the whirl of waters agitated him. His existence
appeared to be a blot in the creation; his hopes, and fears, and resolves,
a worthless web of ill-assorted ideas, best swept away at once from the
creation. Suddenly his eye caught the little figure of Fanny Derham,
standing on a rock not far distant, her meaning eyes fixed on him. The
thunder of the waters prevented speech; but as he drew near her, he
saw that she had a paper in her hand. She held it out to him; a blush
mantled over her usually pale countenance as he took it; and she
sprung away up the rocky pathway.
Lodore cast his eyes on the open letter, and his own name, half for-
gotten by him, presented itself on the written page. The letter was
from Fanny s father - from Derham, his friend and school-fellow. His
heart beat fast as he read the words traced by one formerly so dear.
"The beloved name of Fitzhenry" - thus Derham had writte n -
i Niagara Falls, about which Shelley could have read in any number of accounts of
travel in America, including Frances Wright's Views of Society and Manners in America
(1821). If Lodore is indeed named for the falls near Keswick, it is appropriate that
he should identify with these falls as well.
LODOR E 147
"awakens a strange conjecture. Is not your kind protector, the friend
and companion of my boyish days? Is it not the long absent Lodore,
who has stretched out a paternal hand to my darling child, and who is
about to add to his former generous acts, the dearer one of restoring
my Fanny to me? Ask him this question; - extract this secret from
him. Tell him how my chilled heart 'warms with pleasure at the
prospect of a renewal of our friendship. He was a god-like boy; dar-
ing, generous, and brave. The remembrance of him has been the
bright spot which, except yourself, is all of cheering that has che-
quered my gloomy existence. Ask him whether he remembers him
whose life he saved — whom he rescued from oppression and misery. I
am an old man now, weighed down by sorrow and infirmity. Adversi-
ty has also visited him; but he will have withstood the shocks of fate,
as gallantly as a mighty ship stems the waves of ocean: while I, a
weather-worn skiff, am battered and wrecked by the tempest. From
all you say, he must be Lodore. Mark him, Fanny: if you see one lofty
in his mien, yet gracious in all his acts; his person adorned by the
noblest attributes of rank; full of dignity, yet devoid of pride; impatient
of all that is base and insolent, but with a heart open as a woman s to
compassion; - one whose slightest word possesses a charm to attract
and enchain the affections: - if such be your new friend, put this letter
into his hand; he will remember Francis Derham, and love you for my
sake, as well as for your own."
14 8 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XV.
It is our will
That thus enchains us to permitted ill.
SHELLEY .
 1
THI S was a new inducement to bring back Lodore from the wilds
of America, to the remembrance of former days. The flattering
expressions in Derham's letter soothed his wounded pride, and
inspired a desire of associating once more with men who could
appreciate his worth, and sympathize with his feelings. His spirits
became exhilarated; he talked of Europe and his return thither, with
all the animation of sanguine youth. It is one of the necessary attrib-
utes of our nature, always to love what we have once loved; and
though new objects and change in former ones may chill our affec-
tions for a time, we are filled with renewed fervour after every fresh
disappointment, and feel an impatient longing to return to the cher-
ishing warmth of our early attachments; happy if we do not find
emptiness and desolation, where we left life and hope.
Ethel had never been as happy as at the present time, and her affec-
tion for her father gathered strength from the confidence which
existed between them. He was the passion of her soul, the engrossing
attachment of her loving heart. When she saw a cloud on his brow, she
would stand by him with silent but pleading tenderness, as if to ask
whether any exertion of hers could dissipate his inquietude. She hung
upon his discourse as a heavenly oracle, and welcomed him with glad-
dened looks of love, when he returned after any short absence. Her
heart was bent upon pleasing him, she had no thought or pursuit
which was not linked with his participation.
There is perhaps in the list of human sensations, no one so pure, so
perfect, and yet so impassioned, as the affection of a child for its par-
ent, during that brief interval when they are leaving childhood, and
have not yet felt love. There is something so awful in a father. His
words are laws, and to obey them happiness. Reverence and a desire
to serve, are mingled with gratitude; and duty, without a flaw or ques-
i "Julian and Maddalo; A Conversation," 170-1, which Mary Shelley edited for
Posthumous Poems (1824).
LODOR E 149
tion, so second the instinct of the heart, as to render it imperative.
Afterwards we may love, in spite of the faults of the object of our
attachment; but during the interval alluded to, we have not yet learnt
to tolerate, but also, we have not learned to detect faults. All that a
parent does, appears an emanation from a diviner world; while we fear
to offend, we believe we have no right to be offended; eager to please,
we seek in return approval only, and are too humble to demand a rec-
iprocity of attention; it is enough that we are permitted to demon-
strate our devotion. Ethel's heart overflowed with love, reverence,
worship of her father. He had stood in the wilds of America a solitary
specimen of all that is graceful, cultivated, and wise among men; she
knew of nothing that might compare to him; and the world without
him, was what the earth might be uninformed by light: he was its sun,
its ruling luminary. All this intensity of feeling existed in her, without
her being aware scarcely of its existence, without her questioning the
cause, or reasoning on the effect. To love her father was the first law of
nature, the chief duty of a child, and she fulfilled it unconsciously, but
more completely than she could have done had she been associated
with others, who might have shared and weakened the concentrated
sensibility of her nature.
At length the packet
1
 arrived which brought Lodore letters from
England. Before his eyes lay the closed letter pregnant with fate. He
was not of a disposition to recoil from certainty; and yet for a few
moments he hesitated to break the seals — appalled by the magnitude
of the crisis which he believed to be at hand.
Latterly the idea of a reconciliation with Cornelia had been a
favourite in his thoughts.The world was a painful and hard-tasking
school. She must have suffered various disappointments, and endured
much disgust, and so be prepared to lend a willing ear to his overture.
She was so very young when they parted, and since then, had lived
entirely under the influence of Lady Santerre. But what had at one
time proved injurious, might, in course of years, have opened her eyes
to the vanity of the course which she was pursuing. Lodore felt per-
suaded, that there were better things to be expected from his wife,
than a love of fashion and an adherence to the prejudices of society.
i A ship having a regular route carrying mail, freight, and passengers.
1 5 0 MARY SHELLEY
He had failed to bring her good qualities to light, but time and events
might have played the tutor better, and it merely required perhaps a
seasonable interference, a fortunate circumstance, to prove the truth of
his opinion, and to show Lady Lodore as generous, magnanimous, and
devoted, as before she had appeared proud, selfish, and cold.
How few there are possessed of any sensibility, who mingle with,
and are crushed by the jostling interests of the world, who do not ever
and anon exclaim with the Psalmist, "O for the wings of a dove, that I
might flee away and be at rest!"
1
 If such an aspiration was ever
breathed by Cornelia, how gladly, how fondly would her husband
welcome the weary flutterer, open his bosom for her refuge, and study
to make her forget all the disquietudes and follies of headstrong
youth!
This was a mere dream. Lodore sighed to think that his position
would not permit him to afford her a shelter from the poisoned
arrows of the world. She must corne to him prepared to suffer much.
It required not only the absence of the vulgar worldliness of Lady
Santerre, but great strength of mind to forgive the past, and strong
affection to endure the present. He could only invite her to share the
lot of a dishonoured man, to become a partner in the struggle which
he was prepared to enter upon, to regain his lost reputation. This was
no cheering prospect. Pride and generosity equally forbad his endeav-
ouring to persuade his wife to quit a course of life she liked, to enter
upon a scene of trials and sorrows with one for whom she did not
care.
All these conjectures had long occupied him, but here was certain-
ty - the letter in his hand. It was sealed with black, and a tremulous
shudder ran through his frame as he tore it open. He soon satisfied
himself- Cornelia lived: he breathed freely again, and proceeded
more calmly to make himself master of the intelligence which the
paper he held contained.
Cornelia lived; but his sister announced a death which he believed
would change the colour of his life. Lady Santerre was no more!
Yes, Cornelia was alive; the bride that had stood beside him at the
altar - whose hand he had held while he pronounced his vows - with
i Psalms 55:6.
LODOR E 151
whom he had domesticated for years - the mother of his child still
lived. The cold consuming grave did not wrap her lovely form. The
idea of her death, which the appearance of the black seal conveyed
suddenly to his imagination, had been appalling beyond words. For
the last few weeks his mind had been filled with her image; his
thoughts had fed upon the hope that they should meet once more.
Had she died while he was living in inactive seclusion in the Illinois,
he might have been less moved; his vivid fancy, his passionate heart,
could not spare her now, without a pang of agony. It passed away, and
his mind reverted to the actual situation in which they were placed by
the death of his mother-in-law. Reconciliation had become easy by
the removal of that fatal barrier. He felt assured that he could acquire
Cornelia s confidence, win her love, and administer to her happiness;
he determined to leave nothing untried to bring about so desirable a
conclusion to their long and dreary alienation. The one insuperable
obstacle was gone; their daughter, that loveliest link, that soft silken tie
remained: Cornelia must welcome with maternal delight this better
portion of herself.
He glanced over his sister Elizabeth's letter, announcing the death
of Lady Santerre, and then read the one enclosed from Lady Lodore
to her sister-in-law. It was cold, but very decisive. She thanked her
first for the inquiries she had made, and then proceeded to say, that
she took this opportunity, the only one likely to present itself, of
expressing what her own feelings were on this melancholy occasion.
"I am afraid," she said, "that your brother will look on the death of my
dearest mother as opening the door to our re-union. Some words in
your letter seem indeed to intimate this, or I should have hoped that I
was entirely forgotten. I trust that I am mistaken. My earnest desire is,
that my natural grief, and the tranquillity which I try to secure for
myself, may not be disturbed by fruitless endeavours to bring about
what can never be. My determination may be supposed to arise from
pride and implacable resentment: perhaps it does, but I feel it impossi-
ble that we should ever be any thing but strangers to each other. I will
not complain, and I wish to avoid harsh allusions, but respect for her I
have lost, and a sense of undeserved wrong, are paramount with me. I
shall never intrude upon him. Persuade him that it will be unmanly
cruelty to force himself, even by a letter, on me."
152 MARY SHELLE Y
From this violent declaration of an unforgiving heart, Lodore
turned to Elizabeth's letter. This excellent lady, to whom the names of
dissipation and the metropolis were synonymous, and who knew as
much of the world as Parson Adams,
1
 assured her brother, that Cor-
nelia, far from feeling deeply the blow of her mother's death, was pur-
suing her giddy course with greater pertinacity than ever. Surrounded
by flatterers, given up to pleasure, she naturally shrunk from being
reminded of her exiled husband and her forgotten child. Her letter
showed how ill she deserved the tenderness and interest which
Lodore had expressed. She was a second Lady Santerre, without being
gifted with that maternal affection, which had in some degree
dignified that person s character.
Elizabeth lamented that his wife's hardness of heart might prevent
his proposed visit to England. She did not like to urge it - it might
seem selfish: hitherto she had let herself and her sorrows go for noth-
ing; could she think of her own gratification, while her brother was
suffering so much calamity? She was growing old — indeed she was
old - she had no kin around her - early friends were dead or lost to
her — she had nothing to live on but the recollection of her brother;
she should think herself blest could she see him once more before she
died.
"O my dear brother Henry," continued the kind-hearted lady, "if
you would but say the word - the sea is nothing; people older than I -
and I am not at all infirm — make the voyage. Let me come to Ameri-
ca — let me embrace my niece, and see you once again — let me share
your dear home in the Illinois, which I see every night in my dreams.
I should grieve to be a burthen to you, but it would be my endeavour
to prove a comfort and a help."
Lodore read both of these letters, one after the other, again and
again. He resolved on going to England immediately. Either Cornelia
was entirely callous and worthless, and so to be discarded from his
heart for ever, or after her first bitter feelings on her mother's death
were over, she would soften towards her child, or there was some
dread secret feeling that influenced her, and he must save her from
calamity and wretchedness. One of those changes of feeling to which
i The good hearted but naive curate in Henry Fielding'$ Joseph Andrews (1742).
LODOR E 153
the character of Lodore was peculiarly subject, came over him. Lady
Santerre was dead — Cornelia was alone. A thousand dangers sur-
rounded her. It appeared to him that his first imperious duty was to
offer himself to guard and watch over her. He resolved to leave noth-
ing untried to make her happy. He would give up Ethel to her — he
would gratify every wish she could frame - pour out benefits lavishly
before her — force her to see in him a benefactor and a friend; and at
last, his heart whispered, induce her to assume again the duties of a
wife.
15 4 MARY SHELLEY
LODOR E 155
CHAPTER XVI.
What is peace? When life is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover,
Which precedes the passing knell.
WORDSWORTH .
 l
LODOR E was henceforth animated by a new spirit of hope. His pro-
jects and resolves gave him something to live for. He looked forward
with pleasure; feeling, on his expected return to his native country, as
the fabled voyager, who knew that he ought to be contented in the
fair island where chance had thrown him, and yet who hailed with
rapture the approach of the sail that was to bear him back to the mis-
eries of social life. He reflected that he had in all probability many
years before him, and he was earnest that the decline of his life
should, by a display of prudence and virtuous exertion, cause the
errors of his earlier manhood to be forgotten.
This inspiriting tone of mind was very congenial to Ethel. The
prospects that occupied her father had a definite horizon: all was
vague and misty to her eyes, yet beautiful and alluring. Lodore gave
no outline of his plans: he never named her mother. Uncertain him-
self, he was unwilling to excite feelings in Ethel's mind, to be after-
wards checked and disappointed. He painted the future in gay
colours, but left it in all the dimness most favourable for an ardent
imagination to exercise itself upon.
In a very few days they were to sail for England. Their passage was
engaged. Lodore had written to his sister to announce his return. He
spoke of Longfield, and of her kind and gentle aunt to Ethel, and she,
who, like Miranda, had known no relative or intimate except her
father, warmed with pleasure to find new ties bind her to her fellow-
creatures. She questioned her father, and he, excited by his own
newly-awakened emotions, dilated eloquently on the joys of his
young days, and pleased Fanny, as well as his own daughter, by a detail
of boyish pranks and adventures which his favourite school-fellow
i "Hermit's Cell," 1.33-36, first line slightly misquoted: "What is peace?—when pain
is over."
shared.The freedom he enjoyed in his paternal home, the worship
that waited on him there, the large space which in early youth he
appeared to fill in all men's eyes, the buoyancy and innocence associ-
ated with those unshadowed days, painted them to his memory
cloudless and bright. It would be to renew them to see Longfield
again, - to clasp once more the hand of Francis Derham.
A kind of holiday and festal feeling was diffused through Ethel's
mind by the vivid descriptions and frank communications of her
father. She felt as if about to enter Paradise. America grew dim and
sombre in her eyes; its forests, lakes, and wilds, were empty and silent,
while England swarmed with a thousand lovely forms of pleasure.
Her father strewed a downy velvet path for her, which she trod with
light, girlish steps, happy in the present hour, happier in the anticipat-
ed future.
A few days before the party were to sail, Lodore and his daughter
dined with Mrs. Greville. As if they held the reins, and could curb the
course of, fate, each and all were filled with hilarity. Lodore had for-
gotten Theodora and her son — had cast from his recollection the long
train of misery, injury, and final ruin, which for so long had occupied
his whole thoughts. He was in his own eyes no longer the branded
exile. A strange distortion of vision blinded this unfortunate man to
the truth, which experience so perpetually teaches us, that the conse-
quences of our actions never die: that repentance and time may paint
them to us in different shapes; but though we shut our eyes, they are
still beside us, helping the inexorable destinies to spin the fatal thread,
and sharpening the implement which is to cut it asunder.
Lodore lived the morning of that day, (it was the first of May, real-
izing by its brilliancy and sweets, the favourite months of the poets,)
as if many a morning throughout the changeful seasons was to be his.
Some time he spent on board the vessel in which he was to sail; see-
ing that all the arrangements which he had ordered for Ethel and
Fanny's comfort were perfected; then father and daughter rode out
together. Often did Ethel try to remember every word of the conver-
sation held during that ride. It concerned the fair fields of England,
the splendours of Italy, the refinements and pleasures of Europe.
"When we are in London," - "When we shall visit Naples," - such
phrases perpetually occurred. It was Lodore s plan to induce Cornelia
15 6 MARY SHELLE Y
to travel with him, and to invite Mr. Derham and Fanny to be their
companions; a warmer climate would benefit his friend's health. "And
for worlds," he said, "I would not lose Derham. It is the joy of my life
to think that by my return to my native country I secure to myself the
society of this excellent and oppressed man."
At six o'clock Lodore and Ethel repaired to Mrs. Greville's house.
It had been intended that no other persons should be invited, but the
unexpected arrival of some friends from Washington, about to sail to
England, had obliged the lady to alter this arrangement. The new
guests consisted of an English gentleman and his wife, and one other,
an American, who had filled a diplomatic situation in London.
Annoyed by the sight of strangers, Lodore kept apart, conversing with
Ethel and Fanny.
At dinner he sat opposite to the American. There was something in
this man's physiognomy peculiarly disagreeable to him.
1
 He was not a
pleasing-looking man, but that was not all. Lodore fancied that he
must have seen him before under very painful circumstances. He felt
inclined to quarrel with him — he knew not why; and was disturbed
and dissatisfied with himself and every body. The first words which
the man spoke were as an electric shock to him. Twelve long years
rolled back — the past became the present once again. This very Amer-
ican had sat opposite to him at the memorable dinner at the Russian
Ambassadors. At the moment when he had been hurried away by the
fury of his passion against Casimir, he remembered to have seen a sar-
castic sneer on his face, as the republican marked the arrogance of the
English noble. Lodore had been ready then to turn the fire of his
resentment on the insolent observer; but when the occasion passed
away he had entirely forgotten him, till now he rose like a ghost to
remind him of former pains and crimes.
The lapse of years had scarcely altered this person. His hair was
grizzled, but it crowned his head in the same rough abundance as for-
merly. His face, which looked as if carved out of wood, strongly and
deeply lined, showed no tokens of a more advanced age. He was then
elderly-looking for a middle-aged man; he was now young-looking
for an elderly man. Nature had disdained to change an aspect which
i Phrenology was popular in the nineteenth century; Dale Owen took Shelley to be
examined by a phrenologist in 1827 (Sunstein 285).
LODOR E 157
showed so little of her divinity, and which no wrinkles nor withering
could mar. Lodore, turning from this apparition, caught the reflection
of himself in an opposite mirror. Association of ideas had made him
unconsciously expect to behold the jealous husband of Cornelia.
How changed, how passion-worn and tarnished was the countenance
that met his eyes. He recovered his self-possession as he became per-
suaded that this chance visitant, who had seen him but once, would
be totally unable to recognize him.
This unwelcome guest had been attached to the American
embassy in England, and had but lately returned to New York. He was
full of dislike of the English. Contempt for them, and pride in his
countrymen, being the cherished feelings of his mind; the latter he
held up to admiration from prejudiced views; a natural propensity to
envy and depreciation led him to detract from the former. He was, in
short, a most disagreeable person; and his insulting observations on his
country moved Lodore s spleen, while his mind was shaken from its
balance by the sight of one who reminded him of his past errors and
ruin. He was fast advancing to a state of irritability, when he should
lose all command over himself. He felt this, and tried to subdue the
impetuous rush of bitterness which agitated him; he remembered that
he must expect many trials like this, and that, rightly considered, this
was a good school wherein he might tutor himself to self-possession
and firmness. He went to another extreme, and addressing himself to,
and arguing with, the object of his dislike, endeavoured to gloss over
to himself the rising violence of his impassioned temper.
The ladies retired, and the gentlemen entered upon a political dis-
cussion on some event passing in Europe. The English guest took his
departure early, and Lodore and the other continued to converse.
Some mention was made of newspapers newly arrived, and the
American proposed that they should repair to the coffee-house to see
them. Lodore agreed: he thought that this would be a good opportu-
nity to shake off his distasteful companion.
The coffee-room contained nearly twenty persons. They were in
loud discussion upon a question of European politics, and reviling
England and her manners in the most contemptuous terms. This was
not balm for Lodore s sore feelings. His heart swelled indignantly at
the sarcasms which these strangers levelled against his native country;
1 5 8 MARY SHELLE Y
he felt as if he was acting a coward's part while he listened tamely. His
companion soon entered with vehemence into the conversation; and
the noble, who was longing to quarrel with him, now drew himself
up with forced composure, fixing his full meaning eyes upon the
speaker, hoping by his quiescence to entice him into expressions
which he would insist on being retracted. His temper by this time
entirely mastered him. In a calmer moment he would have despised
himself for being influenced by such a man, to any sentiment except
contempt; but the tempest was abroad, and all sobriety of feeling was
swept away like chaff before the wind.
Mr. Hatfield, - such was the American's name, - perceiving that he
was listened to, entered with great delight on his favourite topic, a
furious and insolent philippic against England, in mass and in detail.
Lodore still listened; there was a dry sneer in the tones of the speakers
voice, that thrilled him with hate and rage. At length, by some chance
reverting to the successful struggle America had made for her inde-
pendence, and ridiculing the resistance of the English on the occa-
sion, Hatfield named Lodore.
"Lodore!" cried one of the by-standers;"Fitzhenry was the name
of the man who took the Oronooko."
1
"Aye, Fitzhenry it was," said Hatfield, "Lodore is his nickname.
King George's bit of gilt gingerbread, which mightily pleased the
sapient mariner. An Englishman thinks himself honoured when he
changes one name for another. Admiral Fitzhenry was the scum of the
earth - Lord Lodore a pillar of state. Pity that infamy should so soon
have blackened the glorious title!"
Lodore's pale cheek suddenly flushed at these words, and then
blanched again, as with compressed lips he resolved to hear yet more,
till the insult should no longer be equivocal. The word "infamy" was
echoed from various lips. Hatfield found that he had insured a hear-
ing, and, glad of an audience, he went on to relate his story - it was of
the dinner at the Russian Ambassador's - of the intemperate violence
of Lodore - and the youthful Lyzinski's wrongs. "I saw the blow
given," continued the narrator, "and I would have caned the fellow on
An allusion to the novel by Aphra Behn (1678) and the tragedy by Thomas South-
erne (1695). The name alludes to the support for the abolition of slavery held by
Shelley, her husband, and her parents.
LODOR E 159
1
the spot, and had I not thought that a bullet would do his business
better. But when it came to that, London was regaled by an event
which could not have happened here, for we have no such cowards
among us. My lord was not to be found — he had absconded — and
sneaked off like a mean-spirited, pitiful scoundrel!"
The words were still on the man's lips when a blow, sudden and
unexpected, extended him on the floor. After this swiftly-executed act
of retaliation, Lodore folded his arms, and as his antagonist rose, foam-
ing with rage, said, "You, at least, shall have no cause to complain of
not receiving satisfaction for your injuries at my hands. I am ready to
give it, even in this room. I am Lord Lodore!"
Duels, that sad relic of feudal barbarism, were more frequent then
than now in America; at all times they are more fatal and more openly
carried on there than in this country.
1
 The nature of the quarrel in the
present instance admitted of no delay; and it was resolved, that the
antagonists should immediately repair to an open place near the city, to
terminate, by the death of one, the insults they had mutually inflicted.
Lodore saw himself surrounded by Americans, all strangers to him;
nor was he acquainted with one person in New York whom he could
ask to be his second. This was matter of slight import: the idea of vin-
dicating his reputation, and of avenging the bitter mortifications
received from society, filled him with unnatural gladness; and he was
hastening to the meeting, totally regardless of any arrangement for his
security.
There was a gentleman, seated at a distant part of the coffee-room,
who had been occupied by reading; nor seemed at all to give ear to
what was going on, till the name of Lodore occurred: he then rose,
and when the blow was given, drew nearer the group; though he still
stood aloof, while, with raised and angry voices, they assailed Lodore,
and he, replying in his deep, subdued voice, agreed to the meeting
which they tumultuously demanded. Now, as they were hastening
away, and Lodore was following them, confessedly unbefriended, this
gentleman approached, and putting his card into the nobleman's
hand, said, "I am an Englishman, and should be very glad if you would
accept my services on this painful occasion."
i See excerpt from James Fenimore Cooper in Appendix C.
16 0 MARY SHELLEY
Lodore looked at the card, on which was simply engraved the
name of "Mr. Edward Villiers," and then at him who addressed him.
He was a young man — certainly not more than three-and-twenty. An
air of London fashion, to which Lodore had been so long unused, was
combined with a most prepossessing countenance. He was light-
haired and blue-eyed; ingenuousness and sincerity marked his phys-
iognomy. The few words he had spoken were enforced by a graceful
cordiality of manner, and a silver-toned voice, that won the heart.
Lodore was struck by his prepossessing exterior, and replied with
warm thanks; adding, that his services would be most acceptable on
certain conditions, - which were merely that he should put no obsta-
cle to the immediate termination of the quarrel, in any mode, howev-
er desperate, which his adversary might propose. "Otherwise," Lodore
added, "I must entirely decline your interference. All this is to me
matter of far higher import than mere life and death, and I can submit
to no controul."
"Then my services must be limited to securing fair play for you,"
said Mr.Villiers.
During this brief parley, they were in the street, proceeding
towards the place of meeting. Day had declined, and the crescent
moon was high in the heavens: each instant its beams grew more
refulgent, as twilight yielded to night.
"We shall have no difficulty in seeing each other," said Lodore, in a
cheerful voice. He felt cheerful: a burthen was lifted from his heart.
How much must a brave man suffer under the accusation of cow-
ardice, and how joyous when an opportunity is granted of proving his
courage! Lodore was brave to rashness: at this crisis he felt as if about
to be born again to all the earthly blessings of which he had been
deprived so long. He did not think of the dread baptism of blood
which was to occasion his regeneration - still less of personal danger;
he thought only of good name restored - of his reputation for
courage vindicated - of the insolence of this ill-spoken fellow signally
chastised.
"Have you weapons?" asked his companion.
"They will procure pistols, I suppose," replied Lodore: "we should
lose much time by going to the hotel for mine."
"We are passing that where I am," said Mr.Villiers. "If you will wait
LODOR E 161
one moment I will fetch mine; — or will you go up with me?"
They entered the house, and the apartments of Mr.Villiers. At such
moments slight causes operate changes on the human heart; and as
various impulses sweep like winds over its chords, that subtle instru-
ment gives forth various tones.
1
 A moment ago, Lodore seemed to
raise his proud head to the stars: he felt as if escaping from a dim,
intricate cavern, into the blessed light of day. The strong excitement
permitted no second thought - no second image. With a lighter step
than Mr.Villiers, he followed that gentleman up-stairs. For a moment,
as he went into an inner apartment for the pistols, Lodore was alone: a
desk was open on the table; and paper, unwritten on, upon the desk.
Scarcely knowing what he did, Lodore took the pen, and wrote -
"Ethel, my child! my life's dearest blessing! be virtuous, be useful, be
happy! — farewell, for ever!" — and under this he wrote Mrs. Greville s
address.The first words were written with a firm hand; but the recol-
lection of all that might occur, made his fingers tremble as he contin-
ued, and the direction was nearly illegible. "If any thing happens to
me," said he to Mr.Villiers, "you will add to your kindness immeasur-
ably by going there," - pointing to the address - "and taking precau-
tion that my daughter may hear of her disaster in as tender a manner
as possible."
"Is there any thing else?" asked his companion. "Command me
freely, I beseech you; I will obey your injunctions to the letter."
"It is too late now," replied the noble; "and we must not keep these
gentlemen waiting. The little I have to say we will talk of as we walk."
"I feel," continued Lodore, after they were again in the street, "that
if this meeting end fatally, I have no power to enforce my wishes and
designs beyond the grave. The providence which has so strangely con-
ducted the drama of my life, will proceed in its own way after the
final catastrophe. I commit my daughter to a higher power than mine,
secure that so much innocence and goodness must receive blessings,
even in this ill-grained state of existence. You will see Mrs. Greville:
she is a kind-hearted, humane woman, and will exert herself and con-
sole my child. Ethel - Miss Fitzhenry, I mean - must, as soon as is
i Shelley is using the image of the aeolian harp, an image popular in late eighteenth
and early nineteenth-century poetry.
16 2 MARY SHELLEY
practicable, return to England. She will be received there by my sister,
and remain with her till - till her fate be otherwise decided. We were
on the point of sailing; — I have fitted up a cabin for her; — she might
make the voyage in that very vessel. You, perhaps, will consult -
though what claim have I on you?"
"A claim most paramount," interruptedVilliers eagerly, - "that of a
countryman in a foreign land — of a gentleman vindicating his honour
at the probable expense of life."
"Thank you!" replied Lodore; - "my hear t thanks you - for my
own sake, and for my daughter's - if indeed you will kindly render
her such services as her sudden loss may make sadly necessary."
"Depend upon me; — though God grant she need them not!"
"For her sake, I say, Amen!" said Lodore; "for my own — life is a
worn-out garment - few tears will be shed upon my grave, except by
Ethel."
"There is yet another," said Villiers with visible hesitation: "pardon
me, if I appear impertinent; but at such a moment, may I not name
Lady Lodore?"
"For her, indeed," answered the peer, "the event of the evening, if
fatal to me, will prove fortunate: she will be delivered from a heavy
chain. May she be happy in another choice! Are you acquainted with
her?"
"I am, slightly — that is, not very intimately."
"If you meet her on your return to England," continued the noble;
- "if you ever see Lady Lodore, tell her that I invoked a blessing on
her with my latest breath - that I forgive her, and ask her forgiveness.
But we are arrived. Remember Ethel."
"Yet one moment," cried Villiers; - "one moment of reflection, of
calm! Is there no way of preventing this encounter?"
"None! - fail me not, I intreat you, in this one thing; - interpose
no obstacle - be as eager and as firm as I myself am. Our friends have
chosen a rising ground: we shall be excellent marks for one another.
Pray do not lose time."
The American and his second stood in dark relief against the
moon-lit sky. As the rays fell upon the English noble, Hatfield
observed to his companion, that he now perfectly recognized him,
and wondered at his previous blindness. Perhaps he felt some com-
LODOR E 163
punction for the insult he had offered; but he said nothing, and no
attempt was made on either side at amicable explanation. They pro-
ceeded at once, with a kind of savage indifference, to execute the
murderous designs which caused them to disturb the still and lovely
night.
It was indeed a night, that love, and hope, and all the softer emo-
tions of the soul, would have felt congenial to them. A balmy, western
breeze lifted the hair lightly from Lodore's brow, and played upon his
cheek; the trees were bathed in yellow moonshine; a glowworm steal-
ing along the grass scarce showed its light; and sweet odours were
wafted from grove and field. Lodore stood, with folded arms, gazing
upon that scene in silence, while the seconds were arranging prelimi-
naries, and loading the fire-arms. None can tell what thoughts then
passed through his mind. Did he rejoice in his honour redeemed, or
grieve for the human being at whose breast he was about to aim? — or
were his last thought spent upon the account he might so speedily be
called on to render before his Creator s throne? When at last he took
his weapon from the hand ofVilliers, his countenance was serene,
though solemn; and his voice firm and calm. "Remember me to
Ethel," he said; "and tell her to thank you; - I cannot sufficiently; yet I
do so from my heart. If I live - then more of this."
The antagonists were placed: they were both perfectly self-pos-
sessed — bent, with hardness and cruelty of purpose, on fulfilling the
tragic act. As they stood face to face - a few brief paces only interven-
ing — on the moon-lit hill — neither had ever been more alive, more
full of conscious power, or moral and physical energy, than at that
moment.Villiers saw them standing beneath the silver moonbeams,
each in the pride of life, of strength, of resolution. A ray glanced from
the barrel of Lodore's pistol, as he raised and held it out with a steady
hand - a flas h - the reports - and then he staggered two steps, fell, and
lay on the earth, making no sign of life. Villiers rushed to him: the
wound was unapparent - no blood flowed, but the bullet had entered
his heart. His friend raised his head in his arms; his eyes opened; his
lips moved, but no sound issued from them; — a shadow crossed his
face — the body slipped from Villiers s support to the ground — all was
over — Lodore was dead!
16 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XVI. [XVII]1
En cor gentil, amor per mort no passa.
AUSIA S MARCH, TROUBADOUR.
2
WE return to Longfield and to Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry.The glory of
summer invested the world with light, cheerfulness, and beauty, when
the sorrowing sister of Lodore visited London, to receive her orphan
niece from the hands of the friend of Mrs. Greville, under whose pro-
tection she had made the voyage. The good lady folded poor Ethel in
her arms, overcome by the likeness she saw to her beloved brother
Henry, in his youthful days, before passion had worn and misfortune
saddened him. Her soft, brown, lamp-like eyes, beamed with the same
sensibility.Yet when she examined her more closely, Mrs. Elizabeth
lost somewhat of the likeness; for the lower part of her face resembled
her mother: her hair was lighter and her complexion much fairer than
Lodore; besides that the expression of her countenance was peculiar
to herself, and possessed that individuality which is so sweet to
behold, but impossible to describe.
They lingered but a few days in London. Fanny Derham, who
accompanied her on her voyage, had already returned to her father,
and there was nothing to detain them from Longfield. Ethel had no
adieus to make that touched her heart. Her aunt was more to her than
any other living being, and her strongest desire now was, to visit the
scenes once hallowed by her father's presence. The future was a chaos
of dark regret and loneliness; her whole life, she thought, would be
composed of one long memory.
One memory, and one fatal image. Ethel had not only consecrated
her heart to her father, but his society was a habit -with her, and, until
now, she had never even thought how she could endure existence
without the supporting influence of his affection. His conversation, so
full of a kind penetration into her thoughts, was calculated to develop
and adorn them; his manly sense and paternal solicitude, had all fos-
tered a filial love, the most tender and strong. Add to this, his sudden
and awful death. Already had they schemed their future life in a world
1 The printer made an error in numbering the chapters.
2 Ausias March (1397-1459) Canto de Mart i.n.
LODOR E 165
new to Ethel: he had excited her enthusiasm by descriptions of the
wonders of art in the old countries, and raised her curiosity while
promising to satisfy it; and she had eagerly looked forward to the time
when she should see the magical works of man, and mingle with a
system of society, of which, except by books, he alone presented any
ensample to her. Their voyage was fixed, and on the other side of their
watery way she had figured a very Elysium of wonders and pleasures.
The late change in their mode of life had served to endear him dou-
bly to her. It had been the occupation of her life to think of her
father, to communicate all her thoughts to him, and in the unreflect-
ing confidence of youth, she had looked forward to no termination of
a state of existence, that had began from her cradle. He propped her
entire world; the foundations must moulder and crumble away with-
out him — and he was gone — where then was she?
Mr.Villiers had, as soon as he was able, hurried to Mrs. Greville's
house. By some strange chance, the fatal tidings had preceded him,
and he found the daughter of the unfortunate Lodore bewildered and
maddened by her frightful calamity. Her first desire was to see all that
was left of her parent - she could not believe that he was indeed dead
— she was certain that care and skill might revive him — she insisted on
being led to his side; her friends strove to restrain her, but she rushed
into the street, she knew not whither, to ask for, to find her father.
The timidity of her temper was overborne by the wild expectation of
yet being able to recall him from among the dead.Villiers followed
her, and, yielding to her wishes, guided her towards the hotel whither
the remains of Lodore had been carried. He judged that the exertion
of walking thither, and the time that must elapse before she arrived,
would calm and subdue her. He talked to her of her father as they
went along - he endeavoured to awaken the source of tears - but she
was silent — absorbed — brooding darkly on her hopes. Pity for herself
had not yet arisen, nor the frightful certainty of bereavement. To see
those dear lineaments - to touch his hand - the very hand that had
so often caressed her, clay-cold and incapable of motion! Could it be!
She did not answer Villiers, she only hurried forward; she feared
obstruction to her wishes; her soul was set on one thought only. Had
Villiers endeavoured to deceive her, it would have been in vain.
Arrived at the hotel, as by instinct, she sprung up the stairs, and
16 6 MARY SHELLEY
reached the door of the room. It was darkened, in useless but decent
respect for the death within; there lay a figure covered by a sheet, and
already chilling the atmosphere around it. The imagination is slow to
act upon the feelings in comparison with the quick operation of the
senses. Ethel now knew that her father was dead. Mortal strength
could support no more — the energy of hope deserting her, she sunk
lifeless on the ground.
For a long time, she was passive in the hands of others. A violent
illness confined her to her bed, and physical suffering subdued the
excess of mental agony.Villiers left her among kind friends. It was
resolved that she and Fanny Derham should proceed to England,
under the protection of the friends of Mrs. Greville about to return
hither; he was himself obliged to return to England without delay.
Ethel's destiny was as yet quite uncertain. It was decided by the
opening of her father's will. This had been made twelve years before
on his first arrival at New York, and breathed the spirit of resentment,
and even revenge, against his wife. Lodore had indeed not much
wealth to leave. His income chiefly consisted in a grant from the
crown, entailed on heirs male, which in default of these, reverted back,
and in a sinecure which expired with him. His paternal estate at
Longfield, and a sum under twenty thousand pounds, the savings of
twelve years, formed all his possessions. The income arising from the
former was absorbed by Lady Lodore s jointure of a thousand a year,
and five hundred a year settled on his sister, together with permission
to occupy the family mansion during her life. The remaining sum was
disposed of in a way most singular. Without referring to the amount of
what he could leave, he bequeathed the additional sum of six hundred
a year to Lady Lodore, on the express condition, that she should not
interfere with, nor even see, her child; upon her failing in this condi-
tion, this sum was to be left to accumulate till Ethel was of age. Ethel
was ultimately to inherit every thing; but while her mother and aunt
lived, her fortune consisted of little more than five thousand pounds;
and even in this, she was limited to the use of the interest only until
she was of age; a previous marriage would have no influence on the
disposition of her property. Mrs. Elizabeth was left her guardian.
This will was in absolute contradiction to the wishes and feelings
in which Lord Lodore died; so true had his prognostic been, that he
LODOR E 167
had no power beyond the grave. He had probably forgotten the exis-
tence of this will, or imagined that it had been destroyed: he had
determined to make a new one on his arrival in England. Meanwhile
it was safely deposited with his solicitor in London, and Mrs. Eliza-
beth, with mistaken zeal, hastened to put it into force, and showed
herself eager to obey her brother's wishes with scrupulous exactitude.
The cpntents of it were communicated to Lady Lodore. She made no
comment - returned no answer. She was suddenly reduced from
comparative affluence (for her husband's allowance had consisted of
several thousands) to a bare sixteen hundred a year. Whether she
would be willing to diminish this her scanty income one third, and
take on herself, besides, the care of her daughter, was not known. She
remained inactive and silent, and Ethel was placed at once under the
guardianship of her aunt.
These two ladies left London in the old lumbering chariot which
had belonged to the Admiral. Now, indeed, Ethel found herself in a
new country, with new friends around her, speaking a new language,
and each change of scene made more manifest the complete revolu-
tion of her fortunes. She looked on all with languid eyes, and a heart
dead to every pleasure. Her aunt, who bore a slight resemblance of
her father, won some degree of interest; and the sole consolation
offered her, was to trace a similarity of voice and feature, and thus to
bring the lost Lodore more vividly before her. The journey to Long-
field was therefore not wholly without a melancholy charm. Mrs.
Elizabeth longed to obtain more minute information concerning her
brother, her pride and her delight, than had been contained in his
short and infrequent letters. She hazarded a few questions. Grief loves
to feed upon itself, and to surround itself with multiplications of its
own image; like a bee, it will find sweets in the poison flower, and
nestle within its own creations, although they pierce the heart that
cherishes them. Ethel felt a fascination in dwelling for ever on the
past. She asked for nothing better than to live her life over again,
while narrating its simple details, and to bring her father back from
his grave to dwell with her, by discoursing perpetually concerning
him. She was unwearied in her descriptions, her anecdotes, her prais-
es. The Illinois rose before the eyes of her aunt, like a taintless paradise,
inhabited by an angel. Love and good dwelt together there in blame-
16 8 MARY SHELLE Y
less union; the sky was brighter, the earth fairer, fresher, younger, more
magnificent, and more wonderful, than in the old world. The good
lady called to mind, with surprise, the melancholy and despairing let-
ters she had received from her brother, while inhabiting this Eden. It
was a matter of mortification to his mourning daughter to hear, as
from himself, as it were, that any sorrows had visited his heart while
with her. When we love one to whom we have devoted our lives with
undivided affection, the idea that the beloved object suffered any grief
while with us, jar s with our sacred sorrow. We delight to make the
difference between the possession of their society, and our subsequent
bereavement, entire in its contrasted happiness and misery; we wish to
have engrossed their whole souls, as they do ours, at the period of
regret, and it is like the most cruel theft, to know that we have been
deprived of any of the power we believed that we possessed, to infl-
uence their entire being. But then again, forgetting her aunt's inter-
ruptions, Ethel returned to the story of their occupations, their
amusements, their fond and unsullied intercourse, her eyes streamed
with tears as she spoke, while yet her heart felt relief in the indulgence
of her woe.
When the ladies returned to Longfield, it became Mrs. Elizabeth's
turn to narrate. She had lived many years feeding silently on the
memory of by-gone time. During her brother's exile, she had seldom
spoken his name, for she felt little inclined to satisfy the inquisitiveness
of the good people of Longfield. But now her long-stored anecdotes,
her sacred relics, the spots made dear by his presence, all were a trea-
sure poured out bounteously before Ethel. Nothing appeared so nat-
ural to the unfortunate girl as that another should, like herself,
worship the recollection of her adored father. To love him while he
lived, to see nothing in the world that had lost him, except his shadow
cast upon its benighted state, appeared the only existence that could
follow his extinction. Some people, when they die, leave but a foot of
ground vacant, which the eager pressing ranks of their fellow-crea-
tures fill up immediately, walking on their grave, as on common earth;
others leave a gap, a chasm, a fathomless gulf, beside which the sur-
vivor sits for ever hopeless. Both Ethel and her aunt, in their several
ways, in youth and age, were similarly situated. Both were cut off from
the great family of their species; wedded to one single being, and he
LODOR E 169
was gone. Both made the dead Lodore the focus to concentrate, and
the mirror to reflect, all their sensations and experience. He visited
their dreams by night, his name was their study, their pastime, their
sole untiring society.
Mrs. Elizabeth, the gentlest visionary that had ever outlived hope,
without arriving at its fruition, having reached those years when
memory is the natural food of the human mind, found this fare
exceedingly well adapted to her constitution. She had pined a little
while cut off from all her heart-felt communication with her fellow-
creatures, but the presence of Ethel fulfilled her soul's desire; she
found sympathy, and an auditress, into whose ever-attentive ear she
could pour those reveries which she had so long nourished in secret.
Whoso had heard the good lady talk of endless tears and mourning
for the loss of Lodore, of life not worth having when he was gone, of
the sad desolation of their position, and looked at her face, beaming
with satisfaction, with only so much sensibility painted there as to
render it expressive of all that is kind and compassionate, good-
humour in her frequent smile, and sleek content in her plump person,
might have laughed at the contrast; and yet have pondered on the
strange riddle we human beings present, and how contradictions
accord in our singular machinery. This good aunt was incapable of
affectation, and all was true and real that she said. She lived upon the
idea of her brother; he was all in all to her, but they had been divided
so long, that his death scarcely increased the separation; and she could
talk of meeting him in heaven, with as firm and cheerful a faith, as a
few months before she had anticipated his return to England. Though
sincere in her regret for his death, habit had turned lamentation into a
healthy nutriment, so that she throve upon the tears she shed, and
grew fat and cheerful upon her sighs. She would lead the agonized
girl to the vault which contained the remains of her brother, and
hover near it, as a Catholic beside the shrine of a favourite saint - the
visible image giving substance and form to her reverie; for hitherto,
her dreamy life had wanted the touch of reality, which the presence of
her niece, and the sad memorial of her lost brother, afforded.
The home-felt sensations of the mourning orphan, were in entire
contrast to this holiday woe. While her aunt brooded over her sorrow
"to keep it warm," it wrapped Ethel's soul as with a fiery torture.
17 0 MARY SHELLEY
Every cheerful thought lay buried with her father, and the tears she
shed near his grave were accompanied by a wrenching of her being,
and a consequent exhaustion, that destroyed the elasticity of the spirit
of youth. The memory of Lodore, which soothed his sister, haunted
his child like a sad beckoning, yet fatal vision; she yearned to reach the
shore where his pale ghost perpetually wandered — the earth seemed a
dark prison, and liberty and light dwelt with the dead beyond the
grave. Eternally conversant with the image of death, she was brought
into too near communion with the grim enemy of life. She wasted
and grew pale: nor did any voice speak to her of the unreasonableness
of her grief; her father was not near to teach her fortitude, and there
appeared a virtue and a filial piety in the excess of her regret, which
blinded her aunt to the fatal consequences of its indulgence.
While summer lasted, and the late autumn protracted its serenity
almost into winter, Ethel wandered in the lanes and fields; and in spite
of wasting grief, the free air of heaven, which swept her cheek, pre-
served its healthy hue and braced her limbs. But when dreary
inclement winter arrived, and the dull fireside of aunt Bessy became
the order of the day, without occupation to amuse, or society to dis-
tract her thoughts, given up to grief, and growing into a monument
of woe, it became evident that the springs of life were becoming poi-
soned, and that health and existence itself were giving way before the
destructive influences at work within. Appetite first, then sleep,
deserted her. A slight cold became a cough, and then changed into a
preying fever. She grew so thin that her large eyes, shining with
unnatural lustre, appeared to occupy too much of her face, and her
brow was streaked with ghastly hues. Poor Mrs. Elizabeth, when she
found that neither arrow-root nor chicken-broth restored her, grew
frightened — the village practitioner exhausted his skill without avail.
Ethel herself firmly believed that she was going to die, and fondly
cherished the hope of rejoining her father. She was in love with
death, which alone could reunite her to the being, apart from whom
she believed it impossible to exist.
But limits were now placed to Mrs. Elizabeths romance.The dan-
ger of Ethel was a frightful reality that awoke every natural feeling.
Ethel, the representative of her brother, the last of their nearly extinct
race, the sole relation she possessed, the only creature whom she
LODOR E 171
could entirely love, was dear to her beyond expression; and the dread
of losing her gave activity to her slothful resolves. Having seldom,
during the whole course of her life, been called upon to put any plan
or wish of hers into actual-execution, what another would have
immediately and easily done, was an event to call forth all her ener-
gies, and to require all her courage; luckily she possessed sufficient to
meet the present exigency. She wrote up to London to her single cor-
respondent there, her brother's solicitor. A house was taken, and the
first warm days of spring found the ladies established in the metropo-
lis. A physician had been called in, and he pronounced the mind only
to be sick. "Amuse her," he said, "occupy her — prevent her from
dwelling on those thoughts which have preyed upon her health; let
her see new faces, new places, every thing new — and youth, and a
good constitution, will do the rest."
There seemed so much truth in this advice, that all dangerous
symptoms disappeared from the moment of Ethels leaving Essex. Her
strength returned — her face resumed its former loveliness; and aunt
Bessy, overjoyed at the change, occupied herself earnestly in discover-
ing amusements for her niece in the numerous, wide-spread, and very
busy congregation of human beings, which forms the western por-
tion of London.
17 2 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XVII. [XVIII]
You are now
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow,
At once is deaf and loud.
SHELLEY .
 !
THER E is no uninhabited desart so dreary as the peopled streets of
London, to those who have no ties with its inhabitants, nor any pur-
suits in common with its busy crowds. A drop of water in the ocean is
no symbol of the situation of an isolated individual thrown upon the
stream of metropolitan life; that amalgamates with its kindred ele-
ment; but the solitary being finds no pole of attraction to cause a
union with its fellows, and bastilled by the laws of society, it is con-
demned to incommunicative solitude.
Ethel was thrown completely upon her aunt, and her aunt was a
cypher in the world. She had not a single acquaintance in London,
and was wholly inexperienced in its ways. She dragged Ethel about to
see sights, and Ethel was amused for a time. The playhouses were a
great source of entertainment to her, and all kinds of exhibitions,
panoramas, and shows, served to fill up her day. Still the great want of
all shed an air of dulness over every thing - the absence of human
intercourse, and of the conversation and sympathy of her species.
Ethel, as she drove through the mazy streets, and mingled with the
equipages in the park, could not help thinking what pleasant people
might be found among the many she saw, and how strange it was that
her aunt did not speak even to one among them.This solitude, joined
to a sense of exclusion, became very painful. Again and again she
sighed for the Illinois; that was inhabited by human beings, humble
and uncultivated as they might be. She knew their wants, and could
interest herself in their goings on. All the moving crowd of men and
women now around her seemed so many automata: she started when
she heard them address each other, and express any feeling or inten-
tion that distinguished them from the shadows of a phantasmagoria.
Where were the boasted delights of European intercourse which
i "Letter to Maria Gisborne" 192-194; first published in the Posthumous Poems (1824)
edited by Mary Shelley.
LODOR E 173
Lodore had vaunted? - the elegancies, and the wit, or the improve-
ment to be derived from its society? — the men and women of talent,
of refinement, and taste, who by their conversation awaken the soul to
new powers, and exhilarate the spirits with a purer madness than wine
— who with alternate gaiety and wisdom, humour and sagacity, amuse
while they teach; accompanying their lessons with that spirit of sym-
pathy, that speaking to the eye and ear, as well as to the mind, which
books can so poorly imitate? "Here, doubtless, I should find all these,"
thought Ethel, as she surveyed the audience at the theatres, or the
daily congregations she met in her drives; "yet I live here as if not
only I inhabited a land whose language was unknown to me, for then
I might converse by signs, - but as if I had fallen among beings of
another species, with whom I have no affinity: I should almost say that
I walked among them invisible, did they not condescend sometimes
to gaze at me, proving that at least I am seen."
Time sped on very quickly, meanwhile, in spite of these repinings;
for her days were past in the utmost monotony, - so that though the
hours a little lagged, yet she wondered where they were when they
were gone: and they had spent more than a month in town, though it
seemed but a few days. Ethel had entirely recovered her health, and
more than her former beauty She was nearly seventeen: she was rather
tall and slim; but there was a bending elegance in her form, joined to
an elastic step, which was singularly graceful. No man could see her
without a wish to draw near to afford protection and support; and the
soft expression of her full eyes added to the charm. Her deep mourn-
ing dress, the simplicity of her appearance, her face so prettily shaded
by her bright ringlets, often caused her to be remarked, and people
asked one another who she was. None knew; and the old-fashioned
appearance of Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, and the want of style which
characterized all her arrangements, prevented our very aristocratic
gentry from paying as much attention to her as they otherwise would.
One day, this gentle, solitary pair attended a morning concert.
Ethel had not been to the Opera, and now heard Pasta
1
 for the first
i Giuditta Pasta (1798-1865), the "Siddons of Opera," was a renowned opera singer
who made her English debut at the King's Theatre in 1816-17. She returned to
great acclaim to the King's Theatre during the 1824 season. Shelley mentions hear-
ing Pasta on several occasions during 1824, the first being when she saw her play
17 4 MARY SHELLEY
time. Her father had cultivated her taste for Italian music; for without
cultivation - without in some degree understanding and being famil-
iar with an art, it is rare that we admire even the most perfect speci-
mens of it. Ethel listened with wrapt attention; her heart beat quick,
and her eyes became suffused with tears which she could not sup-
press; - so she leant forward, shading her face as much as she could
with her veil, and trying to forget the throng of strangers about her.
They were in the pit; and having come in late, sat at the end of one of
the forms. Pasta s air was concluded; and she still turned aside, being
too much agitated to wish to speak, when she heard her aunt address-
ing some one as an old acquaintance. She called her friend "Captain
Markham," expressed infinite pleasure at seeing him, and whispered
her niece that here was an old friend of her fathers. Ethel turned and
beheld Mr.Villiers. His face lighted up with pleasure, and he expressed
his joy at the chance which had produced the meeting; but the poor
girl was unable to reply. All colour deserted her cheeks; marble pale
and cold, her voice failed, and her heart seemed to die within her. The
room where last she saw the lifeless remains of her father rose before
her; and the appearance of Mr.Villiers was as a vision from another
world, speaking of the dead. Mrs. Elizabeth, considerably surprised,
asked her how she came to know Captain Markham. Ethel would
have said, "Let us go!" but her voice died away, and she felt that tears
would follow any attempt of explanation. Ashamed of the very possi-
bility of occasioning a scene, and yet too disturbed to know well what
she was about, she suddenly rose, and though the commencement of a
new air was commanding silence and attention, she hastily quitted the
room, and found herself alone, outside the door, before her aunt was
well aware that she was gone. She claimed Captain Markham s assis-
tance to follow the fugitive; and, attended by him, at length discov-
ered her chariot, to which Ethel had been led by the servant, and in
which she was sitting, weeping bitterly. Mrs. Elizabeth felt inclined to
ask her whether she was mad; but she also was struck dumb; for her
Captain Markham had said - "I am very sorry to have distressed Miss
Fitzhenry. My name is Villiers. I cannot wonder at her agitation; but it
Romeo (see Letters 1.445 and 1.449-50 for descriptions of her singing and acting
ability). Pasta returned to London with Bellini between June and September 1833,
which is contemporary to the time scheme of Lodore.
LODOR E 175
would give me much pleasure if she would permit me to call on her,
when she can see me with more composure."
With these words, he assisted the good lady into the carriage,
bowed, and disappeared. He was not Captain Markham! How could
she have been so stupid as to imagine that he was? He looked, upon
the whole, rather younger than Captain Markham had done, when
she formed acquaintance with him, during her expedition to London
on the occasion of Ethel's christening. He was taller, too, and not
quite so stout; yet he was so like - the same frank, open countenance,
the same ingenuous manner, and the same clear blue eyes. Certainly
Captain Markham was not so handsome; - and what a fool Mr.Vil-
liers must think her, for having mistaken him for a person who resem-
bled him sixteen years ago; quite forgetting that Mr. Villiers was
ignorant who her former friend was, and when she had seen him. All
these perplexing thoughts passed through Mrs. Fitzhenry's brain,
tinging her aged cheek with a blush of shame; while Ethel, having
recovered herself, was shocked to remember how foolishly and rudely
she had behaved; and longed to apologize, yet knew not how; and
fancied that it was very unlikely that she should ever see Mr. Villiers
again. Her aunt, engaged by her own distress, quite forgot the inten-
tion he had expressed of calling, and could only exclaim and lament
over her folly. The rest of the day was spent with great discomfort to
both; for the sight of Mr. Villiers renewed all Ethel's sorrows; and again
and again she bestowed the tribute of showers of tears to her dear
father's memory.
The following day, much to Ethel's delight, and the annoyance of
Mrs. Elizabeth, who could not get over her sense of shame, Mr.Villiers
presented himself in their drawing-room. Villiers, however, was a man
speedily to overcome any prejudice formed against him; far more eas-
ily, therefore, he could obviate the good aunt's confusion, and put her
at her ease. His was one of those sunny countenances that spoke a
heart ready to give itself away in kindness; - a cheering voice, whose
tones echoed the frankness and cordiality of his nature. Blest with a
buoyant, and even careless spirit, as far as regarded himself, he had a
softness, a delicacy, and a gentleness, with respect to others, which ani-
mated his manners with irresistible fascination. His heart was open to
pity - his soul the noblest and clearest ever fashioned by nature in her
17 6 MARY SHELLE Y
happiest mood. He had been educated in the world - he lived for the
world, for he had not genius to raise himself above the habits and pur-
suits of his countrymen: yet he took only the better part of their prac-
tices; and shed a grace over them, so alien to their essence, that any
one might have been deceived, and have fancied that he proceeded on
a system and principles of his own.
He had travelled a good deal, and was somewhat inclined, when
pleased with his company, to narrate his adventures and experiences.
Ethel was naturally rather taciturn; and Mrs. Elizabeth was too much
absorbed in the pleasure of listening, to interrupt their visitor. He felt
himself peculiarly happy and satisfied between the two, and his visit
was excessively long; nor did he go away before he had appointed to
call the next day, and opened a long vista of future visits for himself,
assisted by the catalogue of all that the ladies had not seen, and all that
they desired to see, in London.
Villiers had been animated while with them, but he left the house
full of thought. The name of Fitzhenry, or rather that of Lodore, was
familiar to him; and the strange chance that had caused him to act as
second to the lamented noble who bore this title, and which brought
him in contact with his orphan and solitary daughter, appeared to
him like the enchantment of fairy land. From the presence of Ethel,
he proceeded to Lady Lodore s house, which was still shut up; yet he
knocked, and inquired of the servant whether she had returned to
England. She was still at Baden,
1
 he was told, and not expected for a
month or two; and this answer involved him in deeper thought than
before.
End of Vol.1.
i Baden-Baden, a spa in Germany popular with the English. Shelley went there for a
rest cure in 1848 (Sunstein 373-5).
LODOR E 177
This page intentionally left blank 
LODORE .
B Y THE
AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN,"
In the turmoil of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON :
RICHAR D BENTLEY, NE W BURLINGTON STREET.
(SUCCESSO R TO HENRY COLBURN.)
1835.
1 John Ford, The Lover's Melancholy (1629), 5.1.4-9.
FORD.
1
This page intentionally left blank 
L O DO RE .
CHAPTER I.
Excellent creature! whose perfections make
Even sorrow lovely!
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
MR.Villiers now became the constant visitor of Mrs. Elizabeth and
her niece; and all discontent, all sadness, all listlessness, vanished in his
presence. There was in his mind a constant spring of vivacity, which
did not display itself in mere gaiety, but in being perfectly alive at
every moment, and continually ready to lend himself to the comfort
and solace of his companions. Sitting in their dingy London house,
the spirit of dulness had drawn a curtain between them and the sun;
and neither thought nor event had penetrated the fortification of
silence and neglect which environed them. Edward Villiers came; and
as mist flies before the wind, so did all Ethel's depression disappear
when his voice only met her ear: his step on the stairs announced
happiness; and when he was indeed before her, light and day displaced
every remnant of cheerless obscurity.
The abstracted, wounded, yet lofty spirit of Lodore was totally dis-
similar to the airy brightness ofVilliers' disposition. Lodore had out-
lived a storm, and shown himself majestic in ruin.
2
 No ill had
tarnished the nature ofVilliers: he enjoyed life, he was in good-
humour with the world, and thought well of mankind. Lodore had
endangered his peace from the violence of passion, and reaped misery
1 John Fletcher and Philip Massinger, The Custom of the Country (1647) 3.4.14-15.
2 Paradise Lost 2.305.
LODOR E 181
from the pride of his soul.Villiers was imprudent from his belief in
the goodness of his fellow-creatures, and imparted happiness from the
store that his warm heart insured to himself. The one had never been
a boy - the other had not yet learned to be a man.
Ethel's heart had been filled by her father; and all affection, all
interest, borrowed their force from his memory. She did not think of
love; and while Villiers was growing into a part of her life, becoming
knit to her existence by daily habit, and a thousand thoughts expend-
ed on him, she entertained his idea chiefly as having been the friend
of Lodore."He is certainly the kindest-hearted creature in the world."
This was the third time that, when laying her gentle head on the pil-
low, this feeling came like a blessing to her closing eyes. She heard his
voice in the silence of night, even more distinctly than when it was
addressed to her outward sense during the day For the first time after
the lapse of months, she found one to whom she could spontaneous-
ly utter every thought, as it rose in her mind. A fond, elder brother, if
such ever existed, cherishing the confidence and tenderness of a
beloved sister, might fill the place which her new friend assumed for
Ethel. She thought of him with overflowing affection; and the name
of "Mr. Villiers" sometimes fell from her lips in solitude, and hung
upon her ear like sweetest music. In early life there is a moment —
perhaps of all the enchantments of love it is the one which is never
renewed — whe n passion, unacknowledged to ourselves, imparts
greater delight than any after-stage of that ever-progressive sentiment.
We neither wish nor expect. A new joy has risen, like the sun, upon
our lives; and we rejoice in the radiance of morning, without advert-
ing to the noon and twilight that is to follow. Ethel stood on the
threshold of womanhood: the door of life had been closed before her;
- again it was thrown open, - and the sudden splendour that mani-
fested itself blinded her to the forms of the objects of menace or
injury, which a more experienced eye would have discerned within
the brightness of her new-found day.
Ethel expressed a wish to visit Eton. In talking of the past, Lord
Lodore had never adverted to any events except those which had
occurred during his boyish days. His youthful pleasures and exploits
had often made a part of their conversation. He had traced for her a
plan of Eton college, and the surrounding scenery; spoken of the
1 8 2 MARY SHELLE Y
trembling delight he had felt in escaping from bounds; and told how
he and Derham had passed happy hours beside the clear streams, and
beneath the copses, of that rural country. There was one fountain
which he delighted to celebrate; and the ivied ruins of an old
monastery, now become a part of a farm-yard, which had been to
these friends the bodily image of many imaginary scenes. Among the
sketches of Whitelock, were several taken in the vicinity of Windsor;
and there were, in his portfolio, studies of trees, cottages, and also of
this same abbey, which Lodore instantly recognized. To many he had
some appending anecdote, some school-boy association. He had pur-
chased the whole collection from Whitelock. Ethel had copied a few;
and these, together with various sketches made in the Illinois, formed
her dearest treasure, more precious in her eyes than diamonds and
rubies.
We are most jealous of what sits nearest to our hearts; and we must
love fondly before we can let another into the secret of those trivial,
but cherished emotions, which form the dearest portion of our soli-
tary meditations. Ethel had several times been on the point of propos-
ing a visit to Eton, to her aunt; but there was an awful sacredness in
the very name, which acted like a spell upon her imagination. When
first it fell from her lips, the word seemed echoed by unearthly whis-
perings, and she fled from the idea of going thither, — as it is the fem-
inine disposition often to do, from the full accomplishment of its
wishes, as if disaster must necessarily be linked to the consummation
of their desires. But a word was enough forVilliers: he eagerly solicit-
ed permission to escort them thither, as, being an Etonian himself, his
guidance would be of great advantage. Ethel faltered her consent; and
the struggle of delight and sensibility made that project appear
painful, which was indeed the darling of her thoughts.
On a bright day in the first week of May, they made this excur-
sion. They repaired to one of the inns at Salt Hill, and prolonged their
walks and drives about the country. In some of the former, where old
walls were to be scrambled up, and rivulets overleaped, Mrs. Elizabeth
remained at the hotel, and Ethel andVilliers pursued their rambles
together. Ethel's whole soul was given up to the deep filial love that
had induced the journey. Every green field was a stage on which her
father had played a part; each majestic tree, or humble streamlet, was
LODOR E 183
hallowed by being associated with his image. The pleasant, verdant
beauty of the landscape, clad in all the brightness of early summer; the
sunny, balmy day — the clouds which pranked the heavens with bright
and floating shapes — each hedgerow and each cottage, with its trim
garden - each embowered nook - had a voice which was music to
her soul. From the college of Eton, they sought the dame's
1
 house
where Lodore and Derham had lived; then crossing the bridge, they
entered Windsor, and prolonged their walk into the forest. Ethel knew
even the rustic names of the spots she most desired to visit, and to
these Villiers led her in succession. Day declined before they got
home, and found Mrs. Elizabeth, and their repast, waiting them; and
the evening was enlivened by many a tale of boyish pranks, achieved
by Villiers, in these scenes. The following morning they set forth
again; and three days were spent in these delightful wanderings. Ethel
would willingly never have quitted this spot: it appeared to her as if,
seeing all, still much remained to be seen — as if she could never
exhaust the variety of sentiments and deep interest which endeared
every foot of this to her so holy ground. Nor were her emotions
silent, and the softness of her voice, and the flowing eloquence with
which she expressed herself, formed a new charm for her companion.
Sometimes her heart was too full to admit of expression, and grief
for her fathers loss was renewed in all its pristine bitterness. One day,
on feeling herself thus overcome, she quitted her companions, and
sought the shady walks of the garden of the hotel, to indulge in a gush
of sorrow which she could not repress. There was something in her
gesture and manner as she left them, that reminded Villiers of Lady
Lodore. It was one of those mysterious family resemblances, which
are so striking and powerful, and yet which it is impossible to point
out to a stranger. A bligh (as this indescribable resemblance is called in
some parts of England) of her mother struck Villiers forcibly, and he
suddenly asked Mrs. Elizabeth, "If Miss Fitzhenry had never expressed
a desire to see Lady Lodore."
"God forbid!" exclaimed the old lady; "it was my brother's dying
wish, that she should never hear Lady Lodore s name, and I have reli-
giously observed it. Ethel only knows that she was the cause of her
i At Eton a "dame" is a matron (or man) who keeps a boarding-house for students
(OED).
18 4 MARY SHELLE Y
father's misfortunes, that she deserted every duty, and is unworthy of
the name she bears."
Villiers was astonished at this tirade falling from the lips of the
unusually placid maiden, whose heightened colour bespoke implaca-
ble resentment. "Do not mention that woman's name, Mr.Villiers,"
she continued, "I am convinced that I should die on the spot if I saw
her; she is as much a murderess, as if she had stabbed her husband to
the heart with a dagger. Her letter to me that I sent to my poor
brother in America, was more the cause of his death, I am sure, than
all the duels in the world. Lady Lodore! I often wonder a thunderbolt
from heaven does not fall on and kill her!"
Mrs. Elizabeth's violence was checked by seeing Ethel cross the
road to return. "Promise not to mention her name to my niece," she
cried.
"For the present be assured that I will not,"Villiers answered. He
had been struck most painfully by some of Mrs. Elizabeth's expres-
sions, they implied so much more of misconduct on Lady Lodore's
part, than he had ever suspected - but she must know best; and it
seemed to him, indeed, the probable interpretation of the mystery
that enveloped her separation from her husband. The account spread
by Lady Santerre, and current in the world, appeared inadequate and
improbable; Lodore would not have dared to take her child from her,
but on heavier grounds; it was then true, that a dark and disgraceful
secret was hidden in her heart, and that her propriety, her good repu-
tation, her seeming pride of innocence, were but the mask to cover
the reality that divided her from her daughter for ever.
Villiers was well acquainted with Lady Lodore; circumstances had
caused him to take a deep interest in her — these were now at an end:
but the singular coincidences that had brought him in contact with
her daughter, renewed many forgotten images, and caused him to
dwell on the past with mixed curiosity and uneasiness. Mrs. Eliza-
beth's expressions added to the perplexity of his ideas; their chief
effect was to tarnish to his mind the name of Lady Lodore, and to
make him rejoice at the termination that had been put to their more
intimate connexion.
LODOR E 185
CHAPTER II.
One, within whose subtle being,
As light and wind within some delicate cloud,
That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky.
Genius and youth contended.
THE party returned to town, and on the following evening tjiey
went to the Italian Opera. For the first time since her fathers death,
Ethel threw aside her mourning attire: for the first time also, she made
one of the audience at the King's Theatre. She went to hear the music,
and to spend the evening with the only person in the world who was
drawn towards her by feelings of kindness and sympathy - the only
person - but that sufficed. His being near her, was the occasion of
more delight than if she had been made the associate of regal splen-
dour. Yet it was no defined or disturbing sentiment, that sat so lightly
on her bosom and shone in her eyes. Hers was the first gentle open-
ing of a girl's heart, who does not busy herself with the future, and
reposes on the serene present with unquestioning confidence. She
looked round on the gay world assembled, and thought, "All are as
happy as I am." She listened to the music with a subdued but charmed
spirit, and turned now and then to her companions with a glad smile,
expressive of her delight. Fewer words were spoken in their little box,
probably than in any in the house; but in none were congregated
three hearts so guileless, and so perfectly satisfied with the portion
allotted to them.
At length both opera and ballet were over, and, leaning on the arm
ofVilliers, the ladies entered the round-room. The house had been
very full and the crowd was great. A seat was obtained for Aunt Bessy
on one of the sofas near the door, which opened on the principal
staircase. Villiers and Ethel stood near her. When the crowd had
thinned a little, Villiers went to look for the servant, and Ethel
remained surveying the moving numbers with curiosity, wondering at
her own fate, that while every one seemed familiar one to the other,
i "The Sunset" 1-4. Published in Mary Shelley's edition of the Posthumous Poems
(1824).
1 8 6 MARY SHELLEY
SHELLEY .
she knew, and was known by, none. She did not repine at this;Villiers
had dissipated the sense of desertion which before haunted her, and
she was much entertained, as she heard the remarks and interchange
of compliments going on about her. Her attention was particularly
attracted by a very beautiful woman, or rather girl she seemed, stand-
ing on the other side of the room, conversing with a very tall person-
age, to whom she, being not above the middle size, looked up as she
talked; which action, perhaps, added to her youthful appearance.
There was an ease in her manners that bespoke a matron as to station.
She was dressed very simply in white, without any ornament; her
cloak hung carelessly from her shoulders, and gave to view her round
symmetrical figure; her silky, chesnut-coloured hair, fell in thick
ringlets round her face, and was gathered with inimitable elegance in
large knots on the top of her head. There was something bewitching
in her animated smile, and sensibility beamed from her long and dark
grey eyes; her simple gesture as she placed her little hand on her
cloak, her attitude as she stood, were wholly unpretending, but grace-
ful beyond measure. Ethel watched her unobserved, with admiration
and interest, so that she almost forgot where she was, until the voice
ofVilliers recalled her. "Your carriage is up — will you come?"The
lady turned as he spoke, and recognized him with a cordial and most
sweet smile. They moved on, while Ethel turned back to look again, as
her carriage was loudly called, and Mrs. Elizabeth seizing her arm,
whispered out of breath, "O my dear, do make haste!" She hurried
on, therefore, and her glance was momentary; but she saw with won-
der, that the lady was looking with eagerness at the party; she caught
Ethel's eye, blushed and turned away, while the folding doors closed,
and with a kind of nervous trepidation her companions descended
the stairs. In a moment the ladies were in their carriage, which drove
off, while Mrs. Elizabeth exclaimed in the tone of one aghast, "Thank
God, we got away! O, Ethel, that was Lady Lodore!"
"My mother! — impossible!"
"O, that we had never come to town," continued her aunt. "Long
have I prayed that I might never see her again; — and she looking as if
nothing had happened, and that Lodore had not died through her
means! Wicked, wicked woman! I will not stay in London a day
longer!"
LODOR E 187
Ethel did not interrupt her ravings: she remembered Captain
Markham, and could not believe but that her aunt laboured under
some similar mistake; it was ridiculous to imagine, that this girlish-
looking, lovely being, had been the wife of her father, whom she
remembered with his high forehead rather bare of hair, his deep
marked countenance, his look that bespoke more than mature age.
Her aunt was mistaken, she felt sure; and yet when she closed her
eyes, the beautiful figure she had seen stole, according to the Arabian
image, beneath her lids, and smiled sweetly, and again started forward
to look after her. This little act seemed to confirm what Mrs. Eliza-
beth said; and yet, again, it was impossible! "Had she been named my
sister, there were something in it - but my mother, - impossible!"
Yet strange as it seemed, it was so; in this instance, Mrs. Elizabeth
had not deceived herself; and thus it was that two so near of kin as
mother and daughter, met, it might be said, for the first time.Villiers
was inexpressibly shocked; and believing that Lady Lodore must suffer
keenly from so strange and unnatural an incident, his first kindly
impulse was to seek to see her on the following morning. During her
absence, the violent attack of her sister-in-law had weighed with him,
but her look at once dissipated his uneasy doubts. There was that in
this lady, which no man could resist; she had joined to her beauty, the
charm of engaging manners, made up of natural grace, vivacity, intu-
itive tact, and soft sensibility, which infused a kind of idolatry into the
admiration with which she was universally regarded. But it was not
the beauty and fashion of Lady Lodore which caused Villiers to take a
deep interest in her. His intercourse with her had been of long stand-
ing, and the object of his very voyage to America was intimately con-
nected with her.
Edward Villiers was the son of a man of fortune. His father had
been left a widower young in life, with this only child, who, thus sin-
gle and solitary in his paternal home, became almost adopted into the
family of his mother's brother, Viscount Maristow. This nobleman
being rich, married, and blessed with a numerous progeny, the pres-
ence of little Edward was not felt as a burthen, and he was brought up
with his cousins like one of them. Among these it would have been
hard ifVilliers could not have found an especial friend: this was not
the elder son, who, much his senior, looked down upon him with
1 8 8 MARY SHELLEY
friendly regard; it was the second, who was likewise several years
older. Horatio Saville was a being fashioned for every virtue and dis-
tinguished by every excellence; to know that a thing was right to be
done, was enough to impel Horatio to go through fire and water to
do it; he was one of those who seem not to belong to this world, yet
who adorn it most; conscientious, upright, and often cold in seeming,
because he could always master his passions; good over-much, he
might be called, but that there was no pedantry nor harshness in his
nature. Resolute, aspiring, and true, his noble purposes and studious
soul, demanded a frame of iron, and he had one of the frailest mecha-
nism. It was not that he was not tall, well-shaped, with earnest eyes, a
brow built up high to receive and entertain a capacious mind; but he
was thin and shadowy, a hectic flushed his cheek, and his voice was
broken and mournful. At school he held the topmost place, at college
he was distinguished by the energy with which he pursued his stud-
ies; and these, so opposite from what might have been expected to be
the pursuits of his ardent mind, were abstruse metaphysics - the high-
est and most theoretical mathematics, and cross-grained argument,
based upon hair-fine logic; to these he addicted himself. His desire
was knowledge; his passion truth; his eager and never-sleeping
endeavour was to inform and to satisfy his understanding. Villiers
waited on him, as an inferior spirit may attend on an archangel, and
gathered from him the crumbs of his knowledge, with gladness and
content. He could not force his boyish mind to similar exertions, nor
feel that keen thirst for knowledge that kept alive his cousin s applica-
tion, though he could admire and love these with fervour, when
exhibited in another. It was indeed a singular fact, that this constant
contemplation of so superior a being, added to his careless turn of
mind. Not to be like Horatio was to be nothing — to be like him was
impossible. So he was content to remain one of the half-ignorant,
uninformed creatures most men are, and to found his pride upon his
affection for his cousin, who, being several years older, might well be
advanced even beyond his emulation. Horatio himself did not desire
to be imitated by the light-hearted Edward; he was too familiar with
the exhaustion, the sadness, the disappointment of his pursuits; he
could not be otherwise himself, but he thought all that he aspired
after, was well exchanged for the sparkling eyes, exhaustless spirits, and
LODOR E 189
buoyant step ofVilliers.We none of us wish to exchange our identity
for that of another; yet we are never satisfied with ourselves. The
unknown has always a charm, and unless blinded by miserable vanity,
we know ourselves too well to appreciate our especial characteristics
at a very high rate. When Horace, after deep midnight study, felt his
brain still working like a thousand mill-wheels, that cannot be
stopped; when sleep fled from him, and yet his exhausted mind could
no longer continue its labours — he envied the light slumbers of his
cousin, which followed exercise and amusement. Villiers loved and
revered him; and he felt drawn closer to him than towards any of his
brothers, and strove to refine his taste and regulate his conduct
through his admonitions and example, while he abstained from fol-
lowing him in the steep and thorny path he had selected.
Horatio quitted college; he was no longer a youth, and his man-
hood became as studious as his younger days. He had no desire but for
knowledge, no thought but for the nobler creations of the soul, and
the discernment of the sublime laws of God and nature. He nourished
the ambition of showing to these latter days what scholars of old had
been, though this feeling was subservient to his instinctive love of
learning, and his wish to adorn his mind with the indefeasible attrib-
utes of truth. He was universally respected and loved, though little
understood. His young cousin Edward only was aware of the earnest-
ness of his affections, and the sensibility that nestled itself in his warm
heart. He was outwardly mild, placid, and forbearing, and thus
obtained the reputation of being cold — though those who study
human nature ought to make it their first maxim, that those who are
tolerant of the follies of their fellows - who sympathize with, and
assist their wishes, and who apparently forget their own desires, as
they devote themselves to the accomplishment of those of their
friends, must have the quickest feelings to make them enter into and
understand those of others, and the warmest affections to be able to
conquer their wayward humours, so that they can divest themselves of
selfishness, and incorporate in their own being the pleasures and pains
of those around them.
The sparkling eye, the languid step, and flushed cheek of Horatio
Saville, were all tokens that there burnt within him a spirit too strong
for his frame; but he never complained; or if he ever poured out his
19 0 MARY SHELLEY
pent-up emotions, it was in the ear of Edward only; who but partly
understood him, but who loved him entirely. What that thirst for
knowledge was that preyed on him, and for ever urged him to drink
of the purest streams of wisdom, and yet which ever left him
unsatisfied, fevered, and mournful, the gay spirit of Edward Villiers
could not guess: often he besought his cousin to close his musty
books, to mount a rapid horse, to give his studies to the winds, and
deliver his soul to nature. But Horace pointed to some unexplained
passage in Plato the divine, or some undiscovered problem in the
higher sciences, and turned his eyes from the sun; or if indeed he
yielded, and accompanied his youthful friend, some appearance of
earth or air would awaken his curiosity, rouze his slumbering mind
again to inquire, and making his study of the wide cope of heaven, he
gave himself up to abstruse meditation, while nominally seeking for
relaxation from his heavier toils.
Horatio Saville was nine-and-twenty when he first met Lady
Lodore, who was nearly the same age. He had begun to feel that his
health was shaken, and he tried to forget for a time his devouring avo-
cations. He changed the scene, and went on a visit to a friend, who
had a country house not far from Hastings. Lady Lodore was expect-
ed as a guest, together with her mother. She was much talked of, hav-
ing become an object of interest or curiosity to the many. A mystery
hung over her fate; but her reputation was cloudless, and she was
warmly supported by the leaders of fashion. Saville heard of her beau-
ty and her sufferings; the injustice with which she had been treated —
of her magnanimity and desolate condition; he heard of her talents,
her powers of conversation, her fashion. He figured to himself (as we
are apt to incarnate to our imagination the various qualities of a
human being, of whom we hear much) a woman, brilliant, but rather
masculine, majestic in figure, with wild dark eyes, and a very deter-
mined manner. Lady Lodore came: she entered the room where he
was sitting, and the fabric of his fancy was at once destroyed. He saw a
sweet-looking woman; serene, fair, and with a countenance expressive
of contented happiness. He found that her manners were winning,
from their softness; her conversation was delightful, from its total want
of pretension or impertinence.
What the power was that from the first moment they met, drew
LODOR E 191
Horatio Saville and Lady Lodore together is one of those natural
secrets which it is impossible to explain. Though a student, Saville was
a gentleman, with the manners and appearance of the better speci-
mens of our aristocracy. There might be something in his look of ill
health, which demanded sympathy; something in his superiority to
the rest of the persons about her, in the genius that sat on his brow,
and the eloquence that flowed from his lips; something in the contrast
he presented to every one else she had ever seen - neither entering
into their gossiping slanders, nor understanding their empty self-suffi-
ciency, that possessed a charm for one satiated with the worlds com-
mon scene. It was less of wonder that Cornelia pleased the student.
There were no rough corners, no harshness about her; she won her
way into any heart by her cheerful smiles and kind tones; and she lis-
tened to Saville when he talked of what other women would have
lent a languid ear to, with such an air of interest, that he found no
pleasure so great as that of talking on.
Saville was accustomed to find the men of his acquaintance igno-
rant. All the knowledge of worldlings was as a point in comparison
with his vast acquirements. He did not seek Lady Lodore's society
either to learn or to teach, but to forget thought, and to feel himself
occupied and diverted from the sense of listlessness that haunted him
in society, without having recourse to the, to him dangerous, attrac-
tion of his books.
Lady Lodore had, in the very brightness of her earliest youth,
selected a proud and independent position. She had refused to bend to
her husband s will, or to submit to the tyranny, as she named it, which
he had attempted to exercise.Youth is bold and fearless. The forked
tongue of scandal, the thousand ills with which woman is threatened
in society, without a guide or a protector - all the worldly considera-
tions which might lead her to unite herself again to her husband, she
had rejected with unbounded disdain. Her mother was there to stand
between her and the shafts of envy and calumny, and she conceived no
mistrust of herself; she believed that she could hold her course with
taintless feelings and security of soul, through a thousand dangers. At
first she had been somewhat annoyed by ill-natured observations, but
Lady Santerre poured the balm of flattery on her wounds, and a few
tears shed in her presence dissipated the gathering cloud.
19 2 MARY SHELLE Y
Cornelia had every motive a woman could have for guarding her
conduct from reproach. She lived in the midst of polished society, and
was thoroughly imbued with its maxims and laws. She witnessed the
downfall of several, as young and lovely as herself, and heard the sar-
casms and beheld the sneers which were heaped as a tomb above their
buried fame. She had vowed to herself never to become one of these.
She was applauded for her pride, and held up as a pattern. No one
feared her. She was no coquette, though she strove universally to
please. She formed no intimate friendships, though every man felt
honoured by her notice.
1
 She had no prudery on her lips, but her
conduct was as open and as fair as day. Here lay her defence against
her husband; and she preserved even the outposts of such bulwarks
with scrupulous yet unobtrusive exactitude.
Her spirits, as well as her spirit, held her up through many a year.
More than ten years had passed since her separation from Lodore - a
long time to tell of; but it had glided away, she scarcely knew how -
taking little from her loveliness, adding to the elegance of her appear-
ance, and the grace of her manners. Season after season came, and
went, and she had no motive for counting them anxiously. She was
sought after and admired; it was a holiday life for her, and she won-
dered what people meant when they spoke of the delusions of this
world, and the dangers of our own hearts. She saw a gay reality about
her, and felt the existence of no internal enemy. Nothing ever moved
her to sorrow, except the reflection that now and then came across,
that she had a child - divorced for ever from her maternal bosom. The
sight of a baby cradled in its mothers arms, or stretching out its little
hands to her, had not unoften caused her to turn abruptly away, to
hide her tears; and once or twice she had been obliged to quit a the-
atre to conceal her emotion, when such sentiments were brought too
vividly before her. But when her eyes were drowned in tears, and her
bosom heaved with sad emotion, pride came to check the torrent,
and hatred of her oppressor gave a new impulse to her swelling heart.
She had rather avoided female friendships, and had been warned
from them by the treachery of one, and the misconduct of another, of
i Perhaps an allusion to Alexander Pope's portrait of Belinda in The Rape of the Lock
(I7H).
LODOR E 193
her more intimate acquaintances. Lady Lodore renounced friendship,
but the world began to grow a little dull. The frivolity of one, the
hard-heartedness of another, disgusted. She saw each occupied by
themselves and their families, and she was alone. Balls and assemblies
palled upon her - country pleasures were stupid - she had began to
think all things "stale and unprofitable,"
1
 when she became acquaint-
ed with Horatio Saville. She was glad again to feel animated with a
sense of living enjoyment; she congratulated herself on the idea that
she could take interest in some one thing or person among the empty
shapes that surrounded her; and without a thought beyond the
amusement of the present moment, most of her hours were spent in
his company.
i Hamlet 1.2.133.
19 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER III .
Ah now, ye gentle pair, — now think awhile,
Now, while ye still can think and still can smile.
So did they think
Only with grayer thoughts, and smiles reduced.
A MONT H stole away as if it had been a day, and Lady Lodore was
engaged to pass some weeks with another friend in a distant county. It
was easily contrived, without contrivance, by Saville, that he should
visit a relation who lived within a morning's ride of her new abode.
The restriction placed upon their intercourse while residing under
different roofs contrasted painfully with the perfect freedom they had
enjoyed while inhabiting the same. Their attachment was too young
and too unacknowledged to need the zest of difficulty. It required
indeed the facility of an unobstructed path for it to proceed to the
accustomed bourne; and a straw thrown across was sufficient to check
its course for ever.
The impatience and restlessness which Cornelia experienced dur-
ing her journey; the rush of transport that thrilled through her when
she heard of Saville s arrival at a neighbouring mansion, awoke her in
an instant to a knowledge of the true state of her heart. Her pride
was, happily for herself, united to presence of mind and fortitude. She
felt the invasion of the enemy, and she lost not a moment in repelling
the dangers that menaced her. She resolved to be true to the line of
conduct she had marked out for herself— she determined not to love.
She did not alter her manner nor her actions. She met Horatio with
the same sweet smile - she conversed with the same kind interest; but
she did not indulge in one dream, one thought - one reverie (sweet
food of love) during his absence, and guarded over herself that no
indication of any sentiment less general than the friendship of society
might appear. Though she was invariably kind, yet his feelings told
i The Story of Rimini (1816) 3.340-341; 3.346; 3.353.
LODOR E 195
LEIGH HUNT.
1
him that she was changed, without his being able to discover where
the alteration lay; the line of demarcation, which she took care never
to pass, was too finely traced, for any but feminine tact to discern,
though it obstructed him as if it had been as high and massive as a city
wall. Now and then his speaking eye rested on her with a pleading
glance, while she answered his look with a frank smile, that spoke a
heart at ease, and perfect self-possession. Indeed, while they remained
near each other, in despite of all her self-denying resolves, Cornelia
was happy. She felt that there was one being in the world who took a
deep and present interest in her, whose thoughts hovered round her
and whose mind she could influence to the conception of any act or
feeling she might desire. That tranquillity yet animation of spirit — that
gratitude on closing her eyes at night - that glad anticipation of the
morrow's sun — tha t absence of every harsh and jarring emotion,
which is the disposition of the human soul the nearest that we can
conceive to perfect happiness, and which now and then visits sad
humanity, to teach us of what unmeasured and pure joy our fragile
nature is capable, attended her existence, and made each hour of the
day a new-born blessing.
This state of things could not last. An accident revealed to Saville
the true state of his heart; he became aware that he loved Cornelia,
deeply and fervently, and from that moment he resolved to exile him-
self for ever from her dear presence. Misery is the child of love when
happiness is not; this Horatio felt, but he did not shrink from the
endurance. All abstracted and lofty as his speculations were, still his
place had been in the hot-bed of patrician society, and he was familiar
with the repetition of domestic revolutions, too frequent there. For
worlds he would not have Cornelias name become a bye-word and
mark for scandal - that name which she had so long kept bright and
unreachable. His natural modesty prevented him from entertaining
the idea that he could indeed destroy her peace; but he knew how
many and easy are the paths which lead to the loss of honour in the
world's eyes.That it could be observed and surmised that one man
had approached Lady Lodore with any but sentiments of reverence,
was an evil to be avoided at any cost. Saville was firm as rock in his
resolves - he neither doubted nor procrastinated. He left the neigh-
bourhood where she resided, and, returning to his father s house, tried
19 6 MARY SHELLE Y
to acquire strength to bear the severe pain which he could not master.
His gentle and generous nature, ever thoughtful for others, and
prodigal of self, was not however satisfied with this mere negative act
of justice towards one who honoured him, he felt conscious, with her
friendship and kindest thoughts. He was miserable in the idea that he
could not further serve her. He revolved a thousand plans in his mind,
tending to her advantage. In fancy he entered the solitude of her
meditations, and tried to divine what her sorrows or desires were, that
he might minister to their solace or accomplishment. Their previous
intercourse had been very unreserved, and though Cornelia spoke but
distantly and coldly of Lodore, she frequently mentioned her child,
and lamented, with much emotion, the deprivation of all those joys
which maternal love bestows. Often had Saville said, "Why not appeal
more strongly to Lord Lodore? or, if he be inflexible, why calmly
endure an outrage shocking to humanity? The laws of your country
may assist you."
"They would not," said Cornelia, "for his reply would be so
fraught with seeming justice, that the blame would fall back on me.
He asks but the trivial sacrifice of my duty to my mother — my poor
mother! who, since I was born, has lived with me and for me, and
who has no existence except through me. I am to tear away, and to
trample upon the first of human ties, to render myself worthy of the
guardianship of my child! I cannot do it - I should hold myself a par-
ricide. Do not let us talk more of these things; endurance is the fate of
woman, and if I have more than my share, let us hope that some other
poor creature, less able to bear, has her portion lightened in conse-
quence. I should be glad if once indeed I were permitted to see my
cherub girl, though it were only while she slept; but an ocean rolls
between us, and patience must be my comforter."
The soft sweetness of her look and voice, the angelic grace that
animated every tone and glance, rendered these maternal complaints
mournful, yet enchanting music to the ear of Saville. He could have
listened for ever. But when exiled from her, they assumed another
form. He began to think whether it were not possible to convince
Lord Lodore of the inexcusable cruelty of his conduct; and again and
again, he imaged the exultation of heart he should feel, if he could
succeed in placing her lost babe in the mother's arms.
LODOR E 197
Saville was the frankest of human beings. Finding his cousin
Edward on a visit at Mahstow castle, he imparted his project to him,
of making a voyage to America, seeking out Lord Lodore, and using
every argument and persuasion to induce him to restore her daughter
to his wife. Villiers was startled at the mention of this chivalrous
intent. What could have rouzed the studious Horace to such sudden
energy? By one of those strange caprices of the human mind, which
bring forth discord instead of harmony, Edward had never liked Lady
Lodore - he held her to be false and dangerous. Circumstances had
brought him more in contact with her mother than herself, and the
two were associated and confounded in his mind, till he heard Lady
Santerre's falsetto voice in the sweet one of Cornelia, and saw her
deceitful vulgar devices in the engaging manners of her daughter. He
was struck with horror when he discovered that Saville loved, nay,
idolized this beauteous piece of mischief, as he would have named
her. He saw madness and folly in his Quixotic expedition, and argued
against it with all his might. It would not do; Horatio was resolved to
dedicate himself to the happiness of her he loved; and since this must
be done in absence and distance, what better plan than to restore to
her the precious treasure of which she had been robbed?
Saville resolved to cross the Atlantic, and, though opposed to his
scheme, Villiers offered to accompany him. A voyage to America was
but a trip to an active and unoccupied young man; the society of his
cousin would render the journey delightful; he preferred it at all times
to the commoner pleasures of life, and besides, on this occasion, he
was animated with the hope of being useful to him. There was noth-
ing effeminate in Saville. His energy of purpose and depth of thought
forbade the idea. Still there was something that appeared to require
kindness and support. His delicate health, of which he took no care,
demanded feminine attentions; his careless reliance upon the upright-
ness of others, and total self-oblivion, often hurried him to the brink
of dangers; and though fearlessness and integrity were at hand to
extricate him, Edward, who knew his keen sensibility and repressed
quickness of temper, was not without fear, that on so delicate a mis-
sion his ardent feelings might carry him beyond the mark, and that, in
endeavouring to serve a woman whom he loved with enthusiastic
adoration, he might rouze the angry passions of her husband.
19 8 MARY SHELLEY
With such feelings the cousins crossed the Atlantic and arrived at
New York. Thence they proceeded to the west of America, and pass-
ing Lodore and his daughter on the road without knowing it, arrived
at the Illinois after their departure. They were astonished to find that
Mr. Fitzhenry, as he was named to them, had broken up his establish-
ment, sold his farm, and departed with the intention of returning to
Europe. What this change might portend they could not guess.
Whether it were the result of any communication with Lady Lodore
- whether a reconciliation was under discussion, or whether it were
occasioned by caprice merely they could not tell; at any rate, it
seemed to put an end to Saville's mediation. If Lodore returned to
England, it was probable that Cornelia would herself make an exer-
tion to have her child restored to her. Whether he could be of any use
was problematical, but untimely interference was to be deprecated;
events must be left to take their own course: Saville was scarcely him-
self aware how glad he was to escape any kind of intercourse with the
husband of Cornelia.
This feeling, however unacknowledged, became paramount with
him. Now that Lodore was about to leave America, he wished to
linger in it; he planned a long tour through the various states, he stud-
ied their laws and customs, he endeavoured to form a just estimate of
the institutions of the New World, and their influence on those gov-
erned by them.
Edward had little sympathy in these pursuits; he was eager to
return to London, and felt more inclined to take his gun and shoot in
the forests, than to mingle in the society of the various towns. This
difference of taste caused the cousins at various times to separate. Sav-
ille was at Washington whenVilliers made a journey to the borders of
Canada, to the falls of the Niagara, and returned by New York; a por-
tion of the United States which his cousin avoided visiting, until
Lodore should have quitted it.
Thus it was that a strange combination of circumstances brought
Villiers into contact with this unfortunate nobleman, and made him a
witness of and a participator in the closing scene of his disastrous and
wasted life. Villiers did not sympathize in his cousin's admiration of
Cornelia, and was easily won to take a deep interest in the fortunes of
her husband. The very aspect of Lodore commanded attention; his
LODOR E 199
voice entered the soul: ill-starred, and struck by calamity, he rose
majestically from the ruin around him, and seemed to defy fate. The
first thought that struck Villiers was, how could Lady Lodore desert
such a man; how pitifully degraded must she be, who preferred the
throng of fools to the society of so matchless a being! The gallantry
with which he rushed to his fate, his exultation in the prospect of
redeeming his honour, his melting tenderness towards his daughter,
filledVilliers with respect and compassion. It was all over now Lodore
was dead: his passions, his wrongs, his errors slept with him in the
grave. He had departed from the busy stage, never to be forgotten -
yet to be seen no more.
Lodore was dead, and Cornelia was free. Her husband had alluded
to the gladness with which she would welcome liberty; and Villiers
knew that there was another, also, whose heart would rejoice, and
open itself at once to the charming visitation of permitted love. Vil-
liers sighed to think that Saville would marry the beautiful widow;
but he did not doubt that this event would take place.
Having seen that Ethel was in kind hands, and learnt the satisfacto-
ry arrangements made for her return to England, he hastened to join
his cousin, and to convey the astounding intelligence. Saville s gener-
ous disposition prevented exultation, and subdued joy. Still the
prospect of future happiness became familiar to him, shadowed only
by the fear of not obtaining the affections of her he so fervently loved.
For, strange to say, Saville was diffident to a fault: he could not imag-
ine any qualities in himself to attract a beautiful and fashionable
woman. His hopes were slight; his thoughts timid: the pain of eternal
division was replaced by the gentler anxieties of love; and he returned
to England, scarcely daring to expect that crown to his desires, which
seemed too high an honour, too dear a blessing, for earthly love to
merit.
20 0 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER IV.
Ma la fede degli Amanti
E come 1'Araba fenice;
Che vi sia, ciaschun' lo dice,
Ma dove sia, nessun lo sa.
MEANWHILE Lady Lodore had been enduring the worst miseries of
ill-fated love. The illness of Lady Santerre, preceding her death, had
demanded all her time; and she nursed her with exemplary patience
and kindness. During her midnight watchings and solitary days, she
had full time to feel how deep a wound her heart had received. The
figure and countenance of her absent friend haunted her in spite of
every effort; and when death hovered over the pillow of her mother,
she clung, with mad desperation, to the thought, that there was still
one, when this parent should be gone, to love her, even though she
never saw him more.
Lady Santerre died. After the first burst of natural grief, Cornelia
began to reflect that Lord Lodore might now imagine that every
obstacle to their reconciliation was removed. She had looked upon
her husband as her enemy and injurer; she had regarded him with
indignation and fear; — but now she hated him. Strong aversion had
sprung up, during the struggles of passion, in her bosom. She hated
him as the eternal barrier between her and one who loved her with
rare disinterestedness. The human heart must desire happiness; - in
spite of every effort at resignation, it must aspire to the fulfilment of
its wish. Lord Lodore was the cause why she was cut off from it for
ever. He had foreseen that this feeling, this combat, this misery, would
i "But the faith of lovers is like
The Phoenix; everyone says
It is to be seen,
But nobody knows where."
From Demetrio (1731) 2.3. A life of the opera composer Pietro Trapassi Metastsio
(1698-1782) is included among the essays Shelley wrote for Lives of the Most Emi-
nent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal (1835) 2.185-212.
LODOR E 201
METASTASIO.
1
be her doom, in the deserted situation she chose for herself: she had
laughed his fears to scorn. Now she abhorred him the more for hav-
ing divined her destiny. While she banished the pleasant thoughts of
love, she indulged in the poisoned ones of hate; and while she resisted
each softer emotion as a crime, she opened her heart to the bitterest
resentment, as a permitted solace; nor was she aware that thus she
redoubled all her woes. It was under the influence of these feelings,
that she had written to Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry that harsh, decided
letter, which Lodore received at New York. The intelligence of his
violent death came as an answer to her expressions of implacable
resentment. A pang of remorse stung her, when she thought how she
had emptied the vials of her wrath on a head which had so soon after
been laid low for ever.
The double loss of husband and mother caused Lady Lodore to
seclude herself, not in absolute solitude, but in the agreeable retreat of
friendly society. She was residing near Brighton, when Saville
returned from America, and, with a heart beating high with its own
desires, again beheld the mistress of his affections. His delicate nature
caused him to respect the weeds she wore, even though they might be
termed a mockery: they were the type of her freedom and his hopes;
yet, as the tokens of death, they were to be respected. He saw her
more beautiful than ever, more courted, more waited on; and he half
despaired. How could he, the abstracted student, the man of dreams,
the sensitive and timid invalid, ensnare the fancy of one formed to
adorn the circles of wealth and fashion?
Thus it was that Saville and Cornelia were further off than ever,
when they imagined themselves most near. Neither of them could
afterwards comprehend what divided them; or why, when each would
have died for the other's sake, cobweb barriers should have proved
inextricable; and wherefore, after weathering every more stormy
peril, they should perish beneath the influence of a summer breeze.
The pride of Cornelia's heart, hid by the artificial courtesies of
society, was a sentiment resolved, confirmed, active, and far beyond
her own controul.The smallest opposition appeared rebellion to her
majesty of will; while her own caprices, her own desires, were sacred
decrees. She was too haughty to admit of discussion - too firmly
intrenched in a sense of what was due to her, not to start indignantly
20 2 MARY SHELLE Y
from remonstrance. It is true, all this was but a painted veil. She was
tremblingly alive to censure, and wholly devoted to the object of her
attachment; but Saville was unable to understand these contradictions.
His modesty led him to believe, that he, of all men, was least calculat-
ed to excite love in a woman's bosom. He saw in Cornelia a beautiful
creation, to admire and adore; but he was slow to perceive the tender-
ness of soul, which her disposition made her anxious to conceal, and
he was conscious of no qualities in himself that could entitle him to a
place in her affections. Except that he loved her, what merit had he?
And the interests of his affection he was willing to sacrifice at the altar
of her wishes, though his life should be the oblation necessary to
insure their accomplishment.
This is not the description of true love on either side; for, to be
perfect, that sentiment ought to exist through the entireness of mutu-
al sympathy and trust: but not the less did their passionate attachment
engross the minds of both. All might have been well, indeed, had the
lovers been left to themselves; but friends and relations interfered to
mar and to destroy. The sisters of Saville accused Lady Lodore of
encouraging, and intending to marry, the Marquess of C . Saville
instantly resolved to be no obstacle in the way of her ambition. Cor-
nelia was fired with treble indignation to perceive that he at once
conceded the place to his rival. One word or look of gentleness
would have changed this; but she resolved to vanquish by other arms,
and to force him to show some outward sign of jealousy and resent-
ment. Saville had a natural dignity of mind, founded on simplicity of
heart and directness of purpose. Cornelia knew that he loved her; —
on that his claim rested: all that might be done to embellish and ele-
vate her existence, he would study to achieve; but he could not enter
into, nor understand, the puerile fancies of a spoiled Beauty: and
while she was exerting all her powers, and succeeded in fascinating a
crowd of flatterers, she saw Saville apart, abstracted from such vanities,
pursuing a silent course; ready to approach her when her attention
was disengaged, but at no time making one among her ostentatious
admirers.
There was no moment of her life in which Cornelia did not fully
appreciate her lover's value, and her own good fortune in having
inspired him with a serious and faithful attachment. But she imagined
LODOR E 203
that this must be known and acknowledged; and that to ask any
demonstration of gratitude, was ungenerous and tyrannical. An
untaught girl could not have acted with more levity and wilfulness. It
was worse when she found that she was accused of encouraging a
wealthier and more illustrious rival. She disdained to exculpate herself
from the charge of such low ambition, but rather furnished new
grounds for accusation; and, in the arrogance of conscious power,
smiled at the pettiness of the attempts made to destroy her influence.
Proud in the belief that she could in an instant dispel the clouds she
had conjured athwart her heaven, she cared not how ominously the
thunder muttered, nor how dark and portentous lowered the threat-
ening storm. It came when she least expected it: convinced of the fal-
lacy of his confidence, made miserable by her caprices, agonized by
the idea that he only lingered to add another trophy to his rival's tri-
umph, Saville, who was always impetuous and precipitate, suddenly
quitted England.
This was a severe blow at first; but soon Cornelia smiled at it. He
would return - he must. The sincerity of their mutual preference
would overcome the petty obstacles of time and distance. She never
felt more sure of his devotion than now; and she looked so happy, and
spoke so gaily, that those who were more ready to discern indiffer-
ence, than love, in her sentiments, assured the absent Saville, that Lady
Lodore rejoiced at his absence, as having shaken off a burthen, and got
rid of an impediment, which, in spite of herself, was a clog to her bril-
liant career. The trusting love that painted her face in smiles was a trai-
tor to itself and while she rose each day in the belief that the one was
near at hand which would bring her lover before her, dearer and
more attached than ever, she was in reality at work in defacing the
whole web of life, and substituting dark, blank, and sad disappoint-
ment, for the images of light and joy with which her fancy painted it.
Saville had been gone five months. It was strange that he did not
return; and she began to ponder upon how she must unbend, and
what demonstration she must make, to attract him again to her side.
The Marquess of C was dismissed; and she visited the daughters
of Lord Maristow, to learn what latest news they had received of their
brother. "Do you know, Lady Lodore," said Sophia Saville, "that this is
20 4 MARY SHELLEY
Horatio's wedding-day? It is too true: we regret it, because he weds a
foreigner - but there is no help now He is married."
Had sudden disease seized on the framework of her body, and dis-
solved and scattered with poisonous influence and unutterable pains,
the atoms that composed it, Lady Lodore would have been less ago-
nized, less terrified. A thousand daggers were at once planted in her
bosom. Saville was false! married! divided from her for ever! She was
stunned: — scarcely understanding the meaning of the phrases
addressed to her, and, unable to conceal her perturbation, she replied
at random, and hastened to shorten her visit.
But no interval of doubt or hope was afforded. The words she had
heard were concise, true to their meaning and all-sufficing. Her heart
died within her. What had she done? Was she the cause ? She longed
to learn all the circumstances that led to this hasty marriage, and
whether inconstancy or resentment had impelled him to the fatal act.
Yet wherefore ask these things? It was over; the scene was closed. It
were little worth to analyze the poison she had imbibed, since she was
past all mortal cure.
Her first resolve was to forget - never, never to think of the false
one more. But her thoughts never wandered from his image, and she
was eternally busied in retrospection and conjecture. She was tempted
at one time to disbelieve the intelligence, and to consider it as a piece
of malice on the part of Miss Saville; then the common newspaper
told her, that at the Ambassador's house at Naples, the Honourable
Horatio Saville had married Clorinda, daughter of the Principe Villa-
marina, a Neapolitan nobleman of the highest rank.
It was true therefore - and how was it true? Did he love his bride?
why else marry? - had he forgotten his tenderness towards her? Alas!
it needed not forgetting; it was a portion of past time, fleeting as time
itself; it had been borne away with the hours as they passed, and
remembered as a thing which had been, and was no more. The rever-
ies of love which for months had formed all her occupation, were a
blank; or rather to be replaced by the agonies of despair. Her native
haughtiness forsook her. She was alone and desolate — hedged in on
all sides by insuperable barriers, which shut out every glimpse of
hope. She was humbled in her own eyes, through her want of success,
LODOR E 205
and heartily despised herself, and all her caprices and vanities, which
had led her to this desart, and then left her to pine. She detested her
position in society, her mechanism of being, and every circumstance,
self-inherent, or adventitious, that attended her existence. All seemed
to her sick fancy so constructed as to ensure disgrace, desertion, and
contempt. She lay down each night feeling as if she could never
endure to raise her head on the morrow.
The unkindness and cruelty of her lover's conduct next presented
themselves to her contemplation. She had suffered much during the
past years, more than she had ever acknowledged, even to herself; she
had suffered of regret and sorrow, while she brooded over her solitary
position, and the privation of every object on whom she might
bestow affection. She had had nothing to hope. Saville had changed
all this; he had banished her cares, and implanted hope in her heart.
Now again his voice recalled the evils, his hand crushed the new-
born expectation of happiness. He was the cause of every ill; and the
adversity which she had endured proudly and with fortitude while it
seemed the work of fate, grew more bitter and heavy when she felt
that it arose through the agency of one, whose kind affection and
guardianship she had fondly believed would hereafter prove a blessing
sent as from Heaven itself, be to the star of her life.
This fit passed off; with struggles and relapses she wore down the
first gush of sorrow, and her disposition again assumed force over her.
She had found it difficult to persuade herself, in spite of facts, that she
was not loved; but it was easy, once convinced of the infidelity of her
lover, to regard him with indifference. She now regretted lost happi-
ness — but Saville was no longer regretted. She wept over the vanished
forms of delight, lately so dear to her; but she remembered that he
who had called them into life had driven them away; and she smiled
in proud scorn of his fleeting and unworthy passion. It was not to this
love that she had made so tender and lavish a return. She had loved his
constancy, his devotion, his generous solicitude for her welfare - for
the happiness which she bestowed on him, and for the sympathy that
so dearly united them. These were fled; and it were vain to consecrate
herself to an empty and deformed mockery of so beautiful a truth.
Then she tried to hate him - to despise and to lessen him in her
own estimation. The attempt recoiled on herself The recollection of
20 6 MARY SHELLEY
his worth stole across her memory, to frustrate her vain endeavours:
his voice haunted — his expressive eyes beamed on her. It were better
to forget. Indifference was her only refuge, and to attain this she must
wholly banish his image from her mind. Cornelia was possessed of
wonderful firmness of purpose. It had carried her on so long
unharmed, and now that danger was at hand, it served effectually to
defend her. She rose calm and free, above unmerited disaster. She
grew proud of the power she found that she possessed of conquering
the most tyrannical of passions. Peace entered her soul, and she hailed
it as a blessing.
The clause in her husband's will which deprived her of the
guardianship of her daughter had been forgotten during this crisis.
Before, under the supposition that she should marry, she had deferred
taking any step to claim her. The idea of a struggle to be made, unas-
sisted, unadvised, and unshielded, was terrible. She had not courage to
encounter all the annoyances that might ensue. To get rid for a time of
the necessity of action and reflection, she went abroad. She changed
the scene - she travelled from place to place. She gave herself up in
the solitude of continental journies to the whole force of contending
passions; now overcome by despair, and again repressing regret, assert-
ing to herself the lofty pride of her nature.
By degrees she recovered a healthier tone of mind — -a distant and
faint, yet genuine sense of duty dawned upon her; and she began to
think on what her future existence was to depend, and how she could
best secure some portion of happiness. Her heart once again warmed
towards the image of her daughter — and she felt that in watching the
development of her mind, and leading her to love and depend on her,
a new interest and real pleasure might spring up in life. She
reproached herself for having so long, by silence and passive submis-
sion, given scope to the belief that she was willing to be a party
against herself, in the injustice of Lodore; and she returned to England
with the intention of instantly enforcing her rights over her child, and
taking to her bosom and to her fondest care the little being, whose
affection and gratitude was to paint her future life with smiles.
She called to mind Lady Santerre s worldly maxims, and her own
experience. She knew that the first step to success is the appearance of
prosperity and power. To command the good wishes and aid of her
LODOR E 207
friends she must appear independent of them. She was earnest there-
fore to hide the wounds her heart had received, and the real loathing
with which she regarded all things. She arrayed herself in smiles, and
banished, far below into the invisible recesses of her bosom, the con-
tempt and disgust with which she viewed the scene around her.
She returned to England. She appeared at the height of the season,
in the midst of society, as beautiful, as charming, as happy in look and
manner, as in her days of light-hearted enjoyment. She paused yet a
moment longer, to reflect on what step she had better take on first
enforcing her claim; but her mind was full of its intention, and set
upon the fulfilment.
At this time, but a few days after her arrival in London, she went to
the opera. She heard the name of Fitzhenry called in the lobby — she
saw and recognized Mrs. Elizabeth - the venerable sister Bessy, so lit-
tle altered, that time might be said to have touched, but not trenched
her homely kindly face. With her, in attendance on her, she beheld
Horatio Saville's favourite cousin — the gay and fashionable Edward
Villiers. It was strange; her curiosity was strongly excited. It had not
long to languish: the next morning Villiers called, and was readily
admitted.
20 8 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER V.
And as good lost is seld or never found.
LADY Lodore andVilliers met for the first time since Horatio Saville's
marriage. Neither were exactly aware of what the other knew or
thought. Cornelia was ignorant how far her attachment to his cousin
was known to him; whether he shared the general belief in her
worldly coquetry, or what part he might have had in occasioning their
unhappy separation. She could not indeed see him without emotion.
He had been Lodore s second, and received the last dying breath of
him who had, in her brightest youth, selected her from the world, to
share his fortunes. Those days were long past; yet as she grew older,
disappointed, and devoid of pleasurable interest in the present, she
often turned her thoughts backward, and wondered at the part she
had acted.
Similar feelings were in Edwards mind. He was prejudiced against
her in every way. He despised her worldly calculations, as reported to
him, and rejoiced in their failure. He believed these reports, and
despised her; yet he could not see her without being moved at once
with admiration and pity. The moon-lit hill, and tragic scene, in
which he had played his part, came vividly before his eyes. He had
been struck by the nobleness of Lodore s appearance — the sensibility
that sat on his countenance - his gentle, yet dignified manners. Ethel's
idolatry of her father had confirmed the favourable prepossession. He
could not help compassionating Cornelia for the loss of her husband,
forgetting, for the moment, their separation. Then again recurred to
him the eloquent appeals of Saville; his eulogiums; his fervent, rever-
ential affection. She had lost him also. Could she hold up her head
after such miserable events? The evidence of the senses, and the ideas
of our own minds, are more forcibly present, than any notion we can
form of the feelings of others. In spite, therefore, of his belief in her
heartlessness,Villiers had pictured Cornelia attired in dismal weeds,
the victim of grief. He saw her, beaming in beauty, at the opera; — he
i "The Passionate Pilgrim" (1599) 13.
LODOR E 209
SHAKSPEARE.
1
now beheld her, radiant in sweet smiles, in her own home. Nothing
touched - nothing harmed her; and the glossy surface, he doubted
not, imaged well the insensible, unimpressive soul within.
Lady Lodore would have despised herself for ever had she betrayed
the tremor that shook her frame when Villiers entered. Her pride of
sex was in arms to enable her to convince him, that no regret, no pin-
ing, shadowed her days. The reality was abhorrent, and should never
be confessed. Thus then they met - each with a whole epic of woe
and death alive in their memory; but both wearing the outward
appearance of frivolity and thoughtlessness. He saw her as lovely as
ever, and as kind. Her softest and sweetest welcome was extended to
him. It was this frequent show of frank cordiality which gained her
"golden opinions" from the many. Her haughtiness was all of the
mind; — a desire to please, and constant association with others, had
smoothed the surface, and painted it in the colours most agreeable to
every eye.
They addressed each other as if they had met but the day before. At
first, a few questions and answers passed, - as to where she had been
on the continent, how she liked Baden, &c.; — and then Lady Lodore
said — "Although I have not seen her for several years, I instantly rec-
ognized a relative of mine with you yesterday evening. Does Miss
Fitzhenry make any stay in town?"
The idea of Ethel was uppermost in Villiers s mind, and struck by
the manner in which the woman of fashion spoke of her daughter, he
replied, "During the season, I believe; I scarcely know. Miss Fitzhenry
came up for her health; that consideration, I suppose, will regulate her
movements."
"She looked very well last night - perhaps she intends to remain
till she gets ill, and country air is ordered?" observed Lady Lodore.
"That were nothing new at least," replied Villiers, trying to hide
the disgust he felt at her mode of speaking; "the young and blooming
too often protract their first season, till the roses are exchanged for
lilies."
"If Miss Fitzhenry s roses still bloom," said the lady, "they must be
perennial ones; they have surely grown more fit for a herbal than a
vase."
Villiers now perceived his mistake, and replied, "You are speaking
21 0 MARY SHELLE Y
of Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, as the good lady styles herself- I spoke of
- her niece - "
"Has Ethel been ill?" Lady Lodore s hurried question, and the use
of the Christian name, as most familiar to her thoughts, brought home
to Villiers s heart the feeling of their near relationship. There was
something more than grating; it was deeply painful to speak to a
mother of a child who had been torn from her — who did not know —
who had even been taught to hate her. He wished himself a hundred
miles off, but there was no help, he must reply. "You might have seen
last night that she is perfectly recovered."
Lady Lodore s imagination refused to image her child in the tall,
elegant, full-formed girl she had seen, and she said, "Was Ethel with
you? I did not see her - probably she went home before the opera
was over, and I only perceived your party in the crush-room - you
appear already intimate."
"It is impossible to see Miss Fitzhenry and not to wish to be inti-
mate," replied Villiers with his usual frankness."!, at least, cannot help
being deeply interested in every thing that relates to her."
"You are very good to take concern in my little girl. I should have
imagined that you were too young yourself to like children."
"Children!" repeated Villiers, much amazed; "Miss Fitzhenry! - she
is not a child."
Lady Lodore scarcely heard him; a sudden pang had shot across her
heart, to think how strangers — how every one might draw near her
daughter, and be interested for her, while she could not, without
making herself the tale of the town, the subject, through the medium
of newspapers, for every gossip's tea-table in England - where her
sentiments would be scanned, and her conduct criticized — and this
through the revengeful feelings of her husband, prolonged beyond the
grave. Tears had been gathering in her eyes during the last moments;
she turned her head to hide them, and a quick shower fell on her
silken dress. Quite ashamed of this self-betrayal, she exerted herself to
overcome her emotion. Villiers felt awkwardly situated; his first
impulse had been to rise to take her hand, to soothe her; but before
he could do more than the first of these acts, as Lady Lodore fancied
for the purpose of taking his leave, she said, "It is foolish to feel as I
do; yet perhaps more foolish to attempt to conceal from one, as well
LODOR E 211
acquainted as you are with every thing, that I do feel pained at the
unnatural separation between me and Ethel, especially when I think
of the publicity I must incur by asserting a mother's claims. I am
ashamed of intruding this subject on you; but she is no longer the
baby cherub I could cradle in my arms, and you have seen her lately,
and can tell me whether she has been well brought up - whether she
seems tractable — if she promises to be pretty?"
"Did you not think her lovely?" criedVilliers with animation; "you
saw her last night, taking my arm."
"Ethel!" cried the lady. "Could that be Ethel? True, she is now six-
teen - I had indeed forgot" - her cheeks became suffused with a deep
blush as she remembered all the solicisms she had been committing.
"She is sixteen," she continued, "and a woman — while I fancied a lit-
tle girl in a white frock and blue sash: this alters every thing. We have
been indeed divided, and must now remain so for evermore. I will not
injure her, at her age, by making her the public talk - besides, many,
many other considerations would render me fearful of making myself
responsible for her future destiny."
"At least," said Villiers, "she ought to wait on you."
"That were beyond Lord Lodore's bond," said the lady; "and why
should she wait on me? Were she impelled by affection, it were well.
But this is talking very simply - we could only be acquaintance, and I
would rather be nothing. I confess, that I repined bitterly, that I was
not permitted to have my little girl, as I termed her, for my plaything
and companion - but my ideas are now changed: a dear little tractable
child would have been delightful - but she is a woman, with a will of
her own - prejudiced against me - brought up in that vulgar Ameri-
ca, with all kinds of strange notions and ways. Lord Lodore was quite
right, I believe — he fashioned her for himself and — Bessy. The worst
thing that can happen to a girl, is to have her prejudices and principles
unhinged; no new ones can flourish like those that have grown with
her growth; and mine, I fear, would differ greatly from those in which
she has been educated. A few years hence, she may feel the want of a
friend, who understands the world, and who could guide her pru-
dently through its intricacies; then she shall find that friend in me.
Now, I feel convinced that I should do more harm than good."
A loud knock at the street door interrupted the conversation.
21 2 MARY SHELLE Y
"One thing only I cannot endure," said the lady hastily, "to present a
domestic tragedy or farce to the Opera House - we must not meet in
public. I shall shut up my house and return to Paris."
Mere written words express little. Lady Lodore's expressions were
nothing; but her countenance denoted a change of feeling, a violence
of emotion, of which Villiers hardly believed her capable; but before
he could reply, the servant threw open the door, and her brow imme-
diately clearing, serenity descended on her face. With her blandest
smile she extended her hand to her new visitor. Villiers was too much
discomposed to imitate her, so with a silent salutation he departed,
and cantered round the park to collect his thoughts before he called
in Seymour-street.
1
The ladies there were not less agitated than Lady Lodore, and dis-
played their feelings with the artlessness of recluses. The first words
that Mrs. Elizabeth had addressed to her niece, at the breakfast table,
were an awkwardly expressed intimation, that she meant instantly to
return to Longfield. Ethel looked up with a face of alarm: her aunt
continued;"! do not want to speak ill of Lady Lodore, my dear - God
forgive her — that is all I can say. What your dear father thought of her,
his last will testifies. I suppose you do not mean to disobey him."
"His slightest word was ever a law with me," said Ethel; "and now
that he is gone, I would observe his injunctions more religiously than
ever. But — "
"Then, my dear, there is but one thing to be done: Lady Lodore
will assuredly force herself upon us, meet us at every turn, oblige you
to pay her your duty; nor could you avoid it. No, my dear Ethel, there
is but one escape — your health, thank God, is restored, and Longfield
is now in all its beauty; we will return tomorrow."
Ethel did not reply; she looked very disconsolate — she did not
know what to say; at last, "Mr.Villiers will think it so odd," dropped
from her lips.
"Mr. Villiers is nothing to us, my dear," said aunt Bessy - "not the
most distant relation; he is an agreeable, good-hearted young gentle-
man — but there are so many in the world."
Ethel left her breakfast untasted and went out of the room: she felt
i North of Oxford St., at Marble Arch;Villiers has been in Hyde Park.
LODOR E 213
that she could no longer restrain her tears. "My father!" she
exclaimed, while a passionate burst of weeping choked her utterance,
"my only friend ! why, why did you leave me? Why, most cruel, desert
your poor orphan child? Gracious God ! to what am I reserved! I
must not see my mother - a name so dear, so sweet, is for me a curse
and a misery! O my father, why did you desert me!"
Her calm reflections were not less bitter; she did not suffer her
thoughts to wander toVilliers, or rather the loss of her father was still so
much the first grief of her heart, that on any new sorrow, it was to this
she recurred with agony The form of her youthful mother also flitted
before her; and she asked herself, "Can she be so wicked?" Lord Lodore
had never uttered her name; it was not until his death had put the fatal
seal on all things, that she heard a garbled exaggerated statement from
her aunt, over whose benevolent features a kind of sacred horror man-
tlecl, whenever she was mentioned. The will of Lord Lodore, and the
stern injunction it contained, that the mother and daughter should
never meet, satisfied Ethel of the truth of all that her aunt said; so that
educated to obedience and deep reverence for the only parent she had
ever known, she recoiled with terror from transgressing his commands,
and holding communication with the cause of all his ills. Still it was
hard, and very, very sad; nor did she cease from lamenting her fate, till
Villiers s horse was heard in the street, and his knock at the door; then
she tried to compose herself. "He will surely come to us at Longfield,"
she thought; "Longfield will be so very stupid after London."
After London! Poor Ethel! she had lived in London as in a desert;
but lately it had appeared to her a city of bliss, and all places else the
abode of gloom and melancholy. Villiers was shocked at the appear-
ance of sorrow which shadowed her face; and, for a moment, thought
that the rencounter with her mother was the sole occasion of the
tears, whose traces he plainly discerned. His address was full of sympa-
thetic kindness; — but when she said, "We return to-morrow to Essex
- will you come to see us at Longfield?" - his soothing tones were
exchanged for those of surprise and vexation.
"Longfield! — impossible! Why?"
"My aunt has determined on it. She thinks me recovered; and so,
indeed, I am."
"But are you to be entombed at Longfield, except when dying? If
21 4 MARY SHELLE Y
so, do, pray, be ill again directly! But this must not be. Dear Mrs.
Fitzhenry," he continued, as she came in, "I will not hear of your
going to Longfield. Look; the very idea has already thrown Miss
Fitzhenry into a consumption; - you will kill her. Indeed you must
not think of it."
"We shall all die, if we stay in town," said Mrs. Elizabeth, with per-
plexity at her niece s evident suffering.
"Then why stay in town ?" asked Villiers.
"You just now said, that we ought not to return to Longfield,"
answered the lady; "and I am sure if Ethel is to look so ill and
wretched, I don't know what I am to do."
"But there are many places in the world besides either London or
Longfield.You were charmed with Richmond the other day: there are
plenty of houses to be had there; nothing can be prettier or more
quiet."
"Well, I don't know," said Aunt Bessy, "I never thought of that, to
be sure; and I have business which makes our going to Longfield very
inconvenient. I expect Mr. Humphries, our solicitor, next week; and I
have not seen him yet.You really think, Mr.Villiers, that we could get
a house to suit us at Richmond?"
"Let us drive there to-day," said Villiers; "we can dine at the Star
and Garter.
1
 You can go in the britzska
2
 - I on horseback. The days are
long: we can see every thing; and take your house at once."
This plan sounded very romantic and wild to the sober spinster;
but Ethel's face, lighted up with vivid pleasure, said more in its favour,
than what the good lady called prudence could allege against it. "Silly
people you women are," said Villiers: "you can do nothing by your-
selves: and are always running against posts, unless guided by others.
This will make every thing easy - dispel every difficulty." His
thoughts recurred to Lady Lodore, and her intended journey to Paris,
as he said this: and again they flew to a charming little villa on the
river's side, whither he could ride every day, and find Ethel among her
flowers, alone and happy.
1 An historic hotel; Richmond, Surrey, is along the Thames, ten miles southwest from
central London. A fashionable place to live, in Great Expectations (1860-1) Dickens
places Estella in the Richmond home of a lady who will introduce her into society.
2 A carriage with a folding top.
LODOR E 215
The excursion of this morning was prosperous. The day was warm
yet fresh; and as they quitted town, and got surrounded by fields, and
hedges, and trees, nature reassumed her rights, and awakened transport
in Ethel's heart. The boyish spirits ofVilliers communicated them-
selves to her; and Mrs. Elizabeth smiled, also, with the most exquisite
complacency. A few inquiries conducted them to a pretty rural box,
surrounded by a small, but well laid-out shrubbery; and this they
engaged. The dinner at the inn, the twilight walk in its garden; — the
fair prospect of the rich and cultivated country, with its silvery, mean-
dering river at their feet; and the aspect of the cloudless heavens,
where one or two stars silently struggled into sight amidst the pathless
wastes of sky, were objects most beautiful to look on, and prodigal of
the sweetest emotions. The wide, dark lake, the endless forests, and
distant mountains, of the Illinois, were not here; but night bestowed
that appearance of solitude, which habit rendered dear to Ethel; and
imagination could transform wooded parks and well-trimmed mead-
ows into bowery seclusions, sacred from the foot of man, and fresh
fields, untouched by his hand.
A few days found Ethel and her aunt installed at their little villa,
and delighted to be away from London. Education made loneliness
congenial to both: they might seek transient amusements in towns, or
visit them for business; but happiness, the agreeable tenor of unvaried
daily life, was to be found in the quiet of the country only; — and
Richmond was the country to them; for, cut off from all habits of
intercourse with their species, they had but to find trees and meadows
near them, at once to feel transported, from the thick of human life,
into the most noiseless solitude.
Ethel was very happy. She rose in the morning with a glad and
grateful heart, and gazed from her chamber window, watching the
early sunbeams as they crept over the various parts of the landscape,
visiting with light and warmth each open field or embowered nook.
Her bosom overflowed with the kindest feelings, and her charmed
senses answered the tremulous beating of her pure heart, bidding it
enjoy. How beautiful did earth appear to her! There was a delight and
a sympathy in the very action of the shadows, as they pranked the
sunshiny ground with their dark and fluctuating forms. The leafy
boughs of the tall trees waved gracefully, and each wind of heaven
21 6 MARY SHELLEY
wafted a thousand sweets. A magic spell of beauty and bliss held in
one bright chain the whole harmonious universe; and the soul of the
enchantment was love - simple, girlish, unacknowledged love; - the
love of the young, feminine heart, which feels itself placed, all bleakly
and dangerously, in a world, scarce formed to be its home, and which
plumes itself with Love to fly to the covert and natural shelter of
another's protecting care.
Ethel did not know - did not fancy - that she was in love; nor d
any of the throes of passion disturb the serenity of her mind. She only
felt that she was very, very happy; and that Villiers was the kindest of
human beings. She did not give herself up to idleness and reverie. The
first law of her education had been to be constantly employed. Her
studies were various: they, perhaps, did not sufficiently tend to invigo-
rate her understanding, but they sufficed to prevent every incursion of
listlessness. Meanwhile, during each, the thought ofVilliers strayed
through her mind, like a heavenly visitant, to gild all things with
sunny delight. Some time, during the day, he was nearly sure to come;
or, at least, she was certain of seeing, him on the morrow; and when
he came, their boatings and their rides were prolonged; while each
moment added to the strength of the ties that bound her to him. She
relied on his friendship; and his society was as necessary to her life, as
the air she breathed. She so implicitly trusted to his truth, that she was
unaware that she trusted at all — never making a doubt about it. That
chance, or time, should injure or break off the tie, was a possibility
that never suggested itself to her mind. As the silver Thames traversed
in silence and beauty the landscape at her feet, so did love flow
through her soul in one even and unruffled stream — the great law
and emperor of her thoughts; yet more felt from its influence, than
from any direct exertion of its power. It was the result and the type of
her sensibility, of her constancy, of the gentle, yet lively sympathy, it
was her nature to bestow, with guileless confidence. Those around her
might be ignorant that her soul was imbued with it, because, being a
part of her soul, there was small outward demonstration. None,
indeed, near her thought any thing about it: Aunt Bessy was a tyro in
such matters; and Villiers - he had resolved, when he perceived love
on her side, to retreat for ever: till then he might enjoy the dear
delight that her society afforded him.
LODOR E 217
CHAPTER VI .
Alas! he knows
The laws of Spain appoint me for his heir;
That all must come to me, if I outlive him,
Which sure I must do, by the course of nature.
EDWARD Villiers was the only child of a man of considerable fortune,
who had early in life become a widower. From the period of this
event, Colonel Villiers (for his youth had been passed in the army,
where he obtained promotion) had led the careless life of a single
man. His son's home was at Maristow Castle, when not at school; and
the father seldom remembered him except as an incumbrance; for his
estate was strictly entailed, so that he could only consider himself pos-
sessed of a life interest in a property, which would devolve, without
restriction, on his more fortunate son.
2
Edward was brought up in all the magnificence of his uncle's lord-
ly abode. Luxury and profusion were the elements of the air he
breathed. To be without any desired object that could be purchased,
appeared baseness and lowest penury. He, also, was considered the
favoured one of fortune in the family circle. The elder brother among
the Savilles rose above, but the younger fell infinitely below, the
undoubted heir of eight thousand a year, and one of the most delight-
ful seats in England. He was brought up to look upon himself as a rich
man, and to act as such; and meanwhile, until his father's death, he had
nothing to depend on, except any allowance he might make him.
1 John Fletcher and Philip Massinger, The Spanish Curate (1622) 1.1.187-190.
2 Entail was developed in the Middle Ages, to keep estates from being sold or divid-
ed; by the eighteenth century a strict settlement affected half the land in England.
This meant that the owner was a tenant for life. At the time of the marriage of the
eldest son, an agreement would be made that that son and in turn his son would
inherit the land. Therefore a settlement meant that each generation must create a
set of negotiations, which included providing the son with an income until he
inherited the property. As well a jointure was needed for his wife in case he should
die before her, and portions had to be set aside for other children. See R. K.Webb,
Modern England (New York: Dodd, Mead, 1971) 6-14. Accordingly, Edward must be
included in any transactions concerning the estate, and his father must provide him
with a settlement until such time as he assumes the estate.
21 8 MARY SHELLE Y
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
Colonel Villiers was a man of fashion, addicted to all the extrava-
gances and even vices of the times. He set no bounds to his expenses.
Gambling consumed his nights, and his days were spent at horse-
races, or any other occupation that at once excited and impoverished
him. His income was as a drop of water in the mighty stream of his
expenditure. Involvement followed involvement, until he had not a
shilling that he could properly call his own.
Poor Edward heard of these things, but did not mark them. He
indulged in no blameworthy pursuits, nor spent more than beseemed
a man in his rank of life. The idea of debt was familiar to him: every
one — even Lord Maristow — was in debt, far beyond his power of
immediate payment. He followed the universal example, and suffered
no inconvenience, while his wants were obligingly supplied by the
fashionable tradesmen. He regarded the period of his coming of age as
a time when he should become disembarrassed, and enter upon life
with ample means, and still more brilliant prospects.
1
The day arrived. It was celebrated with splendour at Maristow
Castle. Colonel Villiers was abroad, but Lord Maristow wrote to him
to remind him of this event, which otherwise he might have forgot-
ten. A kind letter of congratulation was, in consequence, received
from him by Edward; to which was appended a postscript, saying, that
on his return, at the end of a few weeks, he would consult concerning
some arrangements he wished to make with regard to his future
income.
His return was deferred; and Edward began to experience some of
the annoyances of debt. Still no real pain was associated with his feel-
ings; though he looked forward with eagerness to the hour of libera-
tion. Colonel Villiers came at last. He spoke largely of his intended
generosity, which was shown, meanwhile, by his persuading Edward
to join in a mortgage for the sake of raising an immediate sum.
Edward scarcely knew what he was about. He was delighted to be of
service to his father; and without thought or idea of having made a
sacrifice, agreed to all that was asked of him. He was promised an
allowance of six hundred a year.
Much of this financial detail here and elsewhere bears similarities with the experi-
ence of Percy Shelley.
LODOR E 219
1
The few years that had passed since then were full of painful expe-
rience and bitter initiation. His light and airy spirit was slow to con-
ceive ill, or to resent wrong. When his annuity remained unpaid, he
listened to his father s excuses with implicit credence, and deplored
his poverty. One day, he received a note from him, written, as usual, in
haste and confusion, but breathing anxiety and regret on his account,
and promising to pay over to him the first money he could obtain.
On the evening of that day, Edward was led by a friend into the gam-
bling room of a celebrated club. The first man on whom his eyes fell,
was his father, who was risking and losing rouleaus and notes in abun-
dance. At one moment, while making over a large sum, he suddenly
perceived his son. He grew pale, and then a deep blush spread itself
over his countenance. Edward withdrew. His young heart was pierced
to the core. The consciousness of a father s falsehood and guilt acted
on him as the sudden intelligence of some fatal disaster would have
done. He breathed thick — the objects swam round him — he hurried
into the streets — he traversed them one after the other. It was not this
scene alone — this single act; the veil was withdrawn from a whole
series of others similar; and he became aware that his parent had
stepped beyond the line of mere extravagance; that he had lost hon-
ourable feeling; that lies were common in his mouth; and every other
— even his only child — was sacrificed to his own selfish and bad pas-
sions.
Edward never again asked his father for money. The immediate
result of the meeting in the gambling-room, had been his receiving a
portion of what was due to him; but his annuity was always in arrear,
and paid so irregularly, that it became worse than nothing in his eyes;
especially, as the little that he received was immediately paid over to
creditors, and to defray the interest of borrowed money.
He never applied again to Colonel Villiers. He would have consid-
ered himself guilty of a crime, had he forced his father to forge fresh
subterfuges, and to lie to his own son. Brought up in the midst of the
wealthy, he had early imbibed a horror of pecuniary obligation; and
this fastidiousness grew more sensitive and peremptory with each
added day of his life. Yet with all this, he had not learnt to set a right
value upon money; and he squandered whatever he obtained with
thoughtless profusion. He had no friend to whose counsel he could
22 0 MARY SHELLE Y
recur. Lord Maristow railed against Colonel Villiers; and when he
heard of Edward's difficulties, offered to remonstrate and force his
brother-in-law to extricate him: but here ended his assistance, which
was earnestly rejected. Horatio's means were exceedingly limited; but
on a word from his cousin, he eagerly besought him to have recourse
to his purse. To avoid his kindness, and his uncle's interference,
Edward became reserved: he had recourse to Jews and money-
lenders; and appeared at ease, while he was involving himself in
countless and still increasing embarrassments.
Edward was naturally extravagant; or, to speak more correctly, his
education and position implanted and fostered habits of expense and
prodigality, while his careless disposition was unapt to calculate conse-
quences: his very attempts at economy frequently cost him more than
his most expensive whims. He was not, like his father, a gambler; nor
did he enter into any very reprehensible pleasures: but he had little to
spend, and was thoughtless and confiding; and being always in arrear,
was forced, in a certain way, to continue a system which perpetually
led him further into the maze, and rendered his return impossible. He
had no hope of becoming independent, except through his father's
death: Colonel Villiers, meanwhile, had no idea of dying. He was not
fifty years of age; and considering his own a better life than his son's,
involuntarily speculated on what he should do if he should chance to
survive him.
1
 He was a handsome and a fashionable man: he often
meditated a second marriage, if he could render it advantageous; and
repined at his inability to make settlements, which was an insuperable
impediment to his project. Edward's death would overcome this diffi-
culty. Such were the speculations of father and son; and the portion of
filial and paternal affection which their relative position but too usu-
ally inspires.
Until he was twenty-one, Edward had never spent a thought upon
his scanty resources. Three years had past since then — three brief
years, which had a little taught him of what homely stuff the world is
made; yet care and even reflection had not yet disturbed his repose.
Days, months sped on, and nothing reminded him of his relative
wealth or poverty in a way to annoy him, till he knew Ethel. He had
i As the estate would be entailed to the next heir.
LODOR E 221
been interested for her in America - he had seen her, young and love-
ly, drowned in grief— sorrowing with the heart's first prodigal sorrow
for her adored father. He had left her, and thought of her no more -
except, as a passing reflection, that in the natural course of things, she
was now to become the pupil of Lady Lodore, and consequently, that
her unsophisticated feelings and affectionate heart would speedily be
tarnished and hardened under her influence. He anticipated meeting
her hereafter in ball-rooms and assemblies, changed into a flirting,
giddy, yet worldly-minded girl, intent upon a good establishment, and
a fashionable partner.
He encountered her under the sober and primitive guardianship of
Mrs. Fitzhenry, unchanged and unharmed. The same radiant inno-
cence beamed from her face; her sweet voice was still true and heart-
reaching in its tones; her manner mirrored the purity and lustre of a
mind incapable of guile, and adorned with every generous and gentle
sentiment. He drew near her with respect and admiration, and soon
no other object showed fair in his eyes except Ethel. She was the star
of the world, and he felt happy only when the light of her presence
shone upon him. Her voice and smile visited his dreams, and spoke
peace and delight to his heart. She was to him as a jewel (yet sweeter
and lovelier than any gem) shut up in a casket, of which he alone pos-
sessed the key - as a pearl, of whose existence an Indian diver is aware
beneath the waves of ocean, deep buried from every other eye.
There was all in Ethel that could excite and keep alive imaginative
and tender love. In characterizing a race of women, a delightful writer
has described her individually. "She was in her nature a superior
being. Her majestic forehead, her dark, thoughtful eye, assured you
that she had communed with herself. She could bear to be left in soli-
tude - yet what a look was her s if animated by mirth or love! She was
poetical, if not a poet; and her imagination was high and chival-
rous."*
1
 The elevated tone of feeling fostered by her father, her wor-
ship of his virtues, and the loneliness of her life in the Illinois,
combined to render her dissimilar to any girlVilliers had ever before
known or admired. When unobserved, he watched her countenance,
and marked the varying tracery of high thoughts and deep emotions
i *Coleridge's "Six Months in the West Indies." (Shelley's note).
22 2 MARY SHELLEY
pass over it; her dark eye looked out from itself on vacancy, but read
there a meaning only to be discerned by vivid imagination. And then
when that eye, so full of soul, turned on him, and affection and plea-
sure at once animated and softened its glances - when her sweet lips,
so delicate in their shape, so balmy and soft in their repose, were
wreathed into a smile - he felt that his whole being was penetrated
with enthusiastic admiration, and that his nature had bent to a law,
from which it could never again be liberated.
That she should mingle with the world - enter into its contami-
nating pursuits — be talked of in it with that spirit of depreciation and
impertinence, which is its essence, was odious to him, and he was
overjoyed to have her safe at Richmond — secure from Lady Lodore —
shut up apart from all things, except nature - her unsophisticated
aunt, and his own admiration — a bird of beauty, brooding in its own
fair nest, unendangered by the fowler. These were his feelings; but by
degrees other reflections forced themselves on him; and love which,
when it has knocked and been admitted, will be a tyrant, obliged him
to entertain regrets and fears which agonized him. His hourly aspira-
tion was to make her his own. Would that dear heart open to receive
into its recesses his image, and thenceforward dedicate itself to him
only? Might he become her lover, guardian, husband - and they tread
together the jungle of life, aiding each other to thread its mazes, and
to ward off every danger that might impend over them.
Bitter worldly considerations came to mar the dainty colours of
this fair picture. He could not conceal from himself the poverty that
must attend him during his fathers life. Lord Lodore's singular will
reduced Ethel's property to almost nothing: should he then ally her to
his scanty means and broken fortune? His resolution was made. He
would not deny himself the present pleasure of seeing her, to spare
any future pain in which he should be the only sufferer; but on the
first token of exclusive regard on her side, he would withdraw for
ever.
LODOR E 223
CHAPTER VII.
The world is too much with us.
MRS. Elizabeth Fitzhenry's morning task was to read the newspapers
- the only intercourse she held with the world, and all her knowledge
of it, was derived from these daily sheets. Ethel never looked at them
— her thoughts held no communion with the vulgar routine of life,
and she was too much occupied by her studies and reveries to spend
any time upon topics so uninteresting as the state of the nation, or the
scandal of the day.
One morning, while she was painting, her aunt observed, in her
usual tone of voice, scarce lifting her eyes from the paper, "Mr. Villiers
did not tell us this — he is going to be married; I wonder who to!"
"Married!" repeated Ethel.
"Yes, my dear, here it is. 'We hear from good authority that Mr.Vil-
liers, of Chiverton Park, is about to lead into the hymeneal altar a
young and lovely bride, the only child of a gentleman, said to be the
richest commoner in England.'—Who can it be?"
Ethel did not reply, and the elder lady went on to other parts of
the newspaper. The poor girl, on whom she had dealt all unaware this
chance mortal blow, put down her brush, and hurried into the shrub-
bery to conceal her agitation. Why did she feel these sharp pangs?
Why did a bitter deluge of anguish overflow and seem to choke her
breathing, and torture her heart? - she could scarcely tell. "Married!"
- then I shall never see him more!" And a passion of tears, not refresh-
ing, but forced out by agony, and causing her to feel as if her heart was
bursting, shook her delicate frame. At that moment the well-known
sound, the galloping ofVilliers s horse up the lane, met her ear. "Does
he come here to tell us at last of his wedding-day?"The horse came
on - it stopped - the bell was rung. Little acts these, which she had
watched for, and listened to, for two months, with such placid and
innocent delight, now they seemed the notes of preparation for a
scene of despair. She wished to retreat to her own room to compose
i Sonnet (1807), i.
22 4 MARY SHELLEY
WORDSWORTH.
1
herself; but it was too late; he was already in that through which she
must pass - she heard his voice speaking to her aunt. "Now is he
telling her," she thought. No idea of reproach, or of accusation of
unkindness in him, dawned on her heart. No word of love had passed
between them — even yet she was unaware that she loved herself; it
was the instinctive result of this despot sentiment, which exerted its
sway over her, without her being conscious of the cause of her suffer-
ings.
The first words of Mrs. Fitzhenry had been to speak of the para-
graph in the newspaper, and to show it her visitor.Villiers read it, and
considered it curiously. He saw at once, that however blunderingly
worded, his father was its hero; and he wondered what foundation
there might be for the rumour. "Singular enough!" he said, carelessly,
as he put the paper down.
"You have kept your secret well," said Mrs. Elizabeth.
"My secret! I did not even know that I had one."
"I, at least, never heard that you were going to be married."
"I! - married! Where is Miss Fitzhenry?"
The concatenation of ideas presented by these words fell unre-
marked on the blunt senses of the good lady, and she replied, "In the
shrubbery, I believe, or upstairs: she left me but a moment ago."
Villiers hastened to the garden and soon discerned the tearful girl,
who was bending down to pluck and arrange some flowers, so to hide
her disturbed countenance.
Could we, at the moment of trial, summon our reason and our
foregone resolves — could we put the impression of the present
moment at a distance, which, on the contrary, presses on us with a
power as omnipotent over our soul, as a pointed sword piercing the
flesh over our life, we might become all that we are not — angels or
demigods, or any other being that is not human. As it is, the current of
the blood and the texture of the brain are the machinery by which
the soul acts, and their mechanism is by no means tractable or easily
worked; once put in motion, we can seldom controul their opera-
tions; but our serener feelings are whirled into the vortex they create.
Thus Edward Villiers had a thousand times in his reveries thought
over the possibility of a scene occurring, such as the one he was called
upon to act in now — and had planned a line of conduct, but, like mist
LODOR E 225
before the wind, this gossamer of the mind was swept away by an
immediate appeal to his heart through his outward sensations. There
stood before him, in all her loveliness, the creature whose image had
lived with him by day and by night, for several long months; and the
gaze of her soft tearful eyes, and the faultering tone of her voice, were
the laws to which his sense of prudence, of right, was immediately
subjected.
A few confused sentences interchanged, revealed to him that she
participated in her aunt's mistake, and her simple question, "Why did
you conceal this from me?" spoke the guilelessness of her thoughts,
while the anguish which her countenance expressed, betrayed that
the concealment was not the only source of her grief.
This young pair were ignorant how dear they were to each other.
Ethel's affection was that generous giving away of a young heart
which is unaware of the value of the gift it makes - she had asked for
and thought of no return, though her feeling was the result of a reci-
procal one on his side; it was the instinctive love of the dawn of wom-
anhood, subdued and refined by her gentle nature and imaginative
mind. Edward was more alive to the nature of his own sentiments -
but his knowledge stood him in no stead to fortify him against the
power of Ethel's tears. In a moment they understood each other- one
second sufficed to cause the before impervious veil to fall at their feet:
they had stept beyond this common-place world, and stood beside
each other in the new and mysterious region of which Love is
emperor.
"Dearest Ethel," saidVilliers,"! have much to tell you. Do arrange
that we should ride together. I have very much to tell you.You shall
know every thing, and judge for us both, though you should con-
demn me "
She looked up in his face with innocent surprise; but no words
could destroy the sunshine that brightened her soul: to know that she
was loved sufficed then to fill her being to overflowing with happi-
ness, so that there was no room for a second emotion.
The lovers rode out together, and thus secured the tete-a-tete
which Villiers especially yearned for. Although she was country-bred,
Mrs. Elizabeth was too timid to mount on horseback, yet she could
not feel fear for her niece who, under her father's guidance, sat her
22 6 MARY SHELLEY
steed with an ease and perfect command of the animal, which long
habit rendered second nature to her. As they rode on, considerably in
advance of the groom, they were at first silent — the deep sweet
silence which is so eloquent of emotion - till with an effort, slacken-
ing his pace, and bringing his horse nearer,Villiers began. He spoke of
debt, of difficulties, of poverty - of his unconquerable aversion to the
making any demands on his father - fruitless demands, for he knew
how involved Colonel Villiers was, and how incapable even of paying
the allowance he nominally made his son. He declared his reluctance
to drag Ethel into the sea of cares and discomforts that he felt must
surround his youth. He besought her forgiveness for having loved her
- for having linked her heart to his. He could not willingly resign her,
while he believed that he, all unworthy, was of any worth in her eyes;
but would she not discard him for ever, now that she knew that he
was a beggar? and that all to which he could aspire, was an engage-
ment to be fulfilled at some far distant day — a day that might never
come - when fortune should smile on him. Ethel listened with
exquisite complacency. Every word Villiers spoke was fraught with
tenderness; his eye beamed adoration and sincerest love. Conscious-
ness chained her tongue, and her faltering voice refused to frame any
echo to the busy instigations of her virgin heart. Yet it seemed to her
as if she must speak; as if she were called upon to avow how light and
trivial were all worldy considerations in her eyes. With bashful confu-
sion she at length said, "You cannot think that I care for fortune - I
was happy in the Illinois."
Her simplicity of feeling was at this moment infectious. It appeared
that the excess of selfishness to think of any thing but love in a desart
- while she had no desire beyond. Indeed, in England or America, she
lived in a desart, as far as society was concerned, and felt not one of
those tenacious though cobweb-seeming ties, that held sway over Vil-
liers. All his explanations therefore went for nothing. They only felt
that this discourse concerning him had drawn them nearer to each
other, and that had laid the first stone of an edifice of friendship,
henceforth to be raised beside the already established one of love. A
sudden shower forced them also to return home with speed, and so
interrupted any further discussion.
In the evening Villiers left them; and Ethel sought, as speedily as
LODOR E 227
she might, the solitude of her own chamber. She had no idea of hid-
ing any circumstance from Mrs. Fitzhenry; but confidence is, more
than any other thing, a matter of interchange, and cannot be bestowed
unless the giver is certain of its being received. They had too little
sympathy of taste or idea, and were too little in the habit of commu-
nicating their inmost thoughts, to make Ethel recur to her aunt.
Besides, young love is ever cradled in mystery; — to reveal it to the
vulgar eye, appears at once to deprive it of its celestial loveliness, and
to marry it to the clodlike earth. But alone - alone - she could think
over the past day — recall its minutest incident; and as she imaged to
herself the speaking fondness of her lovers eyes, her own closed, and a
thrilling sense of delight swept through her frame. What a different
world was this to what it had been the day before! The whole cre-
ation was invested by a purer atmosphere, balmy as paradise, which no
disquieting thought could penetrate. She called upon her fathers spir-
it to approve her attachment; and when she reflected that Edward's
hand had supported his dying head — that to Edward Villiers s care his
latest words had intrusted her, — she felt as if she were a legacy
bequeathed to him, and that she fulfilled Lodore's last behests in giv-
ing herself to him. So sweetly and fondly did her gentle heart strive to
make a duty of her wishes; and the idea of her fathers approbation set
the seal of perfect satisfaction on her dream of bliss.
It was somewhat otherwise with Villiers. Things went on as before,
and he came nearly every day to Richmond; but while Ethel rested
satisfied with seeing him, and receiving slight, cherished tokens of his
unabated regard, — as his voice assumed a more familiar tone, and his
attentions became more affectionate; - while these were enough for
Ethel, he thought of the future, and saw it each day dressed in gloomi-
er colours. In Ethel's presence, indeed, he forgot all but her. He loved
her fervently, and beheld in her all that he most admired in woman:
her clearness of spirit, her singleness of heart, her unsuspicious and
ingenious disposition, were irresistibly fascinating; - and why not
spend their lives thus in solitude? - his - their mutual fortunes might
afford this: - why not for ever thus - the happy - the beloved? - his
life might pass like a dream of joy; and that paradise might be realized
on earth, the impossibility of which philosophers have demonstrated,
and worldlings scoffed at.
22 8 MARY SHELLEY
Thus he thought while in the same room with Ethel; - while on
his evening ride back to town, her form glided before him, and her
voice sounded in his ears, it seemed that where Ethel was, no one
earthly bliss could be wanting; where she was not, a void must exist,
dark and dreary as a starless night. But his progress onward took him
out of the magic circle her presence drew; a portion of his elevated
feeling deserted him at each step; it fell off, like the bark pealing from
a tree, in successive coats, till he was left with scarce a vestige of its
brightness; - as the hue and the scent deserts the flower, when
deprived of light, — so, when away from Ethel, her lover lost half the
excellence which her presence bestowed.
1
Edward Villiers was eminently sociable in his disposition. He had
been brought up in the thick of life, and knew not how to live apart
from it. His frank and cordial heart danced within his bosom, when
he was among those who sympathized with, and liked him. He was
much courted in society, and had many favourites: and how Ethel
would like these, and be liked by them, was a question he perpetually
asked himself. He knew the worldliness of many, - their defective
moral feeling, and their narrow views; but he believed that they were
attached to him, and no man was ever less a misanthrope than he. He
wished, if married to Ethel, to see her a favourite in his own circle;
but he revolted from the idea of presenting her, except under
favourable auspices, surrounded by the decorations of rank and
wealth. To give up the world, the English world, formed no portion of
his picture of bliss; and to occupy a subordinate, degraded, permitted
place in it, was, to one initiated in its supercilious and insolent
assumptions, not to be endured.
The picture had also darker side, which was too often turned
towards him. If he felt hesitation which he regarded its brighter
aspect, as soon as this was dimmed, the whole current of his feelings
turned the other way; and he called himself villain, for dreaming of
allying Ethel, not to poverty alone, but to its worst consequences and
disgrace, in the shape of debt. "I am a beggar," he thought; "one of
many wants, and unable to provide for any; — the most poverty-strick-
i For images of the magic circle, see Mary Wollstonecraft, A Slwrt Residence in Swe-
den, Norway, and Denmark (1796), Letter 10, final paragraph, and Percy Shelley, "To
Jane:The Recollection," published in Posthumous Poems (1824) 41-52.
LODOR E 229
en of beggars, who has pledged away even his liberty, were it claimed
of him. I look forward to the course of years with disgust. I cannot
calculate the ills that may occur, or with how tremendous a weight
the impending ruin may fall. I can bear it alone; but did I see her
humiliated, whom I would gladly place on a throne, — by heavens! I
could not endure life on such terms! and a pistol, or some other
dreadful means, would put an end to an existence become intolera-
ble."
As these thoughts fermented within him, he longed to pour them
out before Ethel; to unload his mind of it care, to express the sincere
affection that led him to her side, and yet urged him to exile himself
for ever. He rode over each day to Richmond, intent on such a design;
but as he proceeded, the fogs and clouds that thickened round his soul
grew lighter. At first his pace was regulated; as he drew nearer, he
pressed his horse's flank with impatient heel, and bounded forward.
Each turn in the road was a step nearer the sunshine. Now the bridge,
the open field, the winding lane, were passed; the walls of her abode,
and its embowered windows, presented themselves; — they met; and
the glad look that welcomed him drove far away every thought of
banishment, and dispelled at once every remnant of doubt and
despondency.
This state of things might have gone on much longer, - already
had it been protracted for two months, — but for an accidental conver-
sation between Lady Lodore andVilliers. Since the morning after the
opera, they had scarcely seen each other. Edward's heart was too
much occupied to permit him to join in the throng of a ball-room;
and they had no chance of meeting, except in general society. One
evening, at the opera, the lady who accompanied Lady Lodore, asked
a gentleman, who had just come into their box, "What had become of
Edward Villiers? - he was never to be seen?"
"He is going to be married," was the reply: "he is in constant
attendance on the fair lady at Richmond."
"I had not heard of this," observed Lady Lodore, who, for Horatio's
sake, felt an interest for his favourite cousin.
"It is very little known. The fiancee lives out of the world, and no
one can tell any thing about her. I did hear her name.Young Craycroft
has seen them riding together perpetually in Richmond Park and on
23 0 MARY SHELLE Y
Wimbledon Common, he told me. Miss Fitzroy - no; - Miss Fitz-
something it is; - Fitzgeorge? - no; - Fitzhenry? - yes; Miss Fitzhenry
is the name."
Cornelia reddened, and asked no more questions. She controlled
her agitation; and at first, indeed, she was scarcely aware how much
she felt: but while the whole house was listening to a favourite air, and
her thoughts had leisure to rally, they came on her painfully, and
involuntary tears filled her eyes. It was sad, indeed, to hear of her child
as of a stranger; and to be made to feel sensibly how wide the gulf was
that separated them. "My sweet girl - my own Ethel! - are you,
indeed, so lost to me?" As her heart breathed this ejaculation, she felt
the downy cheek of her babe close to hers, and its little fingers press
her bosom. A moments recollection brought another image: — Ethel,
grown up to womanhood, educated in hatred of her, negligent and
unfdial; - this was not the little cherub whose loss she lamented. Let
her look round the crowd then about her; and among the fair girls
she saw, any one was as near her in affection and duty, as the child so
early torn from her, to be for ever estranged and lost.
The baleful part of Cornelia's character was roused by these reflec-
tions; her pride, her self-will, her spirit of resistance. "And for this she
has been taken from me," she thought, "to marry, while yet a child, a
ruined man - to be wedded to care and indigence. Thus would it not
have been had she been entrusted to me. O, how hereafter she may
regret the injuries of her mother, when she feels the effects of them in
her own adversity! It is not for me to prevent this ill-judged union.
The aunt and niece would see in my opposition a motive to hasten it:
wise as they fancy themselves — wise and good — what I, the reviled,
reprobated, they would therefore pursue with more eagerness. Be it so
— my day will yet come!"
A glance of triumph shot across her face as she indulged in this
emotion of revenge; the most deceitful and reprehensible of human
feelings - revenge against a child - how sad at best - how sur e to
bring with it its recompense of bitterness of spirit and remorse! But
Cornelia s heart had been rudely crushed, and in the ruin of her best
affections, her mother had substituted noxious passions of many kinds
— pride chief of all.
While thus excited and indignant, she saw Edward Villiers. He
LODOR E 231
came into her box; the lady with her was totally unaware of what had
been passing in her thoughts, nor reverted to the name mentioned as
having any connexion with her. She asked Villiers if it were true that
he was going to be married? Lady Lodore heard the question; she
turned on him her eyes full of significant meaning, and with a smile
of scorn answered for him,"O yes, Mr.Villiers is going to be married.
His bride is young, beautiful, and portionless; but he has the tastes of a
hermit - he means to emigrate to America - his simple and inexpen-
sive habits are admirably suited to the wilderness."
This was said as if in jest, and answered in the same tone. The third
in the trio joined in, quite unaware of the secret meaning of the con-
versation. Several bitter allusions were made by Lady Lodore, and the
truth of all she said sent her words home to Edward s heart. She drew,
as if playfully, a representation of high-bred indigence, that made his
blood curdle. As if she could read his thoughts, she echoed their worst
suggestions, and unrolled the page of futurity, such as he had often
depicted it to himself, presenting in sketchy, yet forcible colours, a pic-
ture from which his soul recoiled. He would have escaped, but there
was a fascination in the topic, and in the very bitterness of spirit
which she awakened. He rather encouraged her to proceed, while he
abhorred her for so doing, acknowledging the while the justice of all
she said. Lady Lodore was angry; and she felt pleasure in the pain she
inflicted; her wit became keener, her sarcasm more pointed, yet stop-
ping short with care of any thing that should betray her to their com-
panion, and avoiding, with inimitable tact, any expression that should
convey to one not in the secret, that she meant any thing more than
raillery or good-humoured quizzing, as it is called.
At length Villiers took his leave. "Were I," he said, "the unfortunate
man you represent me to be, you would have to answer for my life
this night. But re-assure yourself— it is all a dream. I have no thoughts
of marrying; and the fair girl, whose fate as my wife Lady Lodore so
kindly compassionates, is safe from every danger of becoming the vic-
tim of my selfishness and poverty."
This was said laughing, yet an expressive intonation of voice con-
veyed his full meaning to Cornelia."! have done a good deed if I have
prevented this marriage," she thought, "yet a thankless one. After all,
he is a gentleman, and under sister Bessy's guardianship, poor Ethel
23 2 MARY SHELLEY
might fall into worse hands."
While Lady Lodore thus dismissed her anger and all thought of its
cause, Villiers felt more resentment than had ever before entered his
kind heart. The truths which the lady had spoken were unpalatable,
and the mode in 'which they were uttered was still more disagreeable.
He hated her for having discovered them, and for presenting them so
vividly to his sight. At one moment he resolved never to see Ethel
more; while he felt that he loved her with tenfold tenderness, and
would have given worlds to become the source of all happiness to her
- wishing this the more ardently, because her mother had pictured
him as being the cause to her of every ill.
Edward's nature was very impetuous, but perfectly generous. The
tempest of anger allayed, he considered all that Lady Lodore had said
impartially; and while he felt that she had only repeated what he had
told himself a thousand times, he resolved not to permit resentment
to controul him, and to turn him from the right path. He felt also, that
he ought no longer to delay acting on his good resolutions. His inter-
course with Miss Fitzhenry had begun to attract attention, and must
therefore cease. Once again he would ride over to Richmond - once
again see her - say farewell, and then stoically banish every pleasant
dream — every heart-enthralling hope — willingly sacrificing his dear-
est wishes at the shrine of her welfare.
LODOR E 233
CHAPTER VIII .
She to a window came, that opened west,
Towards which coast her love his way addrest,
There looking forth, she in her heart did find
Many vain fancies working her unrest,
And sent her winged thoughts more swift than wind
To bear unto her love the message of her mind.
TH E FAERIE QUEEN.
1
ETHEL , happy in her seclusion, was wholly unaware of her mother's
interference and its effects. She had not the remotest suspicion that it
would be considered as conducive to her welfare to banish the only
friend that she had in the world. In her solitary position, life was a
blank without Edward; and while she congratulated herself on her
good fortune in the concurrence of circumstances that had brought
them together, and, as she believed, established her happiness on the
dearest and most secure foundations, she was far from imagining that
he was perpetually revolving the necessity of bidding her adieu for
ever. If she had been told two years before, that all intercourse
between her and her father were to cease, it would scarcely have
seemed more unnatural or impossible, than that such a decree should
be issued to divide her from one to whom her young heart was
entirely given. She relied on him as the support of her life - her guide
and protector - she loved him as the giver of good to her - she almost
worshipped him for the many virtues, which he either really pos-
sessed, or with which her fondness bounteously gifted him.
Meanwhile the unacute observations of Mrs. Fitzhenry began to
be awakened. She gave herself great credit for discovering that there
was something singular in the constant attendance of Edward, and yet,
in fact, she owed her illumination on this point to her man of law. Mr.
Humphries, whom she had seen on business the day before, finding
how regular a visitor Villiers was, and their only one, first elevated his
eyebrows and then relaxed into a smile, as he said, "I suppose I am
soon to wish Miss Fitzhenry joy." This same day Edward had ridden
i Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen (1596) Book 5, Canto 7, lines 4-9.
23 4 MARY SHELLE Y
down to them; a violent storm prevented his return to town; he slept
at the inn and breakfasted with the ladies in the morning. There was
something familiar and home-felt in his appearance at the breakfast-
table, that filled Ethel with delight. "Women," says the accomplished
author of Paul Clifford, "think that they must always love a man
whom they have seen in his night-cap."
1
 There is deep philosophy in
this observation, and it was a portion of that feeling which made
Ethel feel so sweetly complacent, when Villiers, unbidden, rang the
bell, and gave his orders to the servant, as if he had been at home.
Aunt Bessy started a little; and while the young people were
strolling in the shrubbery and renewing the flowers in the vases, she
was pondering on the impropriety of their position, and wondering
how she could break off an intimacy she had hitherto encouraged.
But one way presented itself to her plain imagination, the old
resource, a return to Longfield. With light heart and glad looks, Ethel
bounded up stairs to dress for dinner, and she was twining her ringlets
round her taper fingers before the glass, when her aunt entered with a
look of serious import. "My dear Ethel, I have something important
to say to you."
Ethel stopped in her occupation and turned inquiring eyes on her
aunt; "My dear," continued Mrs. Fitzhenry, "we have been a long time
away; if you please, we will return to Longfield."
This time Ethel did not grow pale; she turned again to the mirror,
saying with a smile that lighted her whole countenance, "Dear aunt,
that is impossible — I would rather not."
No negative could have been more imposing on the good lady
than this; she did not know how to reply, how to urge her wish.
"Dearest aunt," continued her niece, "you are losing time — dinner
will be announced, and you are not dressed. We will talk of Longfield
to-morrow - we must not keep Mr. Villiers waiting."
It was often the custom of Aunt Bessy, like the father of Hamlet, to
sleep after dinner, she did not betake herself to her orchard, but her
Eugene Bulwer Lytton, Paul Clifford, chapter 25. Shelley records her reading of the
novel in her journal entry for n January 1831 with admiration. She calls the work
a "wonderful, a sublime book" and muses that Bulwer, a friend of her father, might
become "the first Author of the age" (Journals 517). The novel is best known to
modern readers for its first line -"It was a dark and stormy night."
LODOR E 235
I
arm-chair, for a few minutes' gentle doze. Ethel and Villiers mean-
while walked out, and, descending to the river side, they were enticed
by the beauty of the evening to go upon the water. Ethel was passion-
ately fond of every natural amusement; boating was a pleasure that she
enjoyed almost more than any other, and one with which she was sel-
dom indulged; for her spinster aunt had so many fears and objections,
and considered every event but sitting still in her drawing-room, or a
quiet drive with her old horses, as so fraught with danger and difficul-
ty, that it required an absolute battle ever to obtain her consent for her
niece to go on the river - she would have died before she could have
entered a boat herself, and, walking at the water's edge, she always
insisted that Ethel should keep close to the bank, while, by the repeti-
tion of expressions of alarm and entreaties to return, she destroyed
every possibility of enjoyment.
The river sped swiftly on, calm and free. There is always life in a
stream, of which a lake is frequently deprived, when sleeping beneath
a windless sky. A river pursues for ever its course, accomplishing the
task its Creator has imposed, and its waters are for ever changing
while they seem the same. It was a balmy summer evening; the air
seemed to brood over the earth, warming and nourishing it. All
nature reposed, and yet not as a lifeless thing, but with the same
enjoyment of rest as gladdened the hearts of the two beings, who,
with gratitude and love, drank in the influence of this softest hour of
day. The equal splash of the oar, or its dripping when suspended, the
clear reflection of tree and lawn in the river, the very colour of the
stream, stolen as it was from heaven itself, the plash of the wings of the
water-fowl who skimmed the waves towards their rushy nests,— every
sound and every appearance was beautiful, harmonious, and soothing.
Ethel's soul was at peace; grateful to Heaven, and satisfied with every
thing around her, a tenderness beamed from her eyes, and was diffused
over her attitude, and attuned her voice, which acted as a spell to
make Edward forget every thing but herself.
They had both been silent for some time, a sweet silence more
eloquent than any words, when Ethel observed, "My aunt wishes to
return to Longfield."
Villiers started as if he had trodden upon a serpent, exclaiming,''To
Longfield! O yes! that were far best — when shall you go?"
236 MARY SHELLE Y
"Why is it best? Why should we go?" asked Ethel with surprise.
"Because," replied Villiers impetuously, "it had been better that you
had never left it — that we had never met! It is not thus that I can fulfil
my promise to your father to guard and be kind to his child. I am
practising on your ignorance, taking advantage of your loneliness, and
doing you an injury, for which I should call any other a villain, were
he guilty."
It was the very delight that Edward had been a moment before
enjoying, the very beauty and calmness of nature, and the serenity and
kindness of the sweet face turned towards him, which stirred such bit-
terness; checking himself, however, he continued after a pause, in a
more subsided tone.
"Are there any words by which I can lay bare my heart to you,
Ethel? - None! To speak of my true and entire attachment, is almost
an insult; and to tell you, that I tear myself from you for your own
sake, sounds like impertinence. Yet all this is true; and it is the rever-
ence that I have for your excellence, the idolatry which your single-
ness of heart and sincere nature inspires, which prompts me to speak
the truth, though that be different from the usual language of gal-
lantry, or what is called love.
"Will you hate me or pity me most, when I speak of my determi-
nation never to see you more? You cannot guess how absolutely I am
a ruined man — how I am one of those despicable hangers-on of the
rich and noble, who cover my rags with mere gilding. I am a beggar -
I have not a shilling that I can call my own, and it is only by shifts and
meannnesses that I can go on from day to day, while each one men-
aces me with a prison or flight to a foreign country.
"I shall go - and you will regret me, Ethel, or you will despise me.
It were best of all that you forgot me. I am not worthy of you — no
man could be; that I have known you and loved you - and for your
sake, banished myself from you, will be the solitary ray of comfort that
will shed some faint glow over my chilled and darkened existence.
Will you say even now one word of comfort to me?"
Ethel looked up; the pure affectionateness of her heart prevented
her from feeling for herself, she thought only of her lover. "Would
that I could comfort you," she said. "You will do what you think
right, and that will be your best consolation. Do not speak of hatred,
LODOR E 237
or contempt, or indifference. I shall not change though we part for
ever: how is it possible that I should ever cease to feel regard for one
who has ever been kind, considerate, and generous to me? Go, if you
think it right - I am a foolish girl, and know nothing of the world;
and I will not doubt that you decide for the best."
Villiers took her hand and held it in his; his heart was penetrated
by her disinterested self-forgetfulness and confidence. He felt that he
was loved, and that he was about to part from her for ever. The pain
and pleasure of these thoughts mingled strangely — he had no words
to express them, he felt that it would be easier to die than to give her
up.
Aunt Bessy, on the river's bank imploring their return, recalled
them from the fairy region to which their spirits had wandered. For
one moment they had been united in sentiment; one kindred emo-
tion of perfect affection had, as it were, married their souls one to the
other; at the alien sound of poor Bessy's voice the spell fled away on
airy wings, leaving them disenchanted. Th e rudder was turned, the
boat reached the shore, and unable to endure frivolous talk about any
subject except the one so near his heart,Villiers departed and rode
back to town, miserable yet most happy — despairing yet full of joy; to
such a riddle, love, which finds its completion in sympathy, and knows
no desire beyond, is the only solution.
The feelings of Ethel were even more unalloyed. She had no
doubts about the future, the present embraced the world. She did not
attempt to unravel the dreamy confusion of her thoughts, or to clear
up the golden mist that hung before, curtaining most gloriously the
reality beyond. Her step was buoyant, her eyes sparkling and joyous.
Love and gladness sat lightly on her bosom, and gratitude to Heaven
for bestowing so deep a sense of happiness was the only sentiment
that mingled with these. Villiers, on leaving them, had promised to
return the next day; and on the morrow she rose, animated with such
a spirit as may be kindled within the bosom of an Enchantress, when
she pronounces the spell which is to controul the movements of the
planetary orbs. She was more than queen of the world, for she was
empress of Edward's heart, and ruling there, she reigned over the
course of destiny, and bent to her will the conflicting elements of life.
He did not come. It was strange. Now hope, now fear, were inter-
23 8 MARY SHELLE Y
changed one for the other, till night and certain disappointment
arrived.Yet it was not much — the morrow s sun would light him on
his way to her. To cheat the lagging hours of the morrow, she occu-
pied herself with her painting and music, tasking herself to give so
many hours to her employments, thus to add speed to the dilatory
walk of time. The long day was passed in fruitless expectation -
another and another succeeded. Was he ill? What strange mutation in
the course of nature had occurred to occasion so inexplicable an
absence?
A week went by, and even a second was nearly spent. She had not
anticipated this estrangement. Day by day she went over in her mind
their last conversation, and Edward s expressions gathered decision
and a gloomy reality as she pondered on them. The idea of an heroic
sacrifice on his part, and submission to his will on hers, at first
soothed her — but never to see him more, was an alternative that
tasked her fortitude too high; and while her heart felt all the tumults
of despair, she found herself asking what his love could be, that could
submit to lose her? Love in a cottage is the dream of many a high-
born girl, who is not allowed to dance with a younger brother at
Almack's;
1
 but a secluded, an obscure, an almost cottage life, was all
that Ethel had ever known, and all that she coveted.Villiers rejected
this - not for her sake, that could not be, but for the sake of a world,
which he called frivolous and vain, and yet to whose tyranny he
bowed. To disentwine the tangled skein of thought which was thus
presented, was her task by day and night. She awoke in the morning,
and her first thought was, "Will he come?" She retired at night, and
sleep visited her eyes, while she was asking herself, "Why has he not
been?" During the day, these questions, in every variety, forced her
attention. To escape from her aunt, to seek solitude, to listen to each
sound that might be his horse, and to feel her heart sicken at the still
renewed disappointment, became, in spite of herself, all her occupa-
tion: she might bend over her drawing, or escape from her aunt's con-
versation to the piano; but these were no longer employments, but
Assembly Rooms in King Street, St. James's, the scene of social functions in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were founded by William Macall in 1765
and were a popular setting in silver fork novels. Marianne Spencer Stanhope s novel
Almack's was published in 1827.
LODOR E 239
1
rather means adopted to deliver herself up more entirely to her rever-
ies.
The third, the fourth week came, and the silence of death was
between Ethel and her friend. O but for one word, one look to break
the spell! Was she indeed never to see him more? Was all, all over? —
was the harmony their two hearts made, jarred into discord? — was she
again the orphan, alone in the world? - and was the fearless reliance
she had placed upon fate and Edward s fidelity, mere folly or insanity?
- and was desecration and forgetfulness to come over and to destroy
the worship she had so fondly cherished? Nothing had she to turn to
- nothing to console her. Her life became one thought, it twined
round her soul like a serpent, and compressed and crushed every
other emotion with its folds. "I could bear all," she thought, were I
permitted to see him only once again."
She and Mrs. Fitzhenry were invited by Mrs. Humphries to dine
with her. They were asked to the awful ceremony of spending a long
day, which, in the innocence of her heart, Mrs. Fitzhenry fancied the
most delightful thing in the world. She thought that kindness and
friendship demanded of her that she should be in Montague-square
1
by ten in the morning. Notwithstanding every exertion, she could
not get there till two, and then, when luncheon was over, she won-
dered why the gap of time till seven appeared so formidable. This was
to be got over by a drive in Hyde-park. Ethel had shown peculiar
pleasure in the idea of visiting London; she had looked bright and
happy during their journey into town, but anxiety and agitation
clouded her face, at the thought of the park, of the crisis about to
arrive, at the doubt and hope she entertained of finding Villiers there.
The park became crowded, but he was not in the drive; at length
he entered in the midst of a bevy of fair cousins, whom Ethel did not
know as such. He entered on horseback, flanked on either side by
pretty equestrians, looking as gay and light-hearted, as she would have
done, had she been one, the chosen one among his companions.
Twice he passed. The first time his head was averted - he saw nothing,
she even did not see his face: the next time, his eye caught the aspect
i Montagu Square is one block north of Seymour St., where Ethel and Aunt Bessy
stayed before moving to Richmond. It is near Marble Arch and Hyde Park.
24 0 MARY SHELLEY
of the well-known chariot - he glanced eagerly at those it contained,
kissed his hand, and went on. Ethel's heart died within, her. It was all
over. She was the neglected, the forgotten; but while she turned her
face to the other window of the carriage, so to hide its saddened
expression from her companion, a voice, the dearest, sweetest voice
she had ever heard, the soft harmonious voice, whose accents were
more melodious than music, asked, "Are you in town? have you left
Richmond?" In spite of herself, a smile mantled over her counte-
nance, dimpling it into gladness, and she turned to see the beloved
speaker who had not deserted her — who was there; she turned, but
there was no answering glance of pleasure in the face ofVilliers — he
looked grave, and bowed, as if in this act of courtesy he fulfilled all of
friendly interchange that was expected of him, and rode off. He was
gone — and seen no more.
LODOR E 241
CHAPTER IX.
Sure, when the separation has been tried,
That we, who part in love, shall meet again.
WORDSWORTH.
1
THI S little event roused Ethel to the necessity of struggling with the
sentiment to which hitherto she had permitted unquestioned power.
There had been a kind of pleasure mingled with her pain, while she
believed that she suffered for her lovers sake, and in obedience to his
will. To love in solitude and absence, was, she well knew, the lot of
many of her sex, and all that is imaginative and tender lends poetry to
the emotion. But to love without return, her father had taught her
was shame and folly - a dangerous and undignified sentiment that
leads many women into acts of humiliation and misery. He spoke the
more warmly on this subject, because he desired to guard his daugh-
ter by every possible means from a fate too common. He knew the
sensibility and constancy of her nature. He dreaded to think that these
should be played upon, and that her angelic sweetness should be
sacrificed at the altar of hopeless passion. That all the powers he might
gift her with, all the fortitude and all the pride that he strove to instil,
might be insufficient to prevent this one grand evil, he too well knew;
but all that could should be done, and his own high-souled Ethel
should rise uninjured from the toils of the snarer, the heartless game
of the unfaithful lover.
She steeled her heart against every softer thought, she tasked her-
self each day to devote her entire attention to some absorbing
employment; to languages and the composition of music, as occupa-
tions that would not permit her thoughts to stray. She felt a pain
deep-seated in her inmost heart; but she refused to acknowledge it.
When a thought, too sweet and bitter, took perforce possession of the
chambers of her brain, she drove it out with stern and unshaken
resolve. She pondered on the best means to subdue every rebel idea.
She rose with the sun, and passed much time in the open air, that
when night came, bodily fatigue might overpower mental regrets. She
i The River Duddon:A Series of Sonnets (1820), sonnet 30,13-14.
24 2 MARY SHELLEY
conversed with her aunt again about her dear lost father; that, by
renewing images, so long the only ones dear to her, every subsequent
idea might be driven from the place it had usurped. Always she was
rewarded by the sense of doing right, often by really mitigating the
anguish which rose and went to rest with her, and awakening her in
the morning, stung her to renew her endeavours, while it whispered
too audibly, "I am here." She grew pale and thin, and her eyes again
resumed that lustre which spoke a quick and agitated life within. Her
endeavours, by being unremitting, gave too much intensity to every
feeling, and made her live each moment of her existence a sensitive,
conscious life, wearing out her frame, and threatening, while it accel-
erated the pulses, to exhaust betimes the animal functions.
She felt this; and she roused herself to contend afresh with her own
heart. As a last resource she determined to quit Richmond. Her strug-
gles, and the energy called into action by her fortitude, gave a tone of
superiority to her mind, which her aunt felt and submitted to. Now
when a change of residence was determined upon, she at once nega-
tived the idea of returning to Longfield — yet whither else betake
themselves? Ethel no longer concealed from herself that she and the
worthy spinster were solitary wanderers on earth, cut off from human
intercourse. A bitter sense of desolation had crept over her from the
moment that she knew herself to be deserted byVilliers. All that was
bright in her position darkened into shadow. She shrunk into herself
when she reflected, that should the ground at her feet open and swal-
low her, not one among her fellow-creatures would be sensible that
the whole universe of thought and feeling, which emanated from her
breathing spirit, as water from a living spring, was shrunk up and
strangled in a narrow, voiceless grave. A short time before she had
regarded death without terror, for her father had been its prey, and his
image was often shadowed forth in her fancy, beckoning her to join
him. Now it had become more difficult to die. Nature and love were
wedded in her mind, and it was a bitter pang for one so young to bid
adieu to both for ever. Turning her thoughts fromVilliers, she would
have been glad to discover any link that might enchain her to the
mass. She reverted to her mother. Her inexperience, her youth, and
the timidity of her disposition, prevented her from making any
endeavour to break through the wall of unnatural separation raised
LODOR E 243
between them. She could only lament. One sigh, one word from Lady
Lodore, would have been balm to her poor heart, and she would have
met it with fervent gratitude. But she feared to offend. She had no
hope that any advance would have been met by other than a disdain-
ful repulse; and she shrunk from intruding herself on her unwilling
parent. She often wept to think that there was none near to support
and comfort her, and yet that at the distance of but a few miles her
mother lived - whose very name was the source of the dearest, sweet-
est, and most cruel emotions. She thought, therefore, of her surviving
parent only to despair, and to shrink with terror from the mere possi-
blity of an accidental meeting.
She earnestly desired to leave England, which had treated her with
but a step-mother's welcome, and to travel away, she knew not whith-
er. Yet most she wished to go to Italy. Her father had often talked of
taking her to that country, and it was painted in her eyes with the
hues of paradise. She spoke of her desire to her aunt, who thought her
mad, and believed that it was as easy to adventure to the moon, as for
two solitary women to brave alps and earthquakes, banditti and volca-
noes, a savage people and an unknown land. Still, even when she
trembled at the mere notion, she felt that Ethel might lead her thither
if she pleased. It is one of the most beneficent dispensations of the
Creator, that there is nothing so attractive and attaching as affection.
The smile of an infant may command absolutely, because its source is
in dependent love, and the human heart for ever yearns for such
demonstration from another. What would this strange world be with-
out that "touch of nature?" It is to the immaterial universe, what light
is to the visible creation, scent to the flower, hue to the rainbow;
hope, joy, succour, and self-forgetfulness, where otherwise all would
be swallowed up in vacant and obscure egotism.
No one could approach Ethel without feeling that she possessed
an irresistible charm. The overflowing and trusting affectionateness of
her nature was a loadstone to draw all hearts. Each one felt, even
without knowing wherefore, that it was happiness to obey, to gratify
her. Thus while a journey to Italy filled Mrs. Elizabeth with alarm, a
consent hovered on her lips, because she felt that any risk was prefer-
able to disappointing a wish of her gentle niece.
And yet even then Ethel paused. She began to repent her desire of
24 4 MARY SHELLEY
leaving the country inhabited by her dearest friend. She felt that she
should have an uncongenial companion in her aunt - the child of the
wilderness and the good lady of Longfield, were like a living and dead
body in conjunction — the one inquiring, eager, enthusiastic even in
her contemplativeness, sensitively awake to every passing object; while
the other dozed her hours away, and fancied that pitfalls and wild
beasts menaced her, if she dared step one inch from the beaten way
At this moment, while embarrassed by the very yielding to her
desires, and experiencing a lingering sad regret for all that she was
about to leave behind, Ethel received a letter from Villiers. Her heart
beat, and her fingers trembled, when first she saw, as now she held a
paper, which might be every thing, yet might be nothing to her; she
opened it at last, and forced herself to consider and understand its
contents. It was as follows: -
"DEAR Miss FITZHENRY,
"Will your aunt receive me with her wonted kindness when I call
to-morrow? I fear to have offended by an appearance of neglect,
while my heart has never been absent from Richmond. Plead my
cause, I entreat you. I leave it in your hands.
"Ever and ever yours,
"EDWARD VILLIERS."
Grosvenor Square, Saturday.
1
"Dearest Ethel, have you guessed at my sufferings? Shall you hail
with half the joy that I do, a change which enables you to revoke the
decree of absence so galling at least to one of us? If indeed you have
not forgotten me, I shall be rewarded for the wretchedness of these
last weeks."
Ethel kissed the letter and placed it near her heart. A calm joy
diffused itself over her mind; and that she could indeed trust and
believe in him she loved, was the source of a grateful delight, more
medicinal than all the balmy winds of Italy and its promised pleasures.
When Villiers had last quitted Richmond, he had resolved not to
i Grosvenor Square is in Mayfair, south of Oxford St., and is east of Hyde Park.
LODOR E 245
expose himself again to the influence of Ethel. It was necessary that
they should be divided — how far better that they should never meet
again! He was not worthy of her. Another, more fortunate, would
replace him, if he sacrificed his own selfish feelings, and determinate-
ly absented himself from her. As if to confirm his view of their mutu-
al interest, his elder cousin, Mr. Saville, had just offered his hand to the
daughter of a wealthy Earl, and had been accepted. Villiers took refuge
from his anxious thoughts among his pretty cousins, sisters of the
bridegroom, and with them the discussion of estates, settlements,
princely mansions, and equipages, was the order of the day. Edward
sickened to reflect how opposite would be the prospect, if his mar-
riage with Ethel were in contemplation. It was not that a noble estab-
lishment would be exchanged for a modest, humble dwelling — he
loved with sufficient truth to feel that happiness with Ethel tran-
scended the wealth of the world. It was the absolute penury, the debt,
the care, that haunted him and made such miserable contrast with the
tens and hundreds of thousands that were the subject of discussion on
the present occasion. His resolution not to entangle Ethel in this
wilderness of ills, gained strength by every chance word that fell from
the lips of those around him; and the image, before so vivid, of her
home at Richmond, which he might at each hour enter, of her dear
face, which at any minute might again bless his sight, faded into a far-
off vision of paradise, from which he was banished for ever.
For a time he persevered in his purpose, if not with ease, yet with
less of struggle than he himself anticipated. That he could at any
hour break the self-enacted law, and behold Ethel, enabled him day
after day to continue to obey it, and to submit to the decree of ban-
ishment he had passed upon himself. He loved his pretty cousins,
and their kindness and friendship soothed him; he spent his days
with them, and the familiar, sisterly intercourse, hallowed by long
association, and made tender by the grace and sweetness of these
good girls, compensated somewhat for the absence of deeper inter-
est.They talked of Horatio also, and that was a more touching string
than all. The almost worship, joined to pity and fear for him, with
which Edward regarded his cousin, made him cling fondly to those
so clearly related to him, and who sympathized with, and shared, his
enthusiastic affection.
24 6 MARY SHELLEY
This state of half indifference did not last long. His meeting with
Ethel in Hyde Park operated an entire change. He had seen her face
but a moment - her dear face, animated with pleasure at beholding
him, and adorned with more than her usual loveliness. He hurried
away, but the image still pursued him. All at once the world around
grew dark and blank; at every instant his heart asked for Ethel. He
thirsted for the sweet delight of gazing on her soft lustrous eyes,
touching her hand, listening to her voice, whose tones were so famil-
iar and beloved. He avoided his cousins to hide his regrets; he sought
solitude, to commune with memory; and the intense desire kindled
within him to return to her, was all but irresistible. He had received a
letter from Horace Saville entreating him to join him at Naples; he
had contemplated complying, as a means of obtaining forgetfulness.
Should he not, on the contrary, make this visit with Ethel for his
companion? It was a picture of happiness most enticing; and then he
recollected with a pang, that it was impossible for him to quit Eng-
land; that it was only by being on the spot, that he obtained the sup-
plies necessary for his existence. With bitterness of spirit he
recognized once again his state of beggary, and the hopelessness that
attended on all his wishes.
All at once he was surprised by a message from his father, through
Lord Maristow. He was told of Colonel Villiers's intended marriage
with the only daughter of a wealthy commoner, which yet could not
be arranged without the concurrence of Edward, or rather without
sacrifices on his part for the making of settlements. The entire payment
of his debts, and the promise of fifteen hundred a year for the future,
were the bribes offered to induce him to consent. Edward at once
notified his compliance. He saw the hour of freedom at hand, and the
present was too full of interest, too pregnant with misery or happiness,
to allow the injury done to his future prospects to weigh with him for
a moment. Thus he might purchase his union with Ethel — claim her
for his own. With the thought, a whole tide of tenderness and joy
poured quick and warm into his heart, and it seemed as if he had never
loved so devotedly as now. How false an illusion had blinded him! he
fancied that he had banished hope, while indeed his soul was wedded
to her image, and the very struggle to free himself, had served to make
the thought of her more peremptory and indelible.
LODOR I 247
With these thoughts, he again presented himself at Richmond. He
asked Mrs. Fitzhenry's consent to address her niece, and became the
accepted lover of Ethel. The meeting of their two young hearts in the
security of an avowed attachment, after so many hours wasted in
despondency and painful struggles, did not visit the fair girl with
emotions of burning transport: she felt it rather like a return to a nat-
ural state of things, after unnatural deprivation. As if, a young nestling,
she had been driven from her mothers side, and was now restored to
the dear fosterage of her care. She delivered herself up to a calm
reliance upon the future, and saw in the interweaving of duty and
affection, the fulfilment of her destiny, and the confirmation of her
earthly happiness. They were to be joined never to part more! While
each breathed the breath of life, no power could sever them; health or
sickness, prosperity or adversity — these became mere words; her
health and her riches were garnered in his heart, and while she
bestowed the treasures of her affection upon him, could he be poor?
It was not therefore to be her odious part to crush the first and single
attachment of her soul - to tear at once the "painted veil of life,"
1
delivering herself up to cheerless realities — to know that, to do right,
she must banish from her recollection those inward-spoken vows
which she should deem herself of a base inconstant disposition ever to
forget. It was not reserved for her to pass joyless years of solitude, rec-
onciling herself to the necessity of divorcing her dearest thoughts
from their wedded image. The serene and fair-showing home she
coveted was open before her — she might pass within its threshold,
and listen to the closing of the doors behind, as they shut out the
world from her, with pure and unalloyed delight.
Ethel was very young, yet in youth such feelings are warmer in our
hearts than in after years. We do not know then that we can ever
change; or that, snake-like, casting the skin of an old, care-worn habit,
a new one will come fresh and bright in seeming, as the one before
had been, at the hour of its birth. We fancy then, that if our present
and first hope is disappointed, our lives are a mere blank, not worth a
"pin's fee;" the singleness of our hearts has not been split into the mil-
lion hair-like differences, which, woven by time into one texture,
i Percy Shelley, Sonnet "Lift not the painted Veil," published in Mary Shelly s edition
of the Posthumous Poems (1824).
24 8 MARY SHELLEY
clothes us in prudence as with a garment. We are as if exposed naked
to the action of passions and events, and receive their influence with
keen and fearful sensitiveness. Ethel scarcely heard, and did not listen
to nor understand, the change of circumstances that brought Villiers
back to her — she only knew, that he was confirmed her own. Satisfied
with this delightful conclusion to her sufferings, she placed her des-
tiny in his hands, without fear or question.
Mrs. Elizabeth thought her niece very young to marry; but Villiers,
who had, while hesitating, done his best to hide his sweet Ethel away
from every inquisitive eye, now that she was to be his own, hastened
to introduce Lord Maristow (Lady Maristow had died two years
before) to her, and to bring her among his cousins, whom he regard-
ed as sisters. The change was complete and overwhelming to the fair
recluses. Where before they lived in perpetual tete-a-tete, or separated
but to be alone, they were now plunged into what appeared to them a
crowd. Sophia, Harriet, and Lucy Saville, were high-born, high-bred,
and elegant girls, accustomed to what they called the quiet of domes-
tic life, amidst a thousand relations and ten thousand acquaintances .
No female relative had stepped into their mother s place, and they
were peculiarly independent and high-spirited; they had always lived
in what they called the world, and knew nothing but what that world
contained. Their manners were easy, their tempers equable and affec-
tionate. If their dispositions were not all exactly alike, they had a fam-
ily resemblance that drew them habitually near each other. They
received Ethel among their number with cordiality, bestowing on her
every attention which politeness and kindness dictated. Yet Ethel felt
somewhat as a wild antelope among tame ones. Their language, the
topics of their discourse, their very occupations, were all new to her.
She lent herself to their customs with smiles and sweetness, but her
eye brightened when Edward came, and she often unconsciously
retreated to his side as a shelter and a refuge. Edward s avocations had
been as worldly perhaps as those of his pretty cousins; but a man is
more thrown upon the reality of life, while girls live altogether in a
factitious state. He had travelled much, and seen all sorts of people.
Besides, between him and Ethel, there was that mute language which
will make those of opposite sexes intelligible to one another, even
when literally not understanding each other's dialect .Villiers found no
LODOR E 249
deficiency of intelligence or sympathy in Ethel, while the fashionable
girls to whom he had introduced her felt a little at a loss how to
entertain the stranger.
Lord Maristow and his family had been detained in town till after
Mr. Saville's marriage, and were now very eager to leave it. They
remained out of compliment to Edward, and looked forward impa-
tiently to his wedding as the event that would set them free. London
was empty, the shooting season had begun;
1
 yet still he was delayed by
his father. He wished to sign the necessary papers, and free himself
from all business, that he and his bride might immediately join Hora-
tio at Naples .Yet still Colonel Villiers's marriage was delayed; till at last
he intimated to his son, that it was postponed for the present, and
begged that he would not remain in England on his account.
Edward was somewhat staggered by this intelligence.Yet as the let-
ter that communicated it contained a considerable remittance, he qui-
eted himself. To give up Ethel now was a thought that did not for a
moment enter his mind; it was but the reflection of the difficulties
that would surround them, if his prospects failed, that for a few sec-
onds clouded his brow with care. But it was his nature usually to hope
the best, and to trust to fortune. He had never been so prudent as
with regard to his marriage with Ethel; but that was for her sake. This
consideration could not again enter; for, like her, he would, under the
near hope of making her his, have preferred the wilds of the Illinois,
with her for his wife, than the position of the richest English noble-
man, deprived of such a companion. His heart, delivered up to love,
was complete in its devotion and tenderness. He was already wedded
to her in soul, and would sooner have severed his right arm from his
body, than voluntarily have divided himself from this dearer part of
himself. This "other half," towards whom he felt as if literally he had,
to give her being,
The Game Acts decree that grouse shooting begins on August 12, partridges on
September i, and pheasants on October i.
25 0 MARY SHELLEY
I
"Lent
Out of his side to her, nearest his heart;
Substantial life, to have her by his side,
Henceforth an individual solace dear."
1
With these feelings, an early day was urged and named; and, draw-
ing near, Ethel was soon to become a bride. On first making his offer,
Villiers had written to Lady Lodore; and Mrs. Fitzhenry, much against
her will, by the advice of her solicitor, did the same. Lady Lodore was
in Scotland. No answer came. The promised day approached; but still
she preserved this silence: it became necessary to proceed without her
consent. Banns were published; and Ethel became the wife ofVilliers
on the 25th of October. Lord Maristow hastened down to his Castle
to kill pheasants: while, on her part, Mrs. Fitzhenry took her solitary
way to Longfield, half consoled for separating from Ethel, by this
return to the habits of more than sixty years. In vain had London or
Richmond wooed her stay; in vain was she pressed to pay a visit to
Maristow Castle: to return to her home was a more enticing prospect.
Her good old heart danced within her when she first perceived the
village steeple; the chimneys of her own house made tears spring into
her eyes; and when, indeed, she found herself by the familiar hearth,
in the accustomed arm-chair, and her attentive housekeeper came to
ask if she would not take any thing after her journey, it seemed to her
as if all the delights of life were summed up in this welcome return to
monotony and silence.
i Paradise Lost 4.482-5.
LODOR E 251
CHAPTER X.
Let me
Awake your love to my uncomforted brother.
MEANWHIL E Villiers and his bride proceeded on their way to
Naples. It mattered little to Ethel whither they were going, or to
whom. Edward was all in all to her; and the vehicle that bore them
along in their journey was a complete and perfect world, containing
all that her heart desired. They avoided large towns, and every place
where there was any chance of meeting an acquaintance. They passed
up the Rhine, and Ethel often imaged forth, in her fancy, a dear home
in a secluded nook; and longed to remain there, cut off from the
world, for ever. She had no thought but for her husband, and grati-
tude to Heaven for the happiness showered on her. Her soul might
have been laid bare, each faculty examined, each idea sifted, and one
spirit, one sentiment, one love, would have been found pervading and
uniting them all. The heart of a man is seldom as single and devoted as
that of a woman. In the present instance, it was natural that Edward
should not be so absolutely given up to one thought as was his bride.
Ethel's affections had never been called forth except by her father, and
by him who was now her husband. When it has been said, that she
thought of heaven to hallow and bless her happiness, it must be
understood that the dead made a part of that heaven, to which she
turned her eyes with such sweet thankfulness. She was constant to the
first affection of her heart. She might be said to live perpetually in
thought beside her father s grave. Before she had wept and sorrowed
near it; now she placed the home of her happy married life close to
the sacred earth, and fancied that its mute inhabitant was the guardian
angel to watch over and preserve her.
Villiers had lived among many friends, and was warmly attached to
several. His cousin Horatio was dearer to him than any thing had ever
been, till he knew Ethel. Even now he revered him more, and felt a
kind of duteous attachment drawing him towards him. He wanted
i Fletcher and Massinger, The Laws of Candy (1647) 3.2.174-175.
25 2 MARY SHELLEY
OL D PLAY.
1
Horatio to see and approve of Ethel: — not that he doubted what his
opinion of her would be; but the delight which his own adoration of
her excellence imparted to him would be doubled, when he saw it
shared and confirmed by his friend. Besides this, he was anxious to see
Horace on his own account. He wished to know whether he was
happy in his marriage; whether Clorinda were worthy of him; and if
Lady Lodore were entirely forgotten. As they advanced on their jour-
ney, his desire to see his cousin became more and more present to his
mind; and he talked of him to Ethel, and imparted to her a portion of
his fervent and affectionate feelings.
Entering Switzerland, they came into a world of snow. Here and
there, on the southern side of a mountain, a lawny upland might dis-
close itself in summer verdure; and the brawling torrents, increased by
the rains, were not yet made silent by frost. Edward had visited these
scenes before; and he could act the guide to his enraptured Ethel, who
remembered her father's glowing descriptions; and while she gazed
with breathless admiration, saw his step among the hills, and thought
that his eye had rested on the wonders she now beheld. Soon the
mountains, the sky-seeking "palaces of nature,"
1
 were passed, and they
entered fair, joyous Italy. At each step they left winter far behind. Ethel
would willingly have lingered in Florence and Rome; but once south
of the Appenines, Edward was eager to reach Naples; and the letters
he got from Saville spurred him on to yet greater speed.
Before leaving England, Lucy Saville had said to Ethel, — "You are
now taking our other comfort from us; and what we to do without
either Horatio or Edward, I am unable to conjecture. We shall be like
a house without its props. Divided, they are not either of them half
what they were joined. Horace is so prudent, so wise, so considerate,
so sympathizing; Edward so active and so kind-hearted. In any diffi-
culty, we always asked Horace what we ought to do; and Edward did
the thing which he pointed out.
"Horatio's marriage was a sad blow to us all. You will bring
Edward back, and we shall be the happier for your being with him;
but shall we ever see our brother again? - or shall we only see him to
lament the change? Not that he can ever really alter; his heart, his
i Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, III (1816) 591.
LODOR E 253
understanding, his goodness, are as firm as rock; but there is that about
him which makes him too much the slave of those he is in immediate
contact with. He abhors strife; the slightest disunion is mortal to him.
He is not of this world. Pure-minded as a woman, honourable as a
knight of old, he is more like a being we read of, and his match is not
to be found upon earth. Horatio never loved but once, and his attach-
ment was unfortunate. He loved Lady " Here recollection dyed
Miss Saville's cheeks with crimson; she had forgotten that Lady
Lodore was the mother of Ethel. After a moment's hesitation she con-
tinued: - "I have no right to betray the secrets of others. Horace was 
discarded lover; and he was forced to despise the lady whom he had
imagined possessed of every excellence. For the first time he was
absorbed in what may be termed a selfish sentiment. He could not
bear to see any of us: he fled even from Edward, and wandering away,
we heard at last that he was at Naples, whither he had gone quite
unconscious of the spot of earth to which he was bending his steps.
The first letter we got from him was dated from that place. His letter
was to me; for I am his favourite sister; and God knows my devoted
affection, my worship of him, deserves this preference. You shall read
it; it is the most perfect specimen of enthusiastic and heart-moving
eloquence ever penned. He had been as in a trance, and awoke again
to life as he looked down from Pausilippo on the Bay of Naples. The
attachment to one earthly object, which preyed on his being, was sud-
denly merged in one universal love and adoration. He saw that the
"creation was good;"
1
 he purged his heart at once of the black spot
which had blotted and marred its beauty; and opened his whole soul
to pure, elevated, heavenly love. I tamely quote his burning and trans-
parent expressions, through which you may discern, as in a glass, the
glorious excellence of his soul.
"But, alas! this state of holy excitement could not endure; some-
thing human will still creep in to mingle with and sully our noblest
aspirations. Horatio was taken by an acquaintance to see a beautiful
girl at a convent; in a fatal moment an English lady said to him,
'Come, and I will show you what perfect beauty is:' and those words
decided my poor brother s destiny. Of course I only know our new
i Genesis 1:25.
25 4 MARY SHELLEY
sister through his letters. He told us that Clorinda was shut up in this
convent through the heartless vanity of her mother, who dreaded her
as a rival, to wait there till her parents should find some suitable
match, which she must instantly accept, or be doomed to seclusion
for ever. In his younger days Horace had said, 'I am in love with an
idea, and therefore women have no power over me.' But the time
came when his heart was to be the dupe of his imagination - so was it
with his first love - so now, I fear, did he deceive himself with regard
to Clorinda. He declared indeed that his love for her was not an
absorbing passion like his first, but a mingling of pity, admiration, and
that tenderness which his warm heart was ever ready to bestow. He
described her as full of genius and sensibility, a creature of fire and
power, but dimmed by sorrow, and struggling with her chains. He vis-
ited her again; he tried to comfort, he offered to serve her. It was the
first time that a manly, generous spirit had ever presented itself to the
desponding girl. The high-souled Englishman appeared as a god
beside her sordid countrymen; indeed, Horatio would have seemed
such compared with any of his sex; his fascination is irresistible -
Clorinda felt it; she loved him with Italian fervour, and the first word
of kindness from him elicited a whole torrent of gratitude and pas-
sion. Horace had no wish to marry; his old wound was by no means
healed, but rather opened, and bled afresh, when he was called upon
to answer the enthusiastic ardour of the Italian girl. He felt at once the
difference of his feeling for her, and the engrossing sentiment of
which he had been nearly the victim. But he could rescue her from
an unworthy fate, and make her happy. He acted with his usual deter-
mination and precipitancy, and within a month she became his wife.
Here ends my story; his letters were more concise after his marriage.
At first I attributed this to his having a new and dearer friend, but lat-
terly when he has written he has spoken with such yearning fondness
for home, that I fear - And then when I offered to visit him, he nega-
tived my proposition. How unlike Horatio! it can only mean that his
wife 'was averse to my coming. I have questioned slightly any travellers
from Italy. Mrs. Saville seldom appears in English society except at
balls, and then she is always surrounded by Italians. She is decidedly
correct in her conduct, but more I cannot tell. Her letters to us are
beautifully written, and of her talents, even her genius, I do not enter-
LODOR E 255
tain a doubt. Perhaps I am prejudiced, but I fear a Neapolitan, or
rather, I should say, I fear a convent education; and that taste which
leads her to associate with her own demonstrative, unrefined country-
men, instead of trying to link herself to her husbands friends. I may
be wrong — I shall be glad to be found so. Will you tell me whether I
am? I rather ask you than Edward, because your feminine eyes will
discern the truth of these things quicker than he. Happy girl! you are
going to see Horatio — to find a new, gifted, fond friend; one as supe-
rior to his fellow-creatures, as perfection is superior to frailty."
This account, remembered with more interest now that she
approached the subject of it, excited Ethel's curiosity, and she began,
as they went on their way from Rome to Naples, in a great degree to
participate in Edward s eagerness to see his cousin.
25 6 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XI.
Sad and troubled?
How brave her anger shows! How it sets off
Her natural beauty! Under what happy star
Was Virolet born, to be beloved and sought
By two incomparable "women?
FLETCHER.
1
IT was the month of December when the travellers arrived at this
"piece of heaven dropt upon earth," as the natives themselves name it.
The moon hung a glowing orb in the heavens, and lighted up the sea
to beauty. A blood-red flash shot up now and then from Vesuvius; a
summer softness was in the atmosphere, while a thousand tokens pre-
sented themselves of a climate more friendly, more joyous, and more
redundant than that of the northern Isle from which they carne. It
was very late at night when they reached their hotel, and they were
heartily fatigued, so that it was not till the next morning, that imme-
diately after breakfast, Villiers left Ethel, and went out to seek the
abode of his cousin.
He had been gone some little time, when a waiter of the hotel,
throwing open Ethel's drawing-room door, announced "Signer
Orazio." Quite new to Italy, Ethel was ignorant of the custom in that
country, of designating people by their Christian names; and that Hor-
atio Saville, being a resident in Naples, and married to a Neopolitan,
was known everywhere by the appellation which the servant now
used. Ethel was not in the least aware that it was Lucy's brother who
presented himself to her. She saw a gentleman, tall, very slight in per-
son, with a face denoting habitual thoughtfulness, and stamped by an
individuality which she could not tell whether to think plain, and yet
it was certainly open and kind. An appearance of extreme shyness,
almost amounting to awkwardness, was diffused over him, and his
words came hesitatingly; he spoke English, and was an Englishman -
so much Ethel discovered by his first words, which were "Villiers is
not at home?" and then began to ask her about her journey, and how
i John Fletcher and Philip Massinger, The Double Marriage (1647) 4.2.124-128.
LODOR E 257
she liked the view of the bay at Naples, which she beheld from her
windows. They were in this kind of trivial conversation when Edward
came bounding up-stairs, and with exclamations of delight greeted
his cousin. Ethel, infinitely surprised, examined her guest with more
care. In a few minutes she began to wonder how she came to think
him plain. His deep-set, dark-grey eyes struck her as expressive, if not
handsome. His features were delicately moulded, and his fine forehead
betokened depth of intellect; but the charm of his face was a kind of
fitful, beamy, inconstant smile, which diffused incomparable sweetness
over his physiognomy. His usual look was cold and abstracted — his
eye speculated with an inward thoughtfulness - a chilling seriousness
sat on his features, but this glancing and varying half-smile came to
dispel gloom, and to invite and please those with whom he con-
versed. His voice was modulated by feeling, his language was fluent,
graceful in its turns of expression, and original in the thoughts which
it expressed. His manners were marked by high breeding, yet they
were peculiar. They were formed by his individual disposition, and
under the dominion of sensibility. Hence they were often abrupt and
reserved. He forgot the world around him, and gave token, by absence
of mind, of the absorbing nature of his contemplation. But at a touch
this vanished, and a sweet earnestness, and a beaming kindliness of
spirit, at once displaced his abstraction, rendering him attentive, cor-
dial, and gay.
Never had Horatio Saville appeared to so little advantage as during
his short tete-a-tete with his new relative. At all times, when quies-
cent, he had a retiring manner, and an appearance, whose want of pre-
tension did not at first allure, and yet which afterwards formed his
greatest attraction. He was always unembarrassed, and Ethel could not
guess that towards her alone he felt as timid and shy as a girl. It was
with considerable effect that Horatio had commanded himself to
appear before the daughter of Lady Lodore. There was something
incongruous and inconceivable in the idea of the child of Cornelia a
woman, married to his cousin. He feared to see in her an image of the
being who had subdued his heart of hearts, and laid prostrate his
whole soul; he trembled to catch the sound of her voice, lest it might
echo tones which could disturb to their depths his inmost thoughts.
Ethel was so unlike her mother, that by degrees he became reassured;
25 8 MARY SHELLEY
her eyes, her hair, her stature, and tall slender shape, were the reverse
of Lady Lodore; so that in a little while he ventured to raise his eyes to
her face, and to listen to her, without being preoccupied by a painful
sensation, which, in its violence, resembled terror. It is true that by
degrees this dissimilarity to her mother became less; she had gestures,
smiles, and tones, that were all Lady Lodore, and which, when dis-
cerned, struck his heart with a pang, stealing away his voice, and caus-
ing him to stand suspended in the act he was about, like one acted
upon by magic.
While this mutual and curious examination was going on in the
minds of Ethel and her visitant, the conversation had not tarried.
Edward had never been so far south, and the wonders of Naples were
as new to him as to Ethel. Saville was eager to show them, and pro-
posed going that very day to Pompeii. For, as he said, all their winter
was not like the present day, so that it was best to seize the genial
weather while it lasted. Was Mrs.Villiers too much fatigued? On the
contrary, Ethel was quite on the alert; but first she asked whether Mrs.
Saville would not accompany them.
"Clorinda," said Horatio, "promises herself much pleasure from
your acquaintance, and intends calling on you to-day at twenty-four
o'clock, that is, at the Ave Maria: how stupid I am," he continued,
laughing, "I quite forget that you are not Italianized, as I am, and do
not know the way in which the people here count their time. Clorin-
da will call late in the afternoon, the usual visiting hour at Naples, but
she would find no pleasure in visiting a ruined city and fallen frag-
ments. One house in the Chiaja is worth fifty Pompeiis in the eyes of
a Neapolitan, and Clorinda is one, heart and soul. I hope you will be
pleased with her, for she is an admirable specimen of her country-
women, and they are wonderful and often sublime creatures in their
way; but do not mistake her for an English woman, or you will be dis-
appointed - she has not one atom of body, one particle of mind, that
bears the least affinity to England. And now, is your carriage ordered?
- there it is at the door; so, as I should say to one of my own dear sis-
ters, put on your bonnet, Ethel, quickly, and do not keep us waiting;
for though at Naples, days are short in December, and we have none
of their light to lose."
When, after this explanation, Ethel first saw Clorinda, she was
LODOR E 259
inclined to think that Saville had scarcely done his wife justice. Cer-
tainly she was entirely Italian, but she was very beautiful; her com-
plexion was delicate, though dark and without much colour. Her hair
silken and glossy as the raven's wing; her large bright black eyes
resplendent; the perfect arch of her brows, and the marmoreal and
harmonious grace of her forehead, such as is never seen in northern
lands, except in sculpture imitated from the Greeks. The lower part of
her face was not so good; her smile was deficient in sweetness, her
voice wanted melody, and sounded loud to an English ear. Her ges-
tures were expressive, but quick and wanting in grace. She was more
agreeable when silent and could be regarded as a picture, than when
called into action. She was complimentary in her conversation, and
her manners were winning by their frankness and ease. She gesticulat-
ed too much, and her features were too much in motion, - too pan-
tomimely expressive, so to speak, not to impress disagreeably one
accustomed to the composure of the English. Still she was a beautiful
creature; young, artless, desirous to please, and endowed, moreover,
with the vivacious genius, the imaginative talent of her country. She
spoke as if she were passionately attached to her husband; but when
Ethel mentioned his English home and his relations, a cloud came
over the lovely Neapolitan's countenance, and a tremor shook her
frame. "Do not think hardly of me," she said, "I do not hate England,
but I fear it. I am sure I should be disliked there - I should be cen-
sured, perhaps taunted, for a thousand habits and feelings as natural to
me as the air I breathe. I am proud, and I should retort impertinence,
and, displeasing my husband, become miserable beyond words. Stay
with us; you I love, and should be wretched to part from. Stay and
enjoy this paradise with us. Intreat his sisters, if they wish to see Hor-
atio, to come over. I will be more than a sister to them; but let us all
forget that such a place as that cold, distant England exists."
This was Clorinda's usual mode of speaking of her husband's
native country: but once, when Ethel had urged her going there with
more earnestness than usual, suddenly her countenance became dis-
turbed; and with a lowering and stormy expression efface, that her
English friend could never afterwards forget, she said, "Say not anoth-
er word, I pray. Horatio loved - he loves an Englishwoman - it is tor-
ture enough for me to know this. I would rather be torn in quarters
26 0 MARY SHELLE Y
by wild horses, broken in pieces on the rack, than set foot in England.
My cousin, as you have pity for me, and value the life of Horace, use
your influence to prevent his only dreaming of a return to England.
Methinks I could strike him dead, if I only knew that such a thought
lived for a second in his heart."
These words said, Clorinda resumed her smiles, and was, more
than usual, desirous of flattering and pleasing Ethel; so that she soft-
ened, though she could not erase, the impression her vehemence had
made. However, there appeared no necessity for Ethel to exert her
influence. Horace was equally averse to going to England. He loved to
talk of it; he remembered, with yearning fondness, its verdant beauty,
its pretty villages, its meandering streams, its embowered groves; the
spots he had inhabited, the trivial incidents of his daily life, were
recalled with affection: but he did not wish to return.Villiers attrib-
uted this somewhat to his unforgotten attachment to Lady Lodore;
but it was more strange that he negatived the idea of one of his sisters
visiting him: - "She would not like it," was all the explanation he
gave.
Several months passed lightly over the heads of the new-married
pair; while they, bee-like, sipped the honey of life, and, never cloyed,
fed perpetually on sweets. Naples, its galleries, its classic and beautiful
environs, offered an endless succession of occupation and amusement.
The presence of Saville elevated their pleasures; for he added the liv-
ing spirit of poetry to their sensations, and associated the treasures of
human genius with the sublime beauty of nature. He had a tact, a del-
icacy, a kind of electric sympathy in his disposition, that endeared him
to every one that approached him. His very singularities, by keeping
alive an interest in him, added to the charm. Sometimes he was so
abstracted as to do the most absent things in the world; and the quick
alternations of his gaiety and seriousness were often ludicrous from
their excess. There was one thing, indeed, to which Ethel found it
difficult to accustom herself, which was his want of punctuality, which
often caused hours to be lost, and their excursions spoiled. Nor did he
ever furnish good excuses, but seemed annoyed at being questioned
on the subject.
Clorinda never joined them in their drives and rides out of the
city. She feared to trust herself to winds and waves; the heat, the
LODOR E 261
breeze, the dust, annoyed her; and she found no pleasure in looking at
mountains, which, after all, were only mountains; or ruins, which
were only ruins — stones , fit for nothing but to be removed and
thrown away. But Clorinda had an empire of her own, to which she
gladly admitted her English relatives, and the delights of which they
fully appreciated. Music, heard in such perfection at the glory of
Naples, the theatre of San Carlo, and the heavenly strains which filled
the churches with an atmosphere of sound more entrancing than
incense — all these were hers; and her own voice, rich, full, and well-
cultivated, made a temple of melody of her own home.
There was — it could not be called a wall — but there was certainly
a paling, of separation between Ethel and Clorinda. The young Eng-
lish girl could not discover in what it consisted, or why she could not
pass beyond. The more she saw of the Neapolitan, the more she
believed that she liked her — certainly her admiration increased; — still
she felt that on the first day Clorinda had visited her, with her caress-
ing manners and well-turned flatteries, she was quite as intimate with
her as now, after several weeks. She had surely nothing to conceal; all
was open in her conduct; yet often Ethel thought of her as a magician
guarding a secret treasure. Something there was that she watched over
and hid. There was often a look of anxiety about her which Ethel
unconsciously dispelled by some chance word; or a cloud all at once
dimmed her face, and her magnificent and dazzling eyes flashed sud-
den fire, without apparent cause. There was something in her manner
that always said, "You are English, I am Italian; and there is a natural
war between my fire and your snow." But no word, no act, ever
betrayed alienation of feeling. Thus a sort of mystery pervaded their
intercourse, which, though it might excite curiosity, and was not
unakin to admiration, kept the affections in check.
Sometimes Ethel thought that Clorinda feared to compromise her
salvation, for she was a Catholic. During the revelries of the Carnival,
this difference of religion was not so apparent; but when Lent began,
it showed itself, and divided them, on various occasions, more than
before. At last, Lent was also drawing to a close; and asVilliers and
Ethel were anxious to see the ceremonies of Passion Week at Rome, it
was arranged that they, and Mr. and Mrs. Saville, should visit the Eter-
nal City together. Horatio manifested a distaste even to the short resi-
26 2 MARY SHELLE Y
dence that it was agreed they should make together during the month
they were to spend at Rome; but Clorinda showed herself particular-
ly anxious for the fulfillment of this plan, and, the majority prevailing,
the whole party left Naples together.
Full soon was the veil of mystery then withdrawn, andVilliers and
his wife let into the arcana of their cousin's life. Horatio had yielded
unwillingly to Clorinda's intreaties, and extracted many promises
from her before he gave his consent; but all would not do — the natur-
al, the uncontrollable violence of her disposition broke down every
barrier; and in spite of his caution, and her struggles with herself, the
reality opened fearfully upon the English pair. The lava torrent of
Neapolitan blood flowed in her veins; and restraining it for some
time, it at last poured itself forth with volcanic violence. It was at the
inn at Terracina, on their way to Rome, that a scene took place, such
as an English person must cross Alps and Apennines to behold. Ethel
had seen that something was wrong. She saw the beauty of Clorinda
vanished, changed, melted away and awfully transformed into actual
ugliness: she saw tiger-like glances from her eyes, and her lips pale and
quivering. Poor Saville strove, with gentle words, to allay the storm to
which some jealous freak gave rise: perceiving that his endeavours
were vain, he rose to quit the room. They were at dinner: she sprung
on him with a knife in her hand: Edward seized her arm; and she sunk
on the floor in convulsions. Ethel was scarcely less moved. Seeing her
terrified beyond all expression, Horatio led her from the room. He
was pale — his voice failed him. He left her; and sending Edward to
her, returned to his wife.
The same evening he said to Villiers, — "Do not ask me to stay; — let
me go without another word.You see how it is. With what Herculean
labour I have concealed this sad truth so long, is scarcely conceivable.
When Ethel's sweet smile has sometimes reproached my tardiness, I
have escaped, but half alive, from a scene like the one you witnessed.
"In a few hours, it is true, Clorinda will be shocked - full of
remorse — at my feet; — that is worse still. Her repentance is as violent
as her rage; and both transform her from a woman into something too
painful to dwell upon. She is generous, virtuous, full of power and tal-
ent; but this fatal vehemence more than neutralizes her good qualities.
I can do nothing; I am chained to the oar. I have but one hope; time,
LODOR E 263
reason, and steadiness of conduct on my part, may subdue her; and as
she will at no distant period become a mother, softer feelings may
develop themselves. Sometimes I am violently impelled to fly from
her for ever. But she loves me, and I will not desert her. If she will
permit me, I will do my duty to the end. Let us go back now.You will
return to Naples next winter; and with this separation, which will gall
her proud spirit to its core, as a lesson, I hope by that time that she
will prove more worthy of Ethel's society."
Nothing could be said to this. Saville, though he asked, "Let us go
back," had decreed, irrevocably, in his own mind, not to advance
another step with his companions. The parting was melancholy and
ominous. He would not permit Clorinda to appear again; for, as he
said, he feared her repentance more than her violence, and would not
expose Ethel as the witness of a scene of humiliation and shame. A
thousand times over, his friends promised to return immediately to
Naples, not deferring their visit till the following winter. He was to
take a house for them, for the summer, at Castel a Mare, or Sorrento;
and immediately after Easter they were to return. These kind promis-
es were a balm to his disturbed mind. He watched their carriage from
the inn atTerracina, as it skimmed along the level road of the Pontine
Marshes, and could not despair while he expected its quick return.
Turning his eyes away, he resumed his yoke again; and, melancholy
beyond his wont, joined his remorseful wife.They were soon on their
way to Naples: - she less demonstrative in her repentance, because
more internally and deeply touched, than she had ever been before.
26 4 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XII.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate;
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
SHAKSPEARE.
1
PARTIN G thus sadly from their unfortunate cousin,Villiers and Ethel
were drawn together yet nearer, and, if possible, with a deeper tender-
ness of affection than before. Here was an example before their eyes,
that all their fellow-creatures were not equally fortunate in the lottery
of life, and that worse than a blank befell many, while the ticket which
they had drawn was a prize beyond all summing. Edward felt indeed
disappointed at losing his cousin's society, as well as deeply grieved at
the wretched fate which he had selected for himself. Ethel, on the
contrary, was in her heart glad that he was absent. She had no place in
that heart to spare away from her husband; and however much she
liked Horatio, and worthy as he was of her friendship, she felt him as
an encroacher. Now she delivered herself up to Edward, and to the
thought of Edward solely, with fresh and genuine delight. No one
stood between her and him — none called off his attention, or forced
her to pass one second of time unoccupied by his idea. When she
expressed these feelings to Villiers, he called her selfish and narrow-
hearted, yet his pride and affection were gratified; for he knew how
true was every word she uttered, and how without flaw or blot was
her faith and her attachment.
"And yet, my Ethel," he said, "I sometimes ask myself, how this
boasted affection of yours will stand the trials which I fear are prepar-
ing for it."
"What trials?" she asked anxiously.
"Care, poverty; the want of all the luxuries, perhaps of the com-
forts of life."
Ethel smiled again. "That is your affair," she replied, "do you rouse
i Sonnet 18, 1-4,9.
LODOR E 265
your courage, if you look upon these as evils. I shall feel nothing of all
this, while near you; care — poverty — want! as if I needed any thing
except your love — you yourself— who are mine."
"Yes, dear," repliedVilliers, "that is all very well at this moment;
rolling along in a comfortable carriage — an hotel ready to receive us,
with all its luxuries; but suppose us without any of these, Ethel - sup-
pose yourself in a melancholy, little, dingy abode, without servants,
without carriage, going out on foot."
"Not alone," replied his wife, laughing, and kissing his hand; "I
shall have you to wait on me - to wait upon - "
"You take it very well now," said Edward; "I hope that you will
never be put to the trial. I am far from anticipating this excess of
wretchedness, of course, but I cannot help feeling, that the prospects
of to-morrow are uncertain, and I am anxious for my long-delayed
letters from England."
With Ethel's deep and warm affection, had she been ten or only
five years older, she also must have participated in Edward's inqui-
etude. But care is a word, not an emotion, for the very young. She was
only seventeen. She had never attended to the disbursements of
money — she was ignorant of the mechanism of giving and receiving,
on which the course of our life depends. It was in vain that she sought
in the interior of her mind for an image that should produce fear or
regret, with regard to the absence or presence of money No one refl-
ection or association brought into being an idea on the subject. Again
she kissed Edward's hand, and looked on him with her soft clear eyes,
thinking only, "He is here — and Heaven has given me all I ask."
Left again to themselves, they were anxious to avoid acquaintances.
Yet this was impossible during the Holy Week at Rome. Villiers found
many persons whom he knew; women of high rank and fashion, men
of wealth, or with the appearance of it, enjoying the present, and,
while away from England, unencumbered by care. Mr. and Mrs.Vil-
liers were among these, and of them; their rank and their style of liv-
ing resembling theirs, associated them together. All this was necessary
to Edward, for he had been accustomed to it — it was natural to Ethel,
because, being wholly inexperienced, she did as others did, and as Vil-
liers wished her to, without reflection or forethought.
Yet each day added to Edwards careful thoughts. Easter was gone,
26 6 MARY SHELLEY
and the period approached when they had talked of returning to
Naples. The covey of English had taken flight towards the north; they
were almost the only strangers in the ancient and silent city, whose
every stone breathes of a world gone by — whose surpassing beaut y
crowns her still the glory of the world. The English pair, left to them-
selves, roamed through the ruins and loitered in the galleries, never
weary of the very ocean of beauty and grandeur which they coursed
over in their summer bark. The weather grew warm, for the month of
May had commenced, and they took refuge in the vast churches from
the heat; at twilight they sought the neighbouring gardens, or scram-
bled about the Coliseum, or the more ruined and weed-grown baths
of Caracalla. The fire-flies came out, and the splashing of the many
fountains reached their ears from afar, while the clear azure of the
Roman sky bent over them in beauty and peace.
Ethel never alluded to their proposed return to Naples — she feared
each day to hearVilliers mention it - she was so happy where she was,
she shrunk from any change.The majesty, the simplicity, the quiet of
Rome, were in unison with the holy stillness that dwelt in her soul,
absorbed as it was by one unchanging image. She had reached the
summit of human happiness - she had nothing more to ask; her full
heart, not bursting, yet gently overflowing in its bliss, thanked Heav-
en, and drew nearer Edward, and was at peace.
"God help us!" exclaimed Villiers,"I wonder what on earth will
become of us!"
They were sitting together on a fragment of the Coliseum; they
had clambered up its fallen wall, and reached a kind of weed-grown
chasm whose depth, as it was moonlight, they could not measure by
the eye; so they sat beside it on a small fragment, and Villiers held
Ethel close to him lest she should fall. The heartfelt and innocent
caress of two united in the sight of Heaven, wedded together for the
endurance of the good and ills of life, hallowed the spot and hour; and
then, even while Ethel nestled nearer to him in fondness, Edward
made the exclamation that she heard with a wonder which mingled
with, yet could not disturb, the calm joy which she felt.
"What but good can come of us, while we are thus?" she asked.
"You will not listen to me, nor understand me," replied her hus-
band. "But I do assure you, that our position is more than critical. No
LODOR E 267
remittances, no letters come from England; we are in debt here - in
debt in Italy! A thousand miles from our resources! I grope in the
dark and see no outlet - every day's post, with the nothing that it
brings, adds to my anxiety."
"All will be well," replied Ethel gently; "no real evil will happen to
us, be assured."
"I wish," said Villiers,"your experience, instead of your ignorance,
suggested the assertion. I would rather die a thousand deaths than
apply to dear Horace, who is ill enough off himself; but every day
here adds to our difficulties. Our only hope is in our instant return to
England - and, by heavens! - you kiss me, Ethel, as if we lived in fairy
land, and that such were our food - have you no fears?"
"I am sorry to say, none," she answered in a soft voice; "I wish I
could contrive some, because I appear unsympathizing to you — but I
cannot fear; — you are in health and near me. Heaven and my dear
father's spirit will watch over us, and all will be well. This is the end
and beginning of my anxiety; so dismiss yours, love - for, believe me,
in a day or two, these forebodings of yours will be as a dream."
"It is very strange," replied Edward, "were you not so close to me, I
should fancy you a spirit instead of a woman; you seem to have no
touch of earthly solicitude. Well, I will do as you bid me, and hope for
to-morrow. And now let us get down from this place before the
moon sets and leaves us in darkness."
As if to confirm the auguries of Ethel, the following morning
brought the long-expected letters. One contained a remittance,
another was from Colonel Villiers, to say, that Edward's immediate
presence was requisite in England to make the final arrangements
before his marriage. With a glad heart Villiers turned his steps north-
ward; while Ethel, if she could have regretted aught while with him,
would have sighed to leave their lonely haunts in Rome. She well
knew that whatever of sublime nature might display, or man might
congregate of beautiful in art elsewhere, there was a calm majesty, a
silent and awful repose in the ruins of Rome, joined to the delights of
a southern climate, and the luxuriant vegetation of a sunny soil, more
in unison with her single and devoted heart, than any other spot in
the universe could boast.They would both have rejoiced to have seen
Saville again; yet they were unacknowledgedly glad not to pursue
26 8 MARY SHELLEY
their plan of domesticating near him at Naples. A remediless evil,
which is for ever the source of fresh disquietude, is one that tasks
human fortitude and human patience, more than those vaster misfor-
tunes which elevate while they wound. The proud aspiring spirit of
man craves something to raise him from the dust, and to adorn his
insignificance; he seeks to strengthen his alliance with the lofty and
the eternal, and shrinks from low-born cares, as being the fetters and
bolts that link him to his baser origin. Saville, the slave of a violent
woman's caprice, struggling with passions, at once so fiery and so fee-
ble as to excite contempt, was a spectacle which they were glad to
shun. Their own souls were in perfect harmony, and discord was
peculiarly abhorrent to them.
They travelled by the beaten route of Mont Cenis, Lyons, and
Calais, and in less than a month arrived in England. As the presence of
Villiers was requisite in London, after staying a few days at an hotel in
Brook-street,
1
 they took a furnished house in the same street for a
short time. The London season had passed its zenith, but its decline
was scarcely perceptible. Ethel had no wish to enter into its gaieties,
and it had been Edward's plan to avoid them until they were richer.
But here they were, placed by fate in the very midst of them; and as,
when their affairs were settled, they intended again to return abroad,
he could not refuse himself the pleasure of seeing Ethel, in the first
flower of her loveliness, mingling with, and outshining, every other
beauty of her country. It would have been difficult indeed, placed
within the verge of the English aristocracy assembled in London, to
avoid its engagements and pleasures — for he "also was an Arcadian,"
2
and made one of the self-enthroned "world." The next two months,
therefore, while still every settlement was delayed by his father, they
spent in the fashionable circles of London.
They did not indeed enter into its amusements with the zest and
resolution of tyros. To Villiers the scene was not new, and therefore
not exceedingly enticing; and Ethel's mind was not of the sort to be
borne along in the stream of folly. They avoided going to crowded
entertainments — they were always satisfied with one or two parties in
1 In Mayfairjust south of Oxford St., Brook-street is where Lodore and Cornelia
stay at Mivart's just after their wedding.
2 Anonymous Latin saying: "Et iti Arcadia ego," used ironically here.
LODOR E 269
the evening. Nay, once or twice in the week they usually remained at
home, and not unseldom dined tete-a-tete. The serpent fang of plea-
sure, and the paltry ambition of society, had no power over Ethel. She
often enjoyed herself, because she often met people of either sex,
whose fame, or wit, or manners, interested and pleased her. But as lit-
tle vanity as mortal women ever had fell to her share. Very young, and
(to use the phrase of the day) very new, flattery and admiration
glanced harmlessly by her. Her personal vanity was satisfied when Vil-
liers was pleased, and, for the rest, she was glad to improve her mind,
and to wear away the timidity, which she felt that her lonely educa-
tion had induced, by mingling with the best society of her country.
She had also some curiosity, and as she promised herself but a brief
sojourn in this land of lions, she wished to see several things and per-
sons she might never come in contact with again. Various names
which had reached her in the Illinois, here grew from shadows into
real human beings - ministers of state, beauties, authors, and wits. She
visited once or twice the ventilator of St. Stephens, and graced a red
bench of the House of Lords on the prorogation of Parliament.
1
 Vil-
liers was very much pleased with her throughout. His pride was
gratified by the approval she elicited from all. Men admired her, but
distantly - as a being they could not rudely nor impertinently
approach. Women were not afraid of her, because they saw, that
though she made no display of conjugal attachment, she loved her
husband. Her extreme youth, the perpetual sunshine of her counte-
nance, and the gentle grace of her manners, won more the liking than
the praise of her associates. They drew near her as to one too untaught
to understand their mysteries, and too innocent to judge them severe-
ly; an atmosphere of kindness and of repose followed her wherever
she went: this her husband felt more than any other, and he prized his
Ethel at the worth she so truly deserved.
One of the reasons which caused Mrs.Villiers to avoid large assem-
blies, was that Lady Lodore was in town, and that in such places they
sometimes met. Ethel did not well know how to act. Youth is ever
i Shelley is thinking of the old House of Commons, which burnt in 1834, jus t as she
was finishing the novel. St. Stephen's Chapel was the meeting-place of the House of
Commons. The ventilator is the former Ladies' Gallery in the House of Commons
(OED).
27 0 MARY SHELLE Y
fearful of making unwelcome demonstration, and false shame often
acts more powerfully to influence it, than the call of duty or the voice
of affection. Villiers had no desire to bring the mother and daughter
together, and stood neutral. Lady Lodore had once or twice recog-
nized her by a bow and a smile, but after such, she always vanished
and was seen no more that evening. Ethel often yearned to approach,
to claim her tenderness and to offer her filial affection. Villiers
laughed at such flights. "The safe thing to do," he said, "is to take the
tone of Lady Lodore. She is held back by no bashfulness — she does
the thing she wishes, without hesitation or difficulty. Did she desire
her lovely grown-up daughter to play a child's part towards her, she
would soon contrive to bring it about. Lady Lodore is a woman of
the world - she was nursed in its lessons, and piously adheres to its
code; its ways are her's, and the objects of ambition which it holds
out, are those which she desires to attain. She is talked of as admired
and followed by the Earl of D .You may spoil all, if you put
yourself forward."
Ethel was not quite satisfied. The voice of nature was awake with-
in, and she yearned to claim her mother s affection. Until now, she
had regarded her more as a stranger; but at this time, a filial instinct
stirred her heart, impelling her to some outward act — some demon-
stration of duty. Whenever she saw Lady Lodore, which was rarely, and
at a distance, she gazed earnestly on her, and tried to read within her
soul, whether Villiers was right, and her mother happy The shining,
uniform outside of a woman of fashion baffled her endeavours with-
out convincing her. One evening at the Opera, she discerned Lady
Lodore in the tier below her. Ethel drew back and shaded herself with
the curtain of her box, so that she could not be perceived, while she
watched her mother intently. A succession of visitors came into Lady
Lodore's box, and she spoke to all with the animation of a heart at
ease. There was an almost voluptuous repose in her manner and
appearance, that contrasted with, while it adorned, the easy flow of
her conversation, and the spring-tide of wit, which, to judge from the
amusement of her auditors, flowed from her lips. Yet Ethel fancied
that her smile was often forced, so suddenly did it displace an expres-
sion of listlessness and languor, which when she turned from the peo-
ple in her box to the stage, came across her countenance like a
LODOR E 271
shadow. It might be the gas, which shadows so unbecomingly the fair
audience at the King's Theatre;
1
 it might be the consequences of rak-
ing, for Lady Lodore was out every night; but Ethel thought that she
saw a change; she was less brilliant, her person thinner, and had lost
some of its exquisite roundness. Still, as her daughter gazed, she
thought, She is not happy. Yet what could she do? How pour sweet-
ness into the bitter stream of life? As Villiers had said, any advance of
hers might spoil all. The sister of the nobleman he had mentioned,
was her companion at the opera. Lord D himself came, though
late, to fetch her away. She had therefore her own prospects, her own
plans, which doubtless she desired to pursue undisturbed, however
they might fail to charm away the burthen of life.
Once, and only once, Ethel heard her mother's voice, and was spo-
ken to by her. She had gone to hear the speech from the throne, on
the prorogation of Parliament. She got there late, so that every bench
was filled. Room was made for her near the throne, immediately
under the gallery, (as the house was constructed until last year,)
2
 but
she was obliged to be separated from her party, and sat half annoyed at
being surrounded by strangers. A peer, whom she recognized as the
Earl of D , came up, and entered into conversation with the lady
sitting behind her. Could it be her mother? She remembered, that as
she sat down she had glanced at some one whom she thought she
knew, and did not doubt that this was Lady Lodore. A sudden thrill
passed as an electric shock through her frame, every joint in her body
trembled, her knees knocked together, and the colour forsook her
cheeks. She tried to rally. Why should she feel agitated, as if possessed
by terror, on account of this near contact with the dearest relation
Heaven has bestowed on its creatures? Why not turn; and if she did
not speak, claim, with beseeching eyes, her mother's love? Was it
indeed her? The lady spoke, and her voice entered and stirred Ethel's
beating heart with strange emotion; every drop of blood within her
seemed to leap at the sound; but she sat still as a statue, saying to her-
1 Gas was installed at King's Theatre in 1818 when a central chandelier was installed;
the next year gas lighting was introduced in the lobbies and new chandeliers were
added in the theatre. Wax lustres were used on the tier fronts because the gas, as
Shelley mentions, gave a "deadly hue to the ladies' complexions" (Nalbach 89).
2 A reference to the fire that destroyed the Houses of Parliament in 1834.
27 2 MARY SHELLE Y
self, "When Lord D leaves her I will turn and speak." After some
trivial conversation on topics of the day, the peers were ordered to
take their seats, and Lord D departed; - then Ethel tried to sum-
mon all her courage; but now the doors were thrown open, the king
entered, and every one stood up. At this moment,— as she, in the con-
fusion of being called upon, while abstracted, to do any act, however
slight, had for a moment half forgotten her mother, - her arm wa s
touched; and the same voice which had replied to Lord D , said
to her, "Your ear-ring is unfastened, Ethel; it will fall out." Ethel could
not speak; she raised her hands, mechanically, to arrange the orna-
ment; but her trembling fingers refused to perform the office. "Permit
me," said the lady, drawing off her glove;" and Ethel felt her mothers
hand touch her cheek: her very life stood suspended; it was a bitter
pain, yet a pleasure inconceivable; there was a suffocation in her
throat, and the tears filled her eyes; but even the simple words, "I
thank you," died on her lips — her voice could frame no sound. The
world, and all within its sphere, might have passed away at that
moment, and she been unconscious of any change. "Yes, she will love
me!" was the idea that spoke audibly within; and a feeling of con-
fidence, a flow of sympathy and enthusiastic affection, burst on her
heart. As soon as she could recollect herself, she turned: Lady Lodore
was no longer there; she had glided from her seat; and Ethel just
caught a glimpse of her, as she contrived another for herself, behind a
column, which afterwards so hid her, that her daughter could only see
the waving of her plumes. On these she fixed her eyes until all was
over; and then Lady Lodore went out hurriedly, with averted face, as
if to escape her recognition. This put the seal on Ethel's dream. She
believed that her mother obviously signified her desire that they
should continue strangers to each other. It was hard, but she must
submit. She had no longer that prejudice against Lady Lodore, that
exaggerated notion of her demerits, which the long exile of her
father, and the abhorrence of Mrs. Fitzhenry, had before instilled. Her
mother was no longer a semi-gorgon, hid behind a deceptive mask 
a Medea,
1
 without a touch of human pity. She was a lovely, soft-
voiced, angelic-looking woman, whom she would have given worlds
i A sorceress who helped Jason obtain the Golden Fleece, and, who, when deserted
by him, killed her children.
LODOR E 273
to be permitted to love and wait upon. She found excuses for her
errors; she lavished admiration on all her attractions; she could do all
but muster courage to vanquish the obstacles that existed to their
intercourse. She fondly cherished her image, as an idol placed in the
sanctuary of her heart, which she could regard with silent reverence
and worship, but whose concealing veil she could not raise. Villiers
smiled when she spoke in this way to him. He saw, in her enthusiasm,
the overflowing of an affectionate heart, which longed to exhaust
itself in loving. He kissed her, and bade her think any thing, so that
she did nothing. The time for doing had indeed, for the present,
passed away. Lady Lodore left town; and when mother and daughter
met again, it was not destined to be beneath a palace roof, surrounded
by the nobility of the land.
27 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XIII.
I choose to comfort myself by considering, that
even while I am lamenting my present uneasiness,
it is passing away.
AN event occurred at this time, which considerably altered the plans
of Mr. and Mrs. Villiers. They had been invited to spend some time at
Maristow Castle, and were about to proceed thither with Lord Maris-
tow and his daughters, when the sudden death of Mr. Saville changed
every thing. He died of a malignant fever, leaving a young widow, and
no child, to inherit his place in society.
Through this unlooked-for event, Horatio became the immediate
heir of his father's title. He stept, from the slightest position of a
younger son into the rank of the eldest; and thus became another
being in all men's eyes - but chiefly in his fathers.
Viscount Maristow had deeply regretted his son's foreign mar-
riage, and argued against his choice of remaining abroad. He was a
statesman, and conceived that Horatio's talents and eloquence would
place him high among the legislators of St. Stephen s. The soundness
of his understanding, and the flowing brilliancy of his language, were
pledges of his success. But Saville was not ambitious. His imagination
rose high above the empty honours of the world — to be useful was a
better aim; but he did not conceive that his was a mind calculated to
lead others in its train: its framework was too delicate, too finely
strung, to sound in accord with the many. He wanted the desire to
triumph; and was content to adore truth in the temple of his own
mind, without defacing its worship by truckling to the many false-
hoods and errors which demand subserviency in the world.
Lord Maristow had hitherto submitted to his disappointment, not
without murmurs, but without making any great effort at victory. He
i Shelley read two editions ofWalpole's letters. Shelley wrote to Charles Oilier on 10
November, 1833, requesting to borrow a copy of Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of
Oxford, to Sir Horace Mann, ed. Lord Dover, 3 vols. (London: Richard Bentley, 1833).
See Letters 2.195. She quotes from a letter to Rev. Mr. Cole in her Journal for 8
September 1829 that comes from Private Correspondence of Horace Walpole, Earl of
Oxford (London, 1820). See Journals 511.
LODOR E 275
HORAC E WALPOLE.
1
had written many letters intreating his son to cast off the drowsy
Neapolitan sloth; - he had besought Villiers, previous to his departure
the preceding year, to bring his cousin back with him; - and this was
all.
The death of his eldest son quickened him to exertion. He
resolved to trust no longer to written arguments, but to go himself to
Italy, and by force of paternal authority, or persuasions, to induce his
son to come back to his native country, and to fill with honour the
post to which fortune had advanced him. He did not doubt that Hor-
atio would himself feel the force of his new duties; but it would be
clenching his purpose, and paying an agreeable compliment to
Clorinda, to make this journey, and to bring them back with him
when he re turned. Whatever Mrs. Saville s distaste to England might
be, it must yield to the necessity that now drew her thither. Lord
Maristow could not imagine any resistance so violent as to impede his
wishes. The projected journey charmed his daughters, saddened as
they were by their recent loss. Lucy was overjoyed at the prospect of
seeing her beloved brother. She felt sure that Clorinda would be
brought to reason[,]
!
 and thus, with their hearts set upon one object,
one idea, they bade adieu to Ethel and her husband, as if their career
was to be as sunny and as prosperous as they doubted not that their
own would be.
Lord Maristow alone guessed how things might stand. "Edward,
my dear boy," he said, "give me credit for great anxiety on your
account. I wish this marriage of yours had not taken place, then you
might have roughed it as other young men do, and have been the bet-
ter for a little tart experience. I do not like this shuffling on your
fathers part. I hear for a certainty that this marriage of his will come
to nothing - the friends of the young lady are against it, and she is
very young, and only an heiress by courtesy — her father can give her
as many tens of thousands as he pleases, but he has sworn not to give
her a shilling if she marries without his consent; and he has forbidden
Colonel Villiers his house. He still continues at Cheltenham, and
assures every one that he is on safe ground; that the girl loves him, and
that when once his, the father must yield. It is too ridiculous to see
i The first edition has a period instead of a comma.
27 6 MARY SHELLEY
him playing a boy-lovers part at his time of life, trying to undermine
a daughter s sense of duty — he, who may soon be a grandfather! The
poor little thing, I am told, is quite fascinated by his dashing manners
and station in society. We shall see how it will end - I fear ill; her
father might pardon a runaway match with a lover of her own age;
but he will never forgive the cold-blooded villainy, excuse me, of a
man of three times her age; who for gain, and gain only, is seeking to
steal her from him. Such is the sum of what I am told by a friend of
mine, just arrived from Cheltenham. The whole thing is the farce of
the day, and the stolen interviews of the lovers, and the loud, vulgarly-
spoken denunciations of her father, vary the scene from a travestie of
Romeo and Juliet to the comedies of Plautus or Moliere.
1
 I beg your
pardon, Edward, for my frankness, but I am angry. I have been used as
a cat's-paw - I have been treated unfairly - I was told that the mar
riage wanted but your signature - my representations induced you to
offer to Miss Fitzhenry, and now you are a ruined man. I am ham-
pered by my own family, and cannot come forward to your assistance.
My advice is, that you wait a little, and see what turn matters take;
once decided, however they conclude, strong representations shall be
made to your father, and he shall be forced to render proper assis-
tance; then if politics take a better turn, I may do something for you -
or you can live abroad till better times."
Villiers thanked Lord Maristow for his advice, and made no
remarks either on his details or promises. He saw his own fate
stretched drearily before him; but his pride made him strong to bear
without any outward signs of wincing. He would suffer all, conceal
all, and be pitied by none. The thought of Ethel alone made him
weak. We re she sheltered during the storm which he saw gathering so
darkly, he would have felt satisfied.
What was to be done? To go abroad, was to encounter beggary and
famine. To remain, exposed him to a thousand insults and dangers
from which there was no escape. Such were the whisperings of
despair - but brighter hopes often visited him. All could not be so evil
as it seemed. Fortune, so long his enemy, would yield at last one inch
i Plautus (c. 254-184 B.C.) was a Roman, whose twenty-one surviving comedies are
known for their plots of disguise and mistaken identity; Moliere (1622-73), writer
of French comedy, is known for his satire and farce.
LODOR E 277
of ground - one inch to stand upon, where he might wait in patience
for better days. Had he indeed done his utmost to avert the calamities
he apprehended? Certainly not. Thus spoke his sanguine spirit: more
could and should be done. His father might find means, he himself be
enabled to arrange with his lawyer some mode of raising a sum of
money which would at least enable him to go on the continuant with
his wife. He spent his thoughts in wishes for the attainment of this
desirable conclusion to his adversity, till the very earnestness of his
expectations seemed to promise their realization. It could not be that
the worst would come. Absurd! Something must happen to assist
them. Seeking for this unknown something which, in spite of all his
efforts, would take no visible or tangible form, he spent weary days
and sleepless nights, his brain spinning webs of thought, not like those
of the spider, useful to their weaver - a tangled skein they were rather,
where the clue was inextricably hid. He did not speak of these things
to Ethel, but he grew sad, and she was anxious to go out of town, to
have him all to herself, when she promised herself to dispel his gloom;
and, as she darkly guessed at the source of his disquietude, by econo-
my and a system of rigid privation, to show him how willing and able
she was to meet the adversity which he so much dreaded.
27 8 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XIV.
The pure, the open, prosperous love,
That pledged on earth, and sealed above,
Grows in the worlds approving eyes,
In friendship's smile and home's caress,
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness.
LALL A ROOKH.
1
ANOTHER month withered away in fruitless expectation.Villiers felt
that he was following an ignis fatuus,
2
 yet knew not how to give up
his pursuit. At length, he listened more docilely to Ethel's representa-
tions of the expediency of quitting town. She wished to pay her long-
promised visit to her aunt, andVilliers at last consented to accompany
her. They gave up their house, dispersed a tolerably numerous estab-
lishment, and left town for their sober and rural seclusion in Essex.
Taken from the immediate scene where care met him at every
turn, Edward's spirits rose; and the very tranquillity and remoteness of
Longfield became a relief and an enjoyment. It was bright October
weather. The fields were green, the hedges yet in verdant trim. The air
was so still that the dead leaves hung too lazy to fall, from the topmost
boughs of the earlier trees. The oak was still dressed in a dark sober
green - the fresh July shoot, having lost its summer hue, was unappar-
ent among the foliage; the varying tints of beach, ash, and elm,
diversified the woods. The morning and evening skies were resplen-
dent with crimson and gold, and the moonlight nights were sweeter
than the day
Fatigued by the hurry of town, and one at least worn out with
care, the young pair took a new lease of love in idleness in this lonely
spot. A slight attack of rheumatism confined Aunt Bessy to her chim-
ney-corner, but in spite of her caution to Ethel not to incur the same
penalty from the array of wet walks and damp shoes, it was her best
pleasure each morning to tie on her bonnet, take her husband's arm,
1 Thomas Moore,"The Fire-Worshippers" Lalla Rookh (1817).
2 A light seen over swamps at night, popularly known as will-o'-the-wisp; hence, a
deceptive hope, a delusion.
LODOR E 279
and they wandered away together, returning only to find their horses
ready, and then they departed for hours, coming back late and unwill-
ingly after the sun was down. Mrs. Elizabeth wondered where all the
beautiful spots were, which Ethel described so enthusiastically as to be
found in the neighbourhood. The good lady longed to go out herself
if she could not reap equal delight from viewing the grouping of
trees, whose various autumnal tints were painted in Ethel's speech
with hues too bright for earth, or to discover what there could be so
extraordinarily picturesque in a moss-grown cottage, near a brook,
with a high bank clothed with wood behind, which she believed must
be one Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, and which she
knew she must have passed a thousand times, and yet she had never
noticed its beauty. Very often Ethel could give no information of
whither they had been, only they had lost themselves in majestic
woods, lingered in winding lanes, which led to resplendent views, or
even reached the margin of the barren sea, to behold the enveloping
atmosphere reflected in its fitful mirror — to watch the progress of
evanescent storms, or to see the moon light up her silvery pathway on
the dusky waste. Villiers took his gun with him in his walks, but,
though American bred, Ethel was so unfeignedly distressed by the
sight of death, that he never brought down a bird: he shot in its direc-
tion now and then, to keep his pointer in practice, and to laugh at his
wife's glad triumph when he missed his feathery mark.
Ethel was especially delighted to renew her acquaintance with
Longfield, her father's boyhood home, under such sunny circum-
stances. She had loved it before: with anguish in her heart, and heavy
sadness weighing on her steps, she had loved it for his sake. But now
that it became the home, the dedicated garden of love, it received
additional beauty in her eyes from its association with the memory of
Lord Lodore. All things conjoined; the season, calmed and brightened,
as if for her especial enjoyment; remembrance of the past, and the
undivided possession of her Edward's society, combined to steep her
soul in happiness. Even he, whose more active and masculine spirit
might have fretted in solitude and sloth, was subdued by care and
uncertainty to look on the peace of the present moment as the dear-
est gift of the gods. Both so young, and the minds of both open as day
to each other's eyes, no single blot obscured their intercourse. They
28 0 MARY SHELLE Y
never tired of each other, and the teeming spirit of youth filled the
empty space of each hour as it came, with a new growth of sentiments
and ideas.The long evening had its pleasures, with its close-drawn
curtains and cheerful fire. Even whist with the white-haired parson,
and Mrs. Fitzhenry in her spectacles, imparted pleasure. Could any
thing duller have been devised, which would have been difficult, it
had not been so to them; and a stranger coming in and seeing their
animated looks, and hearing their cheerful tones and light-hearted
laugh, must have envied the very Elysium of delight, which aunt
Bessys usually so sober drawing-room contained. Merely to see Ethel
leaning on her husband's arm, and looking up in his face as he drew
her yet closer, and, while his fingers were twined among her silken
ringlets, kissed so fondly her fair brow, must have demonstrated to a
worldling the irrefragable truth that happiness is born a twin, love
being the parent.
The beauty of a pastoral picture has but short duration in this
cloudy land, - and happiness, the sun of our moral existence, is yet
more fitful in its visitations. Villiers and his young wife took their
accustomed ride through shady lanes and copses, and through parks,
where, though the magnificent features of nature were wanting, the
eye was delighted by a various prospect of wood and lawny upland.
The soft though wild west wind drove along vast masses of snowy
clouds, which displayed in their intervals the deep stainless azure of
the boundless sky. The shadows of the clouds now darkened the path-
way of our riders, and now they saw the sunlight advance from a dis-
tance, coming on with steps of light and air, till it reached them, and
they felt the warmth and gladness of sunshine descend on them. The
various coloured woods were now painted brightly in the beams, and
now half lost in shadow. There was life and action everywhere — yet
not the awakening activity of spring, but rather a vague, uneasy rest-
lessness, allied to languor, and pregnant with melancholy.
Villiers was silent and sad. Ethel too well knew the cause where-
fore he was dispirited. He had received letters that morning which
stung him into a perception of the bitter realities which were gather-
ing about them. One was to say that no communication had been
received from his father, but that it was believed that he was some-
where in London - the other was from his banker, to remind him that
LODOR E 281
he had overdrawn his credit - nearly the most disagreeable intelli-
gence a man can hear when he possesses no immediate means of
replenishing his drained purse. Ethel was grieved to see him pained,
but she could not acutely feel these pecuniary distresses. She tried to
divert his thoughts by conversation, and pointing out the changes
which the advancing season made in the aspect of the country.
"Yes," saidVilliers,"it is a beautiful world; poets tell us this, and
religious men have drawn an argument for their creed from the wis-
dom and loveliness displayed in the external universe, which speaks to
every heart and every understanding. The azure canopy fretted with
golden lights, or, as now, curtained by wondrous shapes, which,
though they are akin to earth, yet partake the glory of the sky — the
green expanse, variegated by streams, teeming with life, and prolific of
food to sustain that life, and that very food the chief cause of the
beauty we enjoy — with such magnificence has the Creator set forth
our table — all this, and the winds that fan us so balmily, and the flow-
ers that enchant our sight — do not all these make earth a type of
heaven?"
Ethel turned her eyes on him to read in his face the expression of
the enthusiasm and enjoyment that seemed to dictate his words. But
his countenance was gloomy, and as he continued to speak, his
expressions took more the colour of his uneasy feelings. "How false
and senseless all this truly is!" he pursued. "Find a people who truly
make earth, its woods and fells, and inclement sky, their unadorned
dwelling-place, who pluck the spontaneous fruits of the soil, or slay
the animals as they find them, attending neither to culture nor prop-
erty, and we give them the name of barbarians and savages —
untaught, uncivilized, miserable beings — and we, the wiser and more
refined, hunt and exterminate them: - we, who spend so many words,
either as preachers or philosophers, to vaunt that with which they are
satisfied, we feel ourselves the greater, the wiser, the nobler, the more
barriers we place between ourselves and nature, the more completely
we cut ourselves off from her generous but simple munificence."
"But is this necessary?" asked the forest-bred girl: "when I lived in
the wilds of the Illinois - the simplest abode, food and attire, were all I
knew of human refinements, and I was satisfied."
Villiers did not appear to heed her remark, but continued the train
28 2 MARY SHELLEY
of his own reflections. "The first desire of man is not for wealth nor
luxury, but for sympathy and applause. He desires to remove to the
furthest extremity of the world contempt and degradation; and
according to the ideas of the society in which he is bred, so are his
desires fashioned. We, the most civilized, high-bred, prosperous people
in the world, make no account of nature, unless we add the ideas of
possession, and of the labours of man. We rate each individual, (and
we all desire to be rated as individuals, distinct from and superior to
the mass,) not by himself, but by his house, his park, his income. This
is a trite observation, yet it appears new when it comes home: what is
lower, humbler, more despicable than a poor man? Give him learning,
give him goodness — see him with manners acquired in poverty, habits
dyed in the dusky hues of penury; and if we do not despise him, yet
we do not admit him to our tables or society. Refinement may only
be the varnish of the picture, yet it is necessary to make apparent to
the vulgar eye even the beauties of Raphael."
"To the vulgar eye!" repeated Ethel, emphatically.
"And I seem one of those, by the way I speak," said Edward, smil-
ing. "Yet, indeed, I do not despise any man for being poor, except
myself. I can feel pride in showing honour where honour is due, even
though clad in the uncouth and forbidding garb of plebeianism; but I
cannot claim this for myself— I cannot demand the justice of men,
which they would nickname pity. The Illinois would be preferable
far."
"And the Illinois might be a paradise," said Ethel.
"We hope for a better — we hope for Italy. Do you remember
Rome and the Coliseum, my love? - Naples, the Chiaja, and San
Carlo? — these were better than the savannas of the west. Our hopes
are good; it is the present only which is so thorny, so worse than bar-
ren: like the souls of Dante, we have a fiery pass to get through before
we reach our place of bliss; that we have it in prospect will gift us with
fortitude. Meanwhile I must string myself to my task. Ethel, dearest, I
shall go to town to-morrow."
"And I with you, surely?"
"Do not ask it; this is your first lesson in the lore you were so ready
to learn, of bearing all for me "
"With you," interrupted his wife.
LODOR E 283
"With me - it shall soon be," replied Edward; "but to speak
according to the ways of this world, my presence in London is neces-
sary for a few days — for a very few days; a journey there and back for
me is nothing, but it would be a real and useless expense if you went.
Indeed, Ethel, you must submit to my going without you - I ask of
you, and you will not refuse."
"A few days, you say," answered Ethel - "a very few days? It is hard.
But you will not be angry, if I should join you if your return is
delayed?"
"You will not be so mad," said Villiers. "I go with a light heart,
because I leave you in security and comfort. I will return — I need not
protest — you know that I shall return the moment I can. I speak of a
few days; it cannot be a week: let me go then, with what satisfaction I
may, to the den of darkness and toil, and not be farther annoyed by
the fear that you will not support my absence with cheerfulness. As
you love me, wait for me with patience — remain with your aunt till I
return."
"I will stay for a week, if it must be so," replied Ethel.
"Indeed, my love, it must — nor will I task you beyond — before a
week is gone by, you shall see me."
Ethel looked wistfully at him, but said no more. She thought it
hard - she did not think it right that he should go - that he should
toil and suffer without her; but she had no words for argument or
contention, so she yielded. The next morning — a cold but cheerful
morning — at seven o'clock, she drove over with him in Mrs. Fitzhen-
ry s little pony chaise to the town, four miles off, through which the
stages passed. A first parting is a kind of landmark in life - a starting
post whence we begin our career out of illusion and the land of
dreams, into reality and endurance. They arrived not a moment too
soon: she had yet a thousand things to say — one or two very particu-
lar things, which she had reserved for the last moment; there was no
time, and she was forced to concentrate all her injunctions into one
word, "Write!"
"Every day — and do you."
"It will be my only pleasure," replied his wife. "Take care of your-
self."
He was on top of the stage and gone; and Ethel felt that a blank
28 4 MARY SHELLE Y
loneliness had swallowed up the dearest joy of her life.
She drew her cloak round her — she gazed along the road — there
were no traces of him - she gave herself up to thought, and as he was
the object of all her thoughts, this was her best consolation. She
reviewed the happy days they had spent together — she dwelt on the
memory of his unalterable affection and endearing kindness, and then
tears rushed into her eyes. "Will any ill ever befall him?" she thought.
"O no, none ever can! he must be rewarded for his goodness and his
love. How dear he ought to be to me! Did he not take the poor
friendless girl from solitude and grief; and disdaining neither her
poverty nor her orphan state, give her himself, his care, his affection?
O, my Edward! what would Ethel have been without you? Her father
was gone — her mother repulsed her — she was alone in the wide
world, till you generously made her your own!"
With the true enthusiasm of passion, Ethel delighted to magnify
the benefits she had received, and to make those which she herself
conferred nothing, that gratitude and love might become yet stronger
duties. In her heart, though she reproached herself for what she
termed selfishness, she could not regret his poverty and difficulties, if
thus she should acquire an opportunity of being useful to him; but
she felt herself defrauded of her best privileges, of serving and consol-
ing, by their separation.
Thus, — now congratulating herself on her husband's attachment,
now repining at the fate that divided them, — agitated by various
emotions too sweet and bitter for words, she returned to Longfield.
Aunt Bessy was in her arm-chair, waiting for her to begin breakfast.
Edward s seat was empty — his cup was not placed — he was omitted in
the domestic arrangements; — tears rushed into her eyes; and in vain
trying to calm herself, she sobbed aloud. Aunt Bessy was astonished;
and when all the explanation she got was, "He is gone!" she congrat-
ulated herself, that her single state had spared her the endurance of
these conjugal distresses.
LODOR E 285
CHAPTER XIV. [XV]
1
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old Decembers bareness every where!
SHAKSPEARE.
2
ETHEL cheered herself to amuse her aunt; and, as in her days of hope-
less love, she tried to shorten the hours by occupation. It was difficult;
for all her thoughts were employed in conjectures as to where Edward
was, what doing - in looking at her watch, and following in her mind
all his actions - or in meditating how hereafter she might remedy any
remissness on her part, (so tender was her conscience,) and best con-
tribute to his happiness. Such reveries beguiled many hours, and
enabled her to endure with some show of courage the pains of
absence. Each day she heard from him — each day she wrote, and this
entire pouring out of herself on paper formed the charm of her exis-
tence. She endeavoured to persuade him how fortunate their lot might
hereafter be — how many of his fears were unfounded or misplaced.
"Remember, dearest love," she said, "that I have nothing of the fine
lady about me. I do not even feel the want of those luxuries so neces-
sary to most women. This I owe to my father. It was his first care,
while he brought me up in the most jealous retirement, to render me
independent of the services of others. Solitude is to me no evil, and
the delight of my life would be to wait upon you. I am not therefore
an object of pity, when fortune
3
 deprives me of the appurtenances of
wealth, which rather annoy than serve me. My devotion and sacrifice,
as you are pleased to call the intense wish of my heart to contribute to
your happiness, are nothing. I sacrifice all, when I give up one hour of
your society - there is the sting - there the merit of my permitting
you to go without me. I can ill bear it. I am impatient and weak; do
not then, Edward dearest, task me too far — recall me to your side, if
1 The printer made an error in numbering the chapters of the first edition.
2 Sonnet 97,1-4.
3 "fortunes" in the first edition.
28 6 MARY SHELLEY
your return is delayed — recall your fond girl to the place near your
heart, where she desires to remain for ever."
Villiers answered with few but expressive words of gratitude and
fidelity. His letters breathed disappointment and anxiety. "It is too
true," he said, "as I found it announced when I first came to town, my
father is married. He got the banns published in an obscure church in
London; he persuaded Miss Gregory to elope with him, and they are
married. Her father is furious, he returns every letter unopened; his
house and heart, he says, are still open to his daughter — but the ,
I will not repeat his words, who stole her from him, shall never
benefit by a shilling of his money — let her return, and all shall be par-
doned — let her remain with her husband, and starve, he cares not. My
father has spent much time and more money on this pursuit: in the
hope of securing many thousands, he raised hundreds at a prodigal
and ruinous interest, which must now be paid. He has not ten pounds
in the world — so he says. My belief is, that he is going abroad to
secure to himself the payment of the scanty remnant of his income. I
have no hopes. I would beg at the corner of a street, rather than apply
to a man who never has been a parent to me, and whose last act is that
of a villain. Excuse me; you will be angry that I speak thus of my
father, but I know that he speaks of the poor girl he has deluded, with
a bitterness and insult, which prove what his views were in marrying
her. In this moment of absolute beggary, my only resource is to raise
money I believe I shall succeed; and the moment I have put things in
train, with what heartfelt, what unspeakable joy, shall I leave this mis-
erable place for my own Ethel's side, long to remain!"
Villiers s letters varied little, but yet they got more desponding; and
Ethel grew very impatient to see him again. She had counted the days
of her week — they were fulfilled, and her husband did not return.
Every thing depended, he said, on his presence; and he must remain
yet for another day or two. At first he implored her to be patient. He
besought her, as she loved him. to endure their separation yet for a
few more days. His letters were very short, but all in this style. They
were imperative with his wife - she obeyed; yet she did so, she told
him, against her will and against her sense of right. She ought to be at
his side to cheer him under his difficulties. She had married him
because she loved him, and because the first and only wish of her
LODOR E 287
heart was to conduce to his happiness. To travel together, to enjoy
society and the beauties of nature in each other's society, were indeed
blessings, and she valued them; but there was another dearer still, of
which she felt herself defrauded, and for which she yearned. "The aim
of my life, and its only real joy," she said, "is to make your existence
happier than it would have been without me. When I know and feel
that such a moment or hour has been passed by you with sensations
of pleasure, and that through me, I have fulfilled the purpose of my
destiny. Deprived of the opportunity to accomplish this, I am bereft of
that for which I breathe. You speak as if I were better off here than if I
shared the inconvenience of your lot - is not this strange language, my
own Edward? You talk of security and comfort; where can I be so
secure as near you? And for comfort! what heart-elevating joy it
would be to exchange this barren, meagre scene of absence, for the
delight, the comfort of seeing you, of waiting on you! I do not ask
you to hasten your return, so as to injure your prospects, but permit
me to join you. Would not London itself, dismal as you describe it,
become sunny and glad, if Ethel were with you?"
To these adjurations Villiers scarcely replied. Time crept on; three
weeks had already elapsed. Now and then a day intervened, and he
did not write, and his wife's anxiety grew to an intolerable pitch. She
did not for an instant suspect his faith, but she feared that he must be
utterly miserable, since he shrunk from communicating his feelings to
her. His last letter was brief; "I have just come from my solicitor," he
said, "and have but time to say, that I must go there again to-morrow,
so I shall not be with you. O the heavy hours in this dark prison! You
will reward me and make me forget them when I see you - but how
shall I pass the time till then!"
These words made Ethel conceive the idea of joining him in
town. He would not, he could not be angry? He could not bring his
mind to ask her to share his discomforts - but ought she not to vol-
unteer - to insist upon his permitting her to come? Permit! the same
pride that prevented his asking, would induce him to refuse her
request; but should she do wrong, if, without his express permission,
she were to join him? A thrill, half fear, half transport, made her hearts
blood stand still at the thought. The day after this last, she got no let-
ter; the following day was Monday, and there would be no post from
28 8 MARY SHELLEY
town. Her resolution was taken, and she told her aunt, that she should
go up to London the following day. Mrs. Elizabeth knew little of the
actual circumstances of the young pair.Villiers had made it an express
condition, that she should not be informed of their difficulties, for he
was resolute not to take from her little store, which, in the way she
lived, was sufficient, yet barely so, for her wants. She did not question
her niece as to her journey; she imagined that it was a thing arranged.
But Ethel herself was full of perplexity; she remembered whatVilliers
had said of expense; she knew that he would be deeply hurt if she
used a public conveyance, and yet to go post would consume the little
money she had left, and she did not like to reach London pennyless.
She began to talk to her aunt, and faltered out something about want
of money for posting - the good lady's purse was instantly in her
hand. Ethel had not the same horror as her husband of pecuniary
obligation — she was too inexperienced to know its annoyances; and
in the present instance, to receive a small sum from her aunt, appeared
to her an affair that did not merit hesitation. She took twenty pounds
for her journey, and felt her heart lighter. There yet remained another
question. Hitherto they had travelled in their own carriage, with a
valet and lady's maid.Villiers had taken his servant to town with him.
In a postscript to one of his letters, he said, "I was able to recommend
Laurie to a good place, so I have parted with him, and I shall not take
another servant at this moment." Laurie had been long and faithfully
attached to her husband, who had never lived without an attendant,
and who, from his careless habits, was peculiarly helpless. Ethel felt
that this dismissal was a measure of economy, and that she ought to
imitate it. Still as any measure to be taken always frightened her, she
had not courage to discharge her maid, but resolved to go up to town
without her. Aunt Bessy was shocked at her going alone, but Ethel
was firm; nothing could happen to her, and she should prove to
Edward her readiness to endure privation.
On Monday, at eleven in the forenoon, on the 28th of November,
Ethel, having put together but a few things, - for she expected a
speedy return, - stept into her travelling chariot, and began her jour -
ney to town. She was all delight at the idea of seeing Edward. She
reproached herself for having so long delayed giving this proof of her
earnest affection. She listened with beaming smiles to her aunt's
LODOR E 289
injunctions and cautions: and, the carnage once in motion, drawing
her shawl round her, as she sat in the corner, looking on the despoiled
yet clear prospect, her mind was filled with the most agreeable rever-
ies — her heart soothed by the dearest anticipations.
To pay the post-horses - to gift the postillion herself, were all
events for her: she felt proud. "Edward said, I must begin to learn the
ways of the world; and this is my first lesson in economy and care,"
she thought, as she put into the post-boy's hand just double the sum
he had ever received before. "And how good, and attentive, and will-
ing every body is! I am sure women can very well travel alone. Every
one is respectful, and desirous to serve," was her next internal remark,
as she undrew her little silken purse, to give a waiter half-a-crown,
who had brought her a glass of water, and whose extreme alacrity
struck her as so very kind-hearted.
Her spirits flagged as the day advanced. In spite of herself, an
uneasy feeling diffused itself through her mind, when, the sun going
down, a misty, chilly twilight crept over the landscape. Had she done
right? she asked herself; would Edward indeed be glad to see her? She
felt half frightened at her temerity — alarmed at the length of her
journey - timid when she thought of the vast London she was about
to enter, without any certain bourn. She supposed that Villiers went
each day to his club, and she knew that he lodged in Duke Street, St.
James's; but she was ignorant of the number of the house, and the
street itself was unknown to her; she did not remember ever to have
been in it in her life.
Her carriage entered the labyrinthe London by Blackwall, and
threaded the wilds of Lothbury.
1
 A dense and ever-thickening mist,
palpable, yellow, and impervious to the eye, enveloped the whole
town. Ethel had heard of a November fog; but she had never wit-
nessed one, and the idea of it did not occur to her memory: she was
half-frightened, thinking that some strange phaenomena were going
on, and fancying that her postillion was hurrying forward in terror. At
last, in Cheapside,
2
 they stopped jammed up by carts and coaches; and
then she contrived to make herself heard, asking what was the matter?
The word "eclipse" hung upon her lips.
1 Ethel enters London from the east.
2 Cheapside is in the City of London, near St. Paul's Cathedral.
29 0 MARY SHELLEY
"Only, ma'am, the street has got blocked up like in the fog: we
shall get on presently."
The word "fog" solved the mystery; and again her thoughts were
withVilliers. What a horrible place for him to live in! And he had
been enduring all this wretchedness, while she was breathing the pure
atmosphere of the country. Again they proceeded through the "murky
air," and through an infinitude of mischances; — the noise — the hub-
bub — the crowd, as she could distinguish it, as if veiled by dirty gauze,
by the lights in the shops — all agitated and vexed her. Through Fleet
Street and the Strand they went; and it seemed as if their progress
would never come to an end. The whole previous journey from
Longfield was short in comparison to this tedious procession: twenty
times she longed to get out and walk. At last they got free, and with a
quicker pace drove up to the door of the Union Club, in Charing
Cross.
The post-boy called one of the waiters to the carriage door; and
Ethel asked -"Is Mr.Villiers here?"
"Mr.Villiers, ma'am, has left town."
Ethel was aghast. She had watched assiduously along the road; yet
she had felt certain that if he had meant to come, she would have seen
him on Sunday; and till this moment, she had not entertained a real
doubt but that she should find him. She asked, falteringly,"When did
he go?"
"Last week, ma'am: last Thursday, I think it was."
Ethel breathed again: the man's information must be false. She was
too inexperienced to be aware that servants and common people have
a singular tact in selecting the most unpleasant intelligence, and being
very alert in communicating it. "Do you know," she inquired, "where
Mr.Villiers lodges?"
"Can't say, indeed, ma'am; but the porter knows; - here, Saunders!"
No Saunders answered. "The porter is not in the way; but if you
can wait, ma'am, he'll be back presently"
The waiter disappeared: the post-boy came up - he touched his
hat. "Wait," said Ethel; - "we must wait a little;" and he removed
himself to the horses' heads. Ethel sat in her lonely corner, shrouded
by fog and darkness, watching every face as it passed under the lamp
near, fancying that Edward might appear among them. The ugly faces
LODOR E 291
that haunt, in quick succession, the imagination of one oppressed by
night-mare, might vie with those that passed successively in review
before Ethel. Most of them hurried on, looking neither to the right
nor left. Some entered the house; some glanced at her carriage: one or
two, perceiving a bonnet, evidently questioned the waiter. He stood
there for her own service, Ethel thought; and she watched his every
movement — his successive disappearances and returns — the people he
talked to. Once she signed to him to come; but — "No, ma'am, the
porter is not come back yet," — was all his answer. At last, after having
stood, half whistling, for some five minutes, (it appeared to Ethel half-
an-hour,) without having received any visible communication, he
suddenly came up to the carriage door, saying, "The porter could not
stay to speak to you, ma'am, he was in such a hurry. He says, Mr. Vil-
liers lodges in Duke Street, St. James's: he should know the house, but
has forgotten the number."
"Then I must wait till he comes back again. I knew all that before.
Will he be long?"
"A long time, ma'am; two hours at least. He said that the woman
of the house is a widow woman — Mrs. Derham."
Thus, as if by torture, (but, as with the whipping boys of old, hers
was the torture, not the delinquent's,) Ethel extracted some informa-
tion from the stupid, conceited fellow. On she went to Duke Street, to
discover Mrs. Derham s residence. A few wrong doors were knocked
at; and a beer-boy, at last, was the Mercury that brought the impatient,
longing wife, to the threshold of her husband's residence. Happy beer-
boy! She gave him a sovereign: he had never been so rich in his life
before; - such chance-medleys do occur in this strange world!
29 2 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XV. [XVI]
0 my reviving joy! thy quickening presence
Makes the sad night
Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood.
1 cannot make thy welcome rich enough
With all the wealth of worlds.
MIDDLETON.
1
THE boy knocked at the door. A servant-girl opened it. "Does Mr.
Villiers lodge here?" asked the postillion, from his horse.
"Yes," said the girl.
"Open the door quickly, and let me out!" cried Ethel, as her heart
beat fast and loud.
The door was opened - the steps let down - operations tediou
beyond measure, as she thought. She got out, and was in the hall,
going up stairs.
"Mr.Villiers is not at home," said the maid.
Through the low blinds of the parlour window, Mrs. Derham had
been watching what was going on. She heard what her servant said,
and now came out. "Mr.Villiers is not at home," she reiterated; "will
you leave any message?"
"No; I will wait for him. Show me into his room."
"I am afraid that it is locked," answered Mrs. Derham repulsively;
"perhaps you can call again. Who shall I say asked for him?"
"O no!" cried Ethel, "I must waijt for him. Will you permit me to
wait in your parlour? I am Mrs.Villiers."
"I beg pardon," said the good woman; "Mrs.Villiers is in the coun-
try."
"And so I am," replied Ethel - "at least, so I was this morning.
Don't you see my travelling carriage? - look; you may be sure that I
am Mrs Villiers."
She took out of her little bag one of Edward's letters, with the
perusal of which she had beguiled much of her way to town. Mrs.
Derham looked at the direction - "The Honourable Mrs.Villiers;" -
i Thomas Middleton, No Wit, No Help Like a Woman's (1657) 4.1.1-5.
LODOR E 293
her countenance brightened. Mrs. Derham was a little, plump, well-
preserved woman of fifty-four or five. She was kind-hearted, and of
course shared the worship for rank which possesses every heart born
within the four seas. She was now all attention.Villiers's room was
open; he was expected very soon: — "He is so seldom out in an
evening: it is very unlucky; but he must be back directly," said Mrs.
Derham, as she showed the way up the narrow staircase. Ethel reached
the landing, and entered a room of tolerable dimensions, considerably
encumbered with litter, which opened into a smaller room, with a
tent bed. A little bit of fire glimmered in the grate. The whole place
looked excessively forlorn and comfortless.
Mrs. Derham bustled about to bestow a little neatness on the
room, saying something of the "untidiness of gentlemen," and "so
many lodgers in the house." Ethel sat down; she longed to be alone.
There was the post-boy to be paid, and to be ordered to take the car-
riage to a coach-house; and then - Mrs. Derham asked her if she
would not have something to eat: she herself was at tea, and offered a
cup, which Ethel thankfully accepted, acknowledging that she had
not eaten since the morning. Mrs. Derham was shocked.The rank,
beauty, and sweet manners of Ethel had made a conquest, which her
extreme youth redoubled. "So young a lady," she said, "to go about
alone: she did not know how to take care of herself, she was sure. She
must have some supper: a roast chicken should be ready in an hour —
by the time Mr.Villiers came in."
"But the tea," said Ethel, smiling; "you will let me have that now?"
Mrs. Derham hurried away on this hint, and the young wife was
left alone. She had been married a year; but there was still a freshness
about her feelings, which gave zest to every change in her wedded
life. "This is where he has been living without me," she thought;
"Poor Edward! it does not look as if he were very comfortable."
She rose from her seat, and began to arrange the books and papers.
A glove of her husbands lay on the table: she kissed it with a glad feel-
ing of welcome. When the servant came in, she had the fire replen-
ished - the hearth swept; and in a minute or two, the room had lost
much of its disconsolate appearance. Then, with a continuation of her
feminine love of order she arranged her own dress and hair; giving to
her attire, as much as possible, an at-home appearance. She had jus
29 4 MARY SHELLE Y
finished -just sat down, and begun to find the time long - when a
quick, imperative knock at the door, which she recognized at once,
made her heart beat, and her cheek grow pale. She heard a step - a
voice - and Mrs. Derham answer - "Yes, sir; the fire is in - every
thing comfortable;" - and Ethel opened the door, as she spoke, and in
an instant was clasped in her husbands arms.
It was not a moment whose joy could be expressed by words. He
had been miserable during her absence, and had thought of sending
for her; but he looked round his single room, remembered that he was
in lodgings, and gave up his purpose with a bitter murmur: and here
she was, uncalled for, but most welcome: she was here, in her youth,
her loveliness, her sweetness: these were charms; but others more tran-
scendent now attended on, and invested her; — the sacred tenderness
of a wife had led her to his side; and love, in its most genuine and
beautiful shape, shed an atmosphere of delight and worship about her.
Not one circumstance could alloy the unspeakable bliss of their meet-
ing. Poverty, and its humiliations, vanished from before the eyes ofVil-
liers; he was overflowingly rich in the possession of her affections -
her presence. Again and again he thanked her, in broken accents of
expressive transport.
"Nothing in the whole world could make me unhappy now!" he
cried; and Ethel, who had seen his face look elongated and gloomy at
the moment he had entered, felt indeed that Medea, with all her
potent herbs, was less of a magician than she, in the power of infusing
the sparkling spirit of life into one human frame.
1
 It was long before
either were coherent in their inquiries and replies.There was nothing,
indeed, that either wished to know. Life, and its purposes, were ful-
filled, rounded, complete, without a flaw. They loved, and were
together - together, not for a transitory moment, but for the whole
duration of the eternity of love, which never could be exhausted in
their hearts.
After more than an hour spent in gradually becoming acquainted
and familiar with the transporting change, from separate loneliness to
i Medea restored the youth of Aeson, Jason's father, by boiling him in a cauldron
with magic herbs.
LODOR E 295
mutual society and sympathy, the good-natured face of Mrs. Derham
showed itself, to announce that Ethel's supper was ready. These words
brought back to Edward's recollection his wife's journey, and conse-
quent fatigues: he grew more desirous than Mrs. Derham to feed his
poor famished bird, whose eyes, in spite of the joy that shone in them,
began to look languid, and whose cheek was pale. The little supper-
table was laid, and they sat down together.
Lady Mary Wortley Montague has recorded the pleasure to be
reaped
"When we meet with champagne and a chicken at last;"
1
and perhaps social life contains no combination so full of enjoyment
as a tete-a-tete supper. Here it was, with its highest zest. They feared
no prying eyes — they knew no ill: it was not a scanty hour of joy
snatched from an age of pain — a single spark illuminating a long
blank night. It came after separation, and possessed, therefore, the
charm of novelty; but it was the prelude to a long reunion — the seal
set on their being once again joined, to go through together each
hour of the livelong day. Full of unutterable thankfulness and gladness,
as were the minds of each, there was, besides,
"A sacred and home-felt delight,
A sober certainty of waking bliss,"
2
which is the crown and fulfilment of perfect human happiness.
"Imparadised"
3
 by each other's presence — no doubt — no fear of divi-
sion on the morrow - no dread of untoward event, suspicion, or
blame, clouded the balmy atmosphere which their hearts created
around them. No Eden was required to enhance their happiness; there
needed no
1 "The Lover: A Ballad" (1747) 26. Byron admired these lines, declaring they were
"worth a forest or two." See Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Essays and Poems and
Simplicity, a Comedy, eds. Robert Halsband and Isobel Grundy (Oxford: Clarendon
P, 1977), 171.
2 Milton, Comus 262-263.
3 Paradise Lost 4.506.
29 6 MARY SHELLEY
"Crisped brooks,
Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold;"—
 1
"Happy, rural seat, with various view,"
2
decked with
"Flowers of all hue,["]
3
"All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;" -
4
nor "cool recess,"
5
 nor
"Vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove."
6
In their narrow abode — their nook of a room, cut off from the world,
redolent only of smoke and fog — their two fond hearts could build
up bowers of delight, and store them with all of ecstasy which the
soul of man can know, without any assistance of eye, or ear, or scent.
So rich, and prodigal, and glorious, in its gifts, is faithful and true-
hearted love, - when it knows the sacrifices which it must make to
merit them, and consents willingly to forego vanity, selfishness, and
the exactions of self-will, in unlimited and unregretted exchange.
Mutual esteem and gratitude sanctified the unreserved sympathy
which made each so happy in the other. Did they love the less for not
loving "in sin and fear?"
7
 Far from it. The certainty of being the cause
of good to each other tended to foster the most delicate of all pas-
sions, more than the rougher ministrations of terror, and a knowledge
that each was the occasion of injury to the other. A woman's heart is
peculiarly unfitted to sustain this conflict. Her sensibility gives keen-
1 Paradise Lost 4.237-238.
2 Paradise Lost 4.247.
3 Single quotation mark in the first edition; Paradise Lost 4.256.
4 Paradise Lost 4.217.
5 Paradise Lost 4.258.
6 Paradise Lost 4.264-265.
7 Byron,"Heaven and Earth, A Mystery" (1822) Scene i, 67.
LODOR E 297
no
ness to her imagination, and she magnifies every peril, and writhes
beneath every sacrifice which tends to humiliate her in her own eyes.
The natural pride of her sex struggles with her desire to confer happi-
ness, and her peace is wrecked.
Far different was the happy Ethels situation - far otherwise were
her thoughts employed than in concealing the pangs of care and
shame. The sense of right adorned the devotion of love. She read
approbation in Edward's eyes, and drew near him in full consciousness
of deserving it. They sat at their supper, and long after, by the cheerful
fire, talking of a thousand things connected with the present and the
future — the long, long future which they were to spend together; and
every now and then their eyes sparkled with the gladness of renewed
delight in seeing each other."Mine, my own, for ever!" — And was this
exultation in possession to be termed selfish? by no other reasoning
surely, than that used by a cold and meaningless philosophy, which
gives this name to generosity and truth, and all the nobler passions of
the soul. They congratulated themselves on this mutual property, part-
ly because it had been a free gift one to the other; partly because they
looked forward to the right it ensured to each, of conferring mutual
benefits; and partly through the instinctive love God has implanted
for that which, being ours, is become the better part of ourselves.
They were united in for "better and worse," and there was a sacred-
ness in the thought of the "worse" they might share, which gave a
mysterious and celestial charm to the present "better."
29 8 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XVII.
Do you not think yourself truly happy?
You have the abstract of all sweetness by you,
The precious wealth youth labours to arrive at,
Nor is she less in honour than in beauty.
THE following day was one of pouring, unintermitting rain.Villiers
and Ethel drew their chairs near their cheerful fire, and were happy.
Edward could not quite conquer his repugnance to seeing his wife in
lodgings, and in those also of so mean and narrow a description. But
the spirit of Ethel was more disencumbered of earthly particles: that
had found its rest in the very home of Love. The rosy light of the
divinity invested all things for her. Cleopatra on the Cydnus, in the
bark which —
"Like a burnished throne
Burnt on the water,"
borne along
"By purple sails ... .
... . So perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them;"
2
was not more gorgeously attended than Ethel was to her own fancy,
lapped and cradled in all that love has of tender, voluptuous, and con-
fiding.
Several days past before Villiers could withdraw her from this bliss-
ful dream, to gaze upon the world as it was. He could not make her
disgusted with her fortunes nor her abode, but he awakened anxiety
on his own account. His father, as he had conjectured, was gone to
Paris, leaving merely a message for his son, that he would willingl
join him in any act for raising money, by mortgage or the absolute
1 John Fletcher and Philip Massinger, The Custom of the Country (1647) 3.2.74-77.
2 Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra, 2.2.196-199.
LODOR E 299
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
disposal of a part of the estate. Edward had consulted with his solici-
tor, who was to look over a vast variety of papers, to discover the most
eligible mode of making some kind of sale. Delay, in all its various
shapes, waited on these arrangements; and Villiers was very averse to
leaving town till he held some clue to the labyrinth of obstacles
which presented themselves at every turn. He talked of their taking a
house in town; but Ethel would not hear of such extravagance. In the
first place, their actual means were at a very low ebb, with little hope
of a speedy supply. There was another circumstance, the annoyance of
which he understood far better than Ethel could. He had raised
money on annuities, the interest of which he was totally unable to
pay; this exposed him to a personal risk of the most disagreeable kind,
and he knew that his chief creditor was on the point of resorting to
harsh measures against him. These things, dingy-visaged, dirty-handed
realities as they were, made a strange contrast with Ethel's feeling of
serene and elevated bliss; but she, with unshrinking heart, brought the
same fortitude and love into the crooked and sordid ways of modern
London, which had adorned heroines of old, as they wandered amidst
trackless forests, and over barren mountains.
Several days passed, and the weather became clear, though cold.
The young pair walked together in the parks at such morning hours
as would prevent their meeting any acquaintances, for Edward was
desirous that it should not be known that they were in town. Villiers
also traced his daily, weary, disappointing way to his solicitor, where
he found things look more blank and dismal each day. Then when
evening came, and the curtains were drawn, they might have been at
the top of Mount Caucasus, instead of in the centre of London, so
completely were they cut off from every thing except each other.
They then felt absolutely happy: the lingering disgusts of Edward
were washed clean away by the bounteous, ever-springing love, that
flowed, as waters from a fountain, from the heart of Ethel, in one per-
petual tide.
In those hours of unchecked talk, she learned many things she had
not known before — the love of Horatio Saville for Lady Lodore was
revealed to her; but the story was not truly told, for the prejudices as
well as the ignorance ofVilliers rendered him blind to the sincerity of
Cornelias affection and regret. Ethel wondered, and in spite of the
30 0 MARY SHELLE Y
charm with which she delighted to invest the image of her mother,
she could not help agreeing with her husband that she must be irrev-
ocably wedded to the most despicable worldly feelings, so to have
played with the heart of a man such as Horatio: a man, whose simplest
word bore the stamp of truth and genius; one of those elected few
whom nature elevates to her own high list of nobility and greatness.
How could she, a simple girl, interest feelings which were not alive to
Saville s merits? She could only hope that in some dazzling marriage
Lady Lodore would find a compensation for the higher destiny which
might have been hers, but that, like the "base Indian," she had thrown
"A pearl away,
Richer than all his tribe."
1
There was a peaceful quiet in their secluded and obscure life,
which somewhat resembled the hours spent on board ship, when you
long for, yet fear, the conclusion of the voyage, and shrink involuntar-
ily from exchanging a state, whose chief blessing is an absence of
every care, for the variety of pains and pleasures which chequer life.
Ethel possessed her all - so near, so undivided, so entirely her own,
that she could not enter into Villiers's impatience, nor quite sympa-
thize with the disquietude he could not repress. After considerable
delays, his solicitor informed him that his father had so entirely dis-
posed of all his interest in the property, that his readiness to join in any
act of sale would be useless. The next thing to be done was for
Edward to sell a part of his expectations, and the lawyer promised to
find a purchaser, and begged to see him three days hence, when no
doubt he should have some proposal to communicate.
Whoever has known what such things are — whoever has waited
on the demurs and objections, and suffered the alternations of total
failure and suddenly renewed hopes, which are the Tantalus-food held
to the lips of those under the circumstances ofVilliers, can follow in
imagination his various conferences with his solicitor, as day after day
something new was discovered, still to drag on, or to impede, the tor-
toise pace of his negociations. It will be no matter of wonder to such,
i Shakespeare, Othello, 5.2.347-348.
LODOR E 301
that a month instead of three days wasted away, and found him pre-
cisely in the same position, with hopes a little raised, though so fre-
quently blasted, and nothing done.
In recording the annoyances, or rather the adversity which the
young pair endured at this period, a risk is run, on the one hand, of
being censured for bringing the reader into contact with degrading
and sordid miseries; and on the other, of laying too much stress on
circumstances which will appear to those in a lower sphere of life, as
scarcely deserving the name of misfortune. It is very easy to embark
on the wild ocean of romance, and to steer a danger-fraught passage,
amidst giant perils, - the very words employed, excite the imagina-
tion, and give grace to the narrative. But all beautiful and fairy-like as
was Ethel Villiers, in tracing her fortunes, it is necessary to descend
from such altitudes, to employ terms of vulgar use, and to describe
scenes of common-place and debasing interest; so that, if she herself,
in her youth and feminine tenderness, does not shed light and holi-
ness around her, we shall grope darkling, and fail utterly in the scope
which we proposed to ourselves in selecting her history for the enter-
tainment of the reader.
30 2 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XVIII.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
WORDSWORTH.
1
THE end of December had come. New year's day found and left
them still in Duke Street. On the 4th of January Villiers received a let-
ter from his uncle, Lord Maristow, entrusting a commission to him,
which obliged him to go to the neighbourhood of Egham.
2
 Not hav-
ing a horse, he went by the stage. He set out so late in the day that
there was no chance of his returning the same night; and he promised
to be back early on the morrow. Ethel had letters to write to Italy and
to her aunt; and with these she tried to beguile the time. She felt
lonely; the absence ofVilliers for so many hours engendered an anxi-
ety, which she found some difficulty in repressing. Accustomed to
have him perpetually at her side, and without any other companion
or resource, she repined at her solitude. There was his empty chair, and
no hope that he would occupy it; and she sat in her little room so
near to thousands, and yet so cut off from every one, with such a sense
of desolation as Mungo Park
3
 might have felt in central Africa, or a
shipwrecked mariner on an uninhabited island.
Her pen was taken up, but she did not write. She could not com-
mand her thoughts to express any thing but the overflowing, devoted,
all-engrossing affection of her heart, her adoration for her husband;
that would not amuse Lucy, - she thought: and she had commenced
another sheet with "My dearest Aunt," when the maid-servant ush-
ered a man into her presence — a stranger, a working man. What could
1 "She was a Phantom of delight" (1807) 11-16.
2 A town in Surrey along the Thames.
3 A Scottish explorer and friend of Sir Walter Scott, who explored the Niger river.
The Shelleys read his Travels in the Interior Districts of Africa . . . in the Years 1795, 1796
and 1797 (1799) in 1814 and 1816.
LODOR E 303
he want with her? He seemed confused, and stammered out,"Mr.Vil-
liers is not in?"
"He will be at home to-morrow, if you want him; or have you any
message that I can give?"
"You are Mrs.Villiers, ma'am?"
"Yes, my good man, I am Mrs.Villiers."
"If you please, ma'am, I am Saunders, one of the porters at the
Union Club."
"I remember: has any message come there? or does Mr.Villiers
owe you any money?" and her purse was in her hand.
"O no, ma'am. Mr.Villiers is a good gentleman; and he has been
petiklar generous to me - and that is why I come, because I am
afraid," continued the man, lowering his tone, "that he is in danger."
"Good heavens! Where? how?" cried Ethel, starting from her chair,
"tell me at once."
"Yes, ma'am, I will; so you must know that this evening —"
"Yes, this evening. What has happened? he left me at six o'clock—
what is it?"
"Nothing, I hope, this evening, rna'am. I am only afraid for to-
morrow morning. And I will tell you all I know, as quick as ever I
can."
The man then proceeded to relate, that some one had been inquir-
ing about Mr.Villiers at the Club House. One of the servants had told
him that he lived in Duke Street, St. James s, and that was all he knew;
but Saunders came up, and the man questioned him. He instantly rec-
ognized the fellow, and knew what his business must be. And he tried
to deceive him, and declared that Mr.Villiers was gone out of town;
but the fellow said that he knew better than that; and that he had
been seen that very day in the Strand. He should look for him, no
thanks to Saunders, in Duke Street. "And so, ma'am, you see they'll be
sure to be here early to-morrow morning. So don't let Mr.Villiers stay
here, on no account whatsomever."
"Why," asked Ethel, simply; "they can't hurt him."
"I am sure, ma'am," said Saunders, his face brightening, "I am
very glad to hear that - you know best. They will arrest him for
sure, but —"
"Arrest him!"
30 4 MARY SHELLE Y
"Yes, ma'am, for I've seen the tall one before. There were two of
them - bailiffs."
Ethel now began to tremble violently; these were strange, cabalistic
words to her, the more awful from their mystery. "What am I to do?"
she exclaimed; "Mr. Villiers will be here in the morning, he sleeps at
Egham, and will be here early; I must go to him directly."
"I am glad to hear he is so far," said Saunders; "and if I can be of
any use you have but to say it; shall I go to Egham? there are night
coaches that go through, and I might warn him."
Ethel thought - she feared to do any thing - she imagined that she
should be watched, that all her endeavours would be of no avail. She
looked at the man, honesty was written on his face; but there was no
intelligence, nothing to tell her that his advice was good.The possibil-
ity of such an event as the present had never occurred to her. Villiers
had been silent with regard to his fears on this head. She was sudden-
ly transported into a strange sea, hemmed in by danger, without a
pilot or knowledge of a passage. Again she looked at the man's face:
"What is best to be done!" she exclaimed.
"I am sure, ma'am," he replied, as if she had asked him the ques-
tion, "I think what I said is best, if you will tell me where I can find
Mr. Villiers. I should think nothing of going, and he could send word
by me of what he wished you to do."
"Yes, that would indeed be a comfort. I will write three lines, and
you shall take them." In a moment she had written. "Give this note
into his own hand, he will sleep there — I have written the direction
of the house — or at some inn, at Egham. Do not rest till you have
given the letter, and here is for your trouble." She held out two sover-
eigns.
"Depend on me, ma'am; and I will bring an answer to you by nine
in the morning. Mr. Villiers will pay me what he thinks fit — you may
want your money. Only, ma'am, don't be frightened when them men
come to-morrow — if the people here are good sort of folks, you had
better give them a hint - it may save you trouble."
"Thank you: you are a good man, and I will remember you, and
reward you. By nine to-morrow - you will be punctual?"
The man again assured her that he would use all diligence, and
took his leave.
LODOR E 305
Ethel felt totally overwhelmed by these tidings.The unknown is
always terrible, and the ideas of arrest, and prison, and bolts, and bars,
and straw, floated before her imagination. Was Villiers safe even where
he was? Would not the men make inquiries, learn where he had gone,
and follow him, even if it were to the end of the world? She had
heard of the activity employed to arrest criminals, and mingled every
kind of story in her head, till she grew desperate from terror. Not
knowing what else to do, she became eager for Mrs. Derham s advice,
and hurried down stairs to ask it.
She had not seen much of the good lady since her first arrival.
Every day, when Villiers went out, she came up, indeed, on the
momentous question of "orders for dinner;" and then she bestowed
the benefit of some five or ten minutes garrulity on her fair lodger.
Ethel leant that she had seen better days, and that were justice done
her, she ought to be riding in her coach, instead of letting lodgings.
She learnt that she had a married daughter living at Kennington:
1
poor enough, but struggling on cheerfully with her mother's help.
The best girl in the world she was, and a jewel of a wife, and had two
of the most beautiful children that ever were beheld.
This was all that Ethel knew, except that once Mrs. Derham had
brought her one of her grandchildren to be seen and admired. In all
that the good woman said, there was so much kindness, such a cheer-
ful endurance of the ills of life, and she had shown such a readiness to
oblige, that the idea of applying to her for advice, relieved Ethel's
mind of much of its load of anxiety.
She was too much agitated to think of ringing for the servant, to
ask to see her; but hurried down stairs, and knocked at the parlour-
door almost before she was aware of what she was doing. "Come in,"
said a feminine voice. Ethel entered, and started to see one she knew;
— and yet again she doubted; — was it indeed Fanny Derham whom
she beheld?
The recognition afforded mutual pleasure: checked a little on
Ethel's part, by her anxieties; and on Fanny's, by a feeling that she had
been neglected by her friend. A few letters had passed between them,
when first Ethel had visited Longfield: since then their correspon-
i A section of south London, jus t across Vauxhall Bridge (opened 1816).
30 6 MARY SHELLE Y
dence had been discontinued till after her return to England, from
Italy, when Mrs.Villiers had wrote; but her letter was returned by the
post-office, no such person being to be found according to the
address.
The embarrassment of the moment passed away. Ethel forgot, or
rather did not advert to, her friends lowly destiny, in the joy of meet-
ing her again. After a minute or two, also, they had become familiar
with the change that time had operated in their youthful appearance,
which was not much, and most in Ethel. Her marriage, and conver-
sance with the world, had changed her into a woman, and endowed
her with easy manners and self-possession. Fanny was still a mere girl;
tall, beyond the middle height, yet her young, ingenuous countenance
was unaltered, as well as that singular mixture of mildness and inde-
pendence, in her manners, which had always characterized her. Her
light blue eyes beamed with intelligence, and her smile expressed the
complacency and condescension of a superior being. Her beauty was
all intellectual: open, sincere, passionless, yet benignant, you
approached her without fear of encountering any of the baser quali-
ties of human beings, - their hypocrisy, or selfishness. Those who have
seen the paintings of the calm-visaged, blue-eyed deities of the frescos
of Pompeii, may form an idea of the serene beauty of Fanny Derham.
When Mrs.Villiers entered, she was reading earnestly — a large dic-
tionary open before her. The book on which she was intent was in
Greek characters. "You have not forgotten your old pursuits," said
Ethel, smiling.
"Say rather I am more wedded to them than ever," she replied;
"since, more than ever, I need them to give light and glory to a dingy
world. But you, dear Ethel, if so I may call you, - you looked anxious
as you entered: you wish to speak to my mother; - she is gone to
Kennington, and will not return to-night. Can I be of any use?"
Her mother! how strange! and Mrs. Derham, while she had dilated
with pride on her elder daughter, had never mentioned this pearl of
price, which was her s also.
"Alas! I fear not!" replied Ethel; "it is experience I need - experi-
ence in things you can know nothing about, nor your mother either,
probably; yet she may have heard of such things, and know how to
advise me."
LODOR E 307
Mrs.Villiers then explained the source of her disquietude. Fanny
listened with looks of the kindest sympathy. "Even in such things," she
said, "I have had experience. Adversity and I are become very close
friends since I last saw you: we are intimate, and I know much good
of her; so she is grateful, and repays me by prolonging her stay. Be
composed: no ill will happen, I trust, to Mr.Villiers; - at least you need
not be afraid of his being pursued. If the man you have sent be active
and faithful, all will be well. I will see these troublesome people to-
morrow', when they come, and prevent your being annoyed. If Saun-
ders returns early, and brings tidings of Mr.Villiers, you will know
what his wishes are. You can do nothing more to-night; and there is
every probability that all will be well."
"Do you really think so?" cried Mrs.Villiers. "O that I had gone
with him! - never will I again let him go any where without me."
Fanny entered into more minute explanations, and succeeded, to a
great degree, in calming her friend. She accompanied her back to her
own room, and sat with her long. She entered into the details of her
own history: - the illness and death of her father; the insulting treat-
ment her mother had met from his family; the kindness of a relation
of her own, who had assisted them, and enabled them to pursue their
present mode of life, which procured them a livelihood. Fanny spoke
generally of these circumstances, and in a spirit that seemed to disdain
that such things were; not because they were degrading in the eyes of
others, but because they interfered with the philosophic leisure, and
enjoyment of nature, which she so dearly prized. She thought nothing
of privation, or the world's impertinence; but much of being
immured in the midst of London, and being forced to consider the
inglorious necessities of life. Her desire to be useful to her mother
induced her often to spend precious time in "making the best of
things," which she would readily have dispensed with altogether, as
the easiest, as well as the wisest, way of freeing herself from their tram-
mels. Her narration interested Ethel, and served to calm her mind.
She thought - "Can I not bear those cares with equanimity for
Edward s sake, which Fanny regards as so trivial, merely because Plato
and Epictetus bid her do so? Will not the good God, who has
implanted in her heart so cheerless a consolation, being comfort to
mine, which has no sorrow but for another's sake?"
30 8 MARY SHELLE Y
These reflections tranquillized her, when she laid her head on her
pillow at night. She resigned her being and destiny to a Power superi-
or to any earthly authority, with a conviction, that its most benign
influence would be extended over her.
EN D OF VOL. II.
LODOR E 309
This page intentionally left blank 
LODORE .
BY THE
AUTHO R OF "FRANKENSTEIN. '
In the turmoil of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III .
LONDON :
RICHAR D BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
(SUCCESSO R TO HENRY COLBURN.)
1835.
i John Ford, The Lover's Melancholy (1629), 5.1.4-9.
FORD.1
This page intentionally left blank 
L O DO RE .
CHAPTER I.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then, despite of space, I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
SHAKSPEARE.
1
TH E still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning
dawned, when
All rose to do the task, he set to each
Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own.
2
Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night; nor woke till a
knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear - a sense of ill, made her
heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of day. While she
was striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what the evil was
with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at her door,
to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter he had
brought. She looked at her watch: it was past ten o'clock. She felt glad
that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed: yet as she took the
letter brought to her from her husband, all her tremor returned; and
she read it with agitation, as if it contained the announcement of her
final doom.
1 Sonnet 44,1-4.
2 A version of Proverbs 16:9?
LODOR E 313
"You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wroteVilliers,
- "I hope unfounded; but caution is necessary: I shall not, therefore,
come to Duke Street. Send me a few lines, by Saunders, to tell me if
any thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really taken
place, you must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not
understand these things, and will wonder when I tell you, that when
the clock strikes twelve on Saturday night, the magic spells and potent
charms of Saunders s friends cease to have power: at that hour I shall
be restored to you.
1
 Wait till then - and then we will consult for the
future. Have patience, dearest love: you have wedded poverty, hard-
ship, and annoyance; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most
faithful heart in the world; - a heart you deign to prize, so I will not
repine at ill fortune. Adieu, till this evening; — and then, as Belvidera
says,'Remember twelve!'
2
"Saturday Morning."
After reading these lines, Ethel dressed herself hastily Fanny Der-
ham had already asked permission to see her; and she found her wait-
ing in her sitting-room. It was an unspeakable comfort to have one as
intelligent and kind as Fanny, to communicate with, during Edward's
absence. The soft, pleading eyes of Ethel asked her for comfort and
counsel; and, in spite of her extreme youth, the benignant and intelli-
gent expression of Fanny's countenance promised both.
"I am sorry to say," she said, "that Saunders's prognostics are too
true. Such men as he describes have been here this morning. They
were tolerably civil, and I convinced them, with greater ease than I
had hoped, that Mr. Villiers was absent from the house; and I assured
them, that after this visit of theirs, he was not likely to return."
"And do you really believe that they were"- Ethel faltered.
"Bailiffs? Assuredly," replied Fanny: "they told me that they had the
power to search the house; but if they were 'strong,' they were also
'merciful.'And now, what do you do? Saunders tells me he is waiting
1 Bailiffs were forbidden to make arrests on Sunday, so at midnight on Saturday
Lodore can visit Ethel without fear of arrest.
2 Belvidera is the heroine of Thomas Otway's tragedy Venice Preserved (1682). She says
"remember twelve" in 3.2 to her husband, Jaffeir, who promises to next meet her
then.
31 4 MARY SHELLEY
to take back a letter to Mr.Villiers, at the London Coffee House.
1
Write quickly, while I make your breakfast."
Ethel gladly obeyed. She wrote a few words to her husband. That it
was already Saturday, cheered her: twelve at night would soon come.
After her note was dispatched, she addressed Fanny. "What trouble
I give," she said: "what will your mother think of such degrading pro-
ceedings?"
"My mother," said Fanny, "is the kindest-hearted woman in the
world. We have never exactly suffered this disaster; but we are in a rank
of life which causes us to be brought into contact with such among
our friends and relations; and she is familiar with trouble in almost all
shapes. You are a great favourite of hers; and now that she can claim a
sort of acquaintance, she will be heart and soul your friend."
"It is odd," observed Ethel, "that she never mentioned you to me.
Had the name of Fanny been mentioned, I should have recollected
who Mrs. Derham was."
"Perhaps not," said Fanny; "it would have required a great effort of
the imagination to have fancied Mrs. Derham the wife of my father.
You never knew him; but Lord Lodore made you familiar with his
qualities: the most shrinking susceptibility to the worlds scorn,joined
to the most entire abstraction from all that is vulgar; a morbid sensi-
bility and delicate health placed him in glaring contrast with my
mother. They never in the least assimilated; and her character has
gained in excellence since his loss. Before she was fretted and galled
by his finer feelings — now she can be good in her own way. Nothing
reminds her of his exalted sentiments, except myself; and she is willing
enough to forget me."
"And do you not repine?" asked her friend.
"I do not: she is happy in and with Sarah. I should spoil their
notions of comfort, did I mingle with them; — they would torture and
destroy me, did they interfere with me. I lost my guide, preserver, my
guardian angel, when my father died. Nothing remains but the philos-
ophy which he taught me - the disdain of low-thoughted care which
he sedulously cultivated: this, joine d to my cherished independence,
which my disposition renders necessary to me."
i Percy Shelley wrote Mary from the London Coffee House when he was under
threat of arrest for debt from 22 October to 9 November 1814.
LODOR E 315
"And thus you foster sorrow, and waste your life in vain regrets?"
"Pardon me! I do not waste my life," replied Fanny, with her sunny
smile; — "nor am I unhappy — far otherwise. An ardent thirst for
knowledge, is as the air I breathe; and the acquisition of it, is pure and
unalloyed happiness. I aspire to be useful to my fellow-creatures: but
that is a consideration for the future, when fortune shall smile on me;
now I have but one passion; it swallows up every other; it dwells with
my darling books, and is fed by the treasures of beauty and wisdom
which they contain."
Ethel could not understand. Fanny continued: — "I aspire to be
useful; - sometimes I think I am - once I know I was. I was my
fathers almoner.
"We lived in a district where there was a great deal of distress, and a
great deal of oppression. We had no money to give, but I soon found
that determination and earnestness will do much. l[t]
1
 was my fathers
lesson, that I should never fear any thing but myself. He taught me to
penetrate, to anatomize, to purify my motives; but once assured of my
own integrity, to be afraid of nothing. Words have more power than
any one can guess; it is by words that the world's great fight, now in
these civilized times, is carried on; I never hesitated to use them, when
I fought any battle for the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid
to speak, it would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with
deficient organs; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice
fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail."
2
As Fanny spoke, her blue eyes brightened, and a smile irradiated
her face; these were all the tokens of enthusiasm she displayed, yet her
words moved Ethel strangely, and she looked on her with wonder as a
superior being. Her youth gave grace to her sentiments, and were an
assurance of their sincerity. She continued: -
"I am becoming flighty, as my mother calls it; but, as I spoke, many
scenes of cottage distress passed through my memory, when, holding
my father s hand, I witnessed his endeavours to relieve the poor. That
is all over now — he is gone, and I have but one consolation — that of
endeavouring to render myself worthy to rejoin him in a better
1 "Is" in first edition.
2 Fanny speaks as a follower of the ideas of William Godwin and Mary Woll-
stonecraft.
31 6 MARY SHELLEY
world. It is this hope that impels me continually and without any flag-
ging of spirit, to cultivate my understanding and to refine it. O what
has this life to give, as worldlings describe it, worth one of those glori-
ous emotions, which raise me from this petty sphere, into the sun-
bright regions of mind, which my father inhabits! I am rewarded even
here by the elevated feelings which the authors, whom I love so pas-
sionately, inspire; while I converse each day with Plato, and Cicero,
and Epictetus, the world, as it is, passes from before me like a vain
shadow."
These enthusiastic words were spoken with so calm a manner, and
in so equable a voice, that there seemed nothing strange nor exagger-
ated in them. It is vanity and affectation that shock, or any manifesta-
tion of feeling not in accordance with the real character. But while
we follow our natural bent, and only speak that which our minds
spontaneously inspire, there is a harmony, which, however novel, is
never grating. Fanny Derham spoke of things, which, to use her own
expression, were to her as the air she breathed, and the simplicity of
her manner entirely obviated the wonder which the energy of her
expressions might occasion.
Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own
sex than by the opposite one. Superiority of intellect, joined to acqui-
sitions beyond those usual even to men; and both announced with
frankness, though without pretension, forms a kind of anomaly little
in accord with masculine taste. Fanny could not be the rival of
women, and, therefore, all her merits were appreciated by them. They
love to look up to a superior being, to rest on a firmer support than
their own minds can afford; and they are glad to find such in one of
their own sex, and thus destitute of those dangers which usually
attend any services conferred by men.
From talk like this, they diverged to subjects nearer to the heart of
Ethel. They spoke of Lord Lodore, and her fathers name soothed her
agitation even more than the consolatory arguments of her friend.
She remembered how often he had talked of the trials to which con-
stancy of her temper and the truth of her affection might be put, and
she felt her courage rise to encounter those now before her, without
discontent, or rather with that cheerful fortitude, with sheds grace
over the rugged form of adversity.
LODOR E 317
CHAPTER II.
Marian. Could you so long be absent?
Robin. What a week?
Was that so long?
Marian. How long are lovers' weeks,
Do you think, Robin, when they are asunder?
Are they not pris'ners' years?
BEN . JONSON.
1
THE day passed on more lightly than Ethel could have hoped; much
of it indeed was gone before she opened her eyes to greet it. Night
soon closed in, and she busied herself with arrangements for the wel-
come of her husband. Fanny loved solitude too well herself not to
believe that others shared her taste. She retired therefore when
evening commenced. No sooner was Ethel alone, than every image
except Edward's passed out of her mind. Her heart was bursting with
affection. Every other idea and thought, to use a chemical expression,
was held in solution by that powerful feeling, which mingled and
united with every particle of her soul. She could not write nor read; if
she attempted, before she had finished the shortest sentence, she
found that her understanding was wandering, and she re-read it with
no better success. It was as if a spring, a gush from the fountain of love
poured itself in, bearing away every object from which she strove to
throw upon the stream of thought, till its own sweet waters alone
filled the channel through which it flowed. She gave herself up to the
bewildering influence, and almost forgot to count the hours till
Edward's expected arrival. At last it was ten o'clock, and then the sting
of impatience and uncertainty was felt. It appeared to her as if a whole
age had passed since she had seen or heard of him — as if countless
events and incalculable changes might have taken place. She read
again and again his note, to assure herself that she might really expect
him: the minutes meanwhile stood still, or were told heavily by the
distinct beating of her heart. The east wind bore to her ear the sound
of the quarters of hours, as they chimed from various churches. At
i The Sad Shepherd, or, A Tale of Robin Hood (1641) 1.6.15-18.
31 8 MARY SHELLEY
length eleven, half-past eleven was passed, and the hand of her watch
began to climb slowly upwards toward the zenith, which she desired
so ardently that it should reach. She gazed on the dial-plate, till she
fancied that the pointers did not move; she placed her hands before
her eyes resolutely, and would not look for a long long time; three
minutes had not been travelled over when again she viewed it; she
tried to count her pulse, as a measurement of time; her trembling
fingers refused to press the fluttering artery At length another quarter
of an hour elapsed, and then the succeeding one hurried on more
speedily Clock after clock struck; they mingled their various tones, as
the hour of twelve was tolled throughout London. It seemed as if they
would never end. Silence came at last — a brief silence succeeded by a
firm quick step in the street below, and a knock at the door. "Is he not
too soon?" poor fearful Ethel asked herself. But no; and in a moment
after, he was with her, safe in her glad embrace.
Perhaps of the two,Villiers showed himself the most enraptured at
this meeting. He gazed on his sweet wife, followed every motion, and
hung upon her voice, with all the delight of an exile, restored to his
long-lost home. "What a transporting change," he said, "to find myself
with you - to see you in the same room with me - to know again
that, lovely and dear as you are, that you are mine - that I am again
myself- not the miserable dog that has been wandering about all day
— a body without a soul! For a few short hours, at least, Ethel will call
me hers."
"Indeed, indeed, love," she replied, "we will not be separated
again."
"We will not even think about that to-night," said Villiers. "The
future is dark and blank, the present as radiant as your own sweet self
can make it."
On the following day - and the following day did come, in spite of
Ethel's wishes, which would have held back the progress of time: it
came and passed away; hour after hour stealing along, till it dwindled
to a mere point. On the following day, they consulted earnestly on
what was to be done. Villiers was greatly averse to Ethel's leaving her
present abode, where every one was so very kind and attentive to her,
and he was sanguine in his hopes of obtaining in the course of the
week, just commenced, a sum, sufficient to carry them to Paris or
LODORE 319
Brussels, wpijere
1
 they could remain till his affairs were finally
arranged, and the payment of his debts regulated in a way to satisfy his
creditors. One week of absence; Villiers used all his persuasion to
induce Ethel to submit to it. "Where you can be, I can be also," was
her answer; and she listened unconvinced to the detail of the inconve-
niences which Villiers pointed out: at last he almost got angry. "I
could call you unkind, Ethel," he said, "not to yield to me."
"I will yield to you," said Ethel, "but you are wrong to ask me."
"Never mind that," replied her husband, "do concede this point,
dearest; if not because it is best that you should, then because I wish it,
and ask it of you. You say that your first desire is to make me happy,
and you pain me exceedingly by your - I had almost said perverse-
ness."
Thus, not convinced, but obedient, Ethel agreed to allow him to
depart alone. She bargained that she should be permitted to come
each day in a hackney coach to a place where he might meet her, and
they could spend an hour or two together. Edward did not like this
plan at all, but there was no remedy. "You are at least resolved," he
said, "to spur my endeavours; I will not rest day or night, till I am
enabled to get away from this vast dungeon."
The hours stole on. Even Edward's buoyant spirits could not bear up
against the sadness of watching the fleeting moments till the one should
come, which must separate him from his wife. "This nice, dear room,"
he said, "I am sure I beg its pardon for having despised it so much for-
merly - it is not as lofty as a church, nor as grand as a palace, but it is
very snug; and now you are in it, I discern even elegance in its exceed-
ingly queer tables and chairs. When our carriage broke down on the
Apennines, how glad we should have been if a room like this had risen,
'like an exhalation' for our shelter! Do you remember the barn of a
place we got into there, and our droll bed of the leaves of Indian corn,
which crackled all night long, and awoke us twenty times with the fear
of robbers?
2
 Then, indeed, twelve o'clock was not to separate us!"
As he said this he sighed; the hour of eleven was indicated by
Ethel's watch, and still he lingered; but she grew frightened for him,
1 "were" in the first edition.
2 The Shelleys had a similar experience in 1818. See Holmes, Shelley 422.
32 0 MARY SHELLE Y
and forced him to go away, while he besought the delay of but a few
minutes.
Ethel exerted herself to endure as well as she could the separation
of the ensuing week. She was not of a repining disposition, yet she
found it very hard to bear. The discomfort to which Villiers was
exposed annoyed her, and the idea that she was not permitted to alle-
viate it added to her painful feelings. In her prospect of life every evil
was neutralized when shared — now they were doubled, because the
pain of absence from each other was superadded. She did not yield to
her husband, in her opinion that this was wrong. She was willing to
go anywhere with him, and where he was, she also could be. There
could be no degradation in a wife waiting on the fallen fortunes of
her husband. No debasement can arise from any services dictated by
love. It is despicable to submit to hardship for unworthy and worldly
objects, but every thing that is suffered for the sake of affection, is hal-
lowed by the disinterested sentiment, and affords triumph and delight
to the willing victim. Sometimes she tried in speech or on paper to
express these feelings, and so by the force of irresistible reasoning to
persuade Edward to permit her to join him; but all argument was
weak; there was something beyond, that no words could express,
which was stronger than any reason in her heart. Who can express the
power of faithful and single-hearted love? As well attempt to define
the laws of life, which occasions a continuity of feeling from the brain
to the extremity of the frame, as try to explain how love can so unite
two souls, as to make each feel maimed and half alive, while divided. A
powerful impulse was perpetually urging Ethel to go - to a place her-
self near Villiers — to refuse to depart. It was with the most violent
struggles that she overcame the instigation.
She could never forget herself while away from him, or find the
slightest alleviation to her disquietude, except while conversing with
Fanny Derham, or rather while drawing her out, and listening to her,
and wondering at a mechanism of mind so different from her own.
Each had been the favourite daughter of men of superior qualities of
mind. They had been educated by their several fathers with the most
sedulous care, and nothing could be more opposite than the result,
except that, indeed, both made duty the master motive of their
actions. Ethel had received, so to speak, a sexual education. Lord
LODOR E 321
Lodore had formed his ideal of what a woman ought to be, of what
he had wished to find his wife, and sought to mould his daughter
accordingly. Mr. Derham contemplated the duties and objects befit-
ting an immortal soul, and had educated his child for the performance
of them. The one fashioned his offspring to be the wife of a frail
human being, and instructed her to be yielding, and to make it her
duty to devote herself to his happiness, and to obey his will. The other
sought to guard his from all weakness, to make her complete in her-
self, and to render her independent and self-sufficing.
1
 Born to pover-
ty as Fanny was, it was thus only that she could find happiness in
rising above her sphere; and, besides, a sense of pride, surviving his
sense of injury, caused him to wish that his child should set her heart
on higher things, than the distinctions and advantages of riches or
rank; so that if ever brought into collision with his own family, she
could look down with calm superiority on the "low ambition"
2
 of
the wealthy. While Ethel made it her happiness and duty to give her-
self away with unreserved prodigality to him, whom she thought had
every claim to her entire devotion; Fanny zealously guarded her indi-
viduality, and would have scorned herself could she have been
brought to place the treasures of her soul at the disposal of any power,
except those moral laws which it was her earnest endeavour never to
transgress. Religion, reason, and justice - these were the landmarks of
her life. She was kind-hearted, generous, and true - so also was Ethel;
but the one was guided by the tenderness of her heart, while the
other consulted her understanding, and would have died rather than
have acted contrary to its dictates.
3
To guard Ethel from every contamination, Lord Lodore had
secluded her from all society, and forestalled every circumstance that
might bring her into conjunction with her fellow-creatures. He was
equally careful to prevent her fostering any pride, except that of sex;
and never spoke to her as if she were of an elevated rank: and the
1 This passage is essential to the debate about women's education that Shelley enter-
tains in the novel.
2 Either "low ambition, and the pride of kings" (Pope, An Essay on Man [1732-1734]
Epistle 1.2) or "Low ambition and the thirst of praise" (William Cowper, Table Talk
[1782] 591)-
3 Fanny seems to illustrate the teachings ofWollstonecraft.
32 2 MARY SHELLEY
communication, however small, which she necessarily had with the
Americans, made such ideas foreign to her mind. But she was exceed-
ingly shy; tremblingly alive to the slightest repulse; and never perfectly
fearless, (morally so, that is) except when under the shelter of anoth-
er's care. Fanny's first principle was, that what she ought to do, that
she could do, without hesitation or regard for obstacles. She had
something Quixotic in her nature; or rather she would have had, if a
clear head and some experience, even young as she was, had not stood
in the way of her making any glaring mistakes, so that her enterprises
were never ridiculous; and being usually successful, could not be
called extravagant. For herself, she needed but her liberty and her
books; - for others, she had her time, her thoughts, her decided and
resolute modes of action, all at their command, whenever she was
convinced that they had a just claim upon them.
It was singular that the resolute and unshrinking Fanny should be
the daughter of Francis Derham; and the timid, retiring Ethel, of his
bold and daring protector. But this is no uncommon case. We feel the
evil results of our own faults, and endeavour to guard our children
from them; forgetful that the opposite extreme has also its peculiar
dangers. Lord Lodore attributed his early misfortunes to the too great
freedom he had enjoyed, or rather to the unlimited scope given to his
will, from his birth. Mr. Derham saw the unhappiness that had sprung
from his own yielding and undecided disposition. The one brought
up his child to dependence; the other taught his to disdain every sup-
port, except the applause of her own conscience. Lodore fostered all
the sensibility, all the softness, of Ethel's feminine and delicatfe]
1
nature; while Fanny's father strove to harden and confirm a character,
in itself singularly stedfast and upright.
In spite of the great contrast thus exhibited between Ethel and
Fanny, one quality created a good deal of similarity between them.
There as in both a total absence of every factitious sentiment. They
acted from their own hearts — from their own sense of right, without
the intervention of worldly considerations. A feeling of duty ruled all
their actions; and, however excellent a persons dispositions may be, it
yet requires considerable elevation of character never to deviate from
i Final "e" missing in the first edition.
LODOR E 323
the strict line of honour and integrity.
Fanny's society a little relieved Ethel's solitude: yet that did not
weigh on her; and had she not been the child of her father s earliest
friend, and the companion of past days, she would have been disin-
clined, at this period, to cultivate an intimacy with her. She needed no
companion except the thought of Edward, which was never absent
from her mind. But amidst all her affection for her husband, which
gained strength, and, as it were, covered each day a larger portion of
her being, any one associated with the name of Lodore — of her
beloved father, had a magic power to call forth her warmest feelings
of interest. Both ladies repeated to each other what they had heard
from their several parents. Mr. Derham had, among his many lessons
of usefulness, descanted on the generosity and boldness of Fitzhenry,
as offering an example to be followed. And during the last months of
Lodore s life, he had recurred, with passionate fondness, to the memo-
ry of his early years, and painted in glowing colours the delicacy of
feeling, the deep sense of gratitude, and the latent but fervid enthusi-
asm, which adorned the character of Francis Derham.
32 4 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER III.
It does much trouble me to live without you:
Our loves and loving souls have been so used
To one household in us.
THE week passed on. It was the month of January, and very cold. A
black frost bound up every thing with ice, and the piercing air con-
gealed the very blood. Each day Ethel went to see her husband; —
each day she had to encounter Mrs. Derham's intreaties not to go, and
the reproaches ofVilliers for coming. Both were unavailing to prevent
the daily pilgrimage. Mrs. Derham sighed heavily when she saw her
enter the ricketty hackney-coach, whose damp lining, gaping win-
dows, and miserable straw, made it a cold-bed for catarrh - a very tem-
ple for the spirit of winter. Villiers each day besought her to have
horses put to their chariot, if she must come; but Ethel remembered
all he had ever said of expense, and his prognostications of how ill she
would be able to endure the petty, yet galling annoyances of poverty;
and she resolved to prove, that she could cheerfully bear every thing
except separation from him. With this laudable motive to incite her,
she tasked her strength too far. She kept up her spirits to meet him
with a cheerful countenance; and she contrived to conceal the suffer-
ings she endured while they were together. They got out and walked
now and then; and this tended to keep up the vital warmth. Their
course was generally taken over Blackfriars Bridge; and it was on their
return across the river, on whose surface large masses of ice floated,
while a bitter north-east wind swept up, bearing on its blasts the
unthawed breath of the German Ocean, that she felt the cold enter
her heart, and made her head feel dizzy. Still she could smile, and ask
Villiers why he objected to her taking an exercise even necessary for
her health; and repeat again and again, that, bred in America, an Eng-
lish winter was but a faint reflex of what she had encountered there,
and insist upon being permitted to come on the following day. These
were precious moments in her eyes, worth all the pain they occa-
i Valentiniati (1647) 3.3.
LODOR E 325
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
sioned, — well worth the struggle she made for the repetition.
Edward's endearing attentions - the knowledge she had that she was
loved - the swelling and earnest affection that warmed her own heart,
- hallowed these hard-earned minutes, and gave her the sweet plea-
sure of knowing that she demonstrated, in some slight degree, the
profound and all-engrossing attachment which pervaded her entire
being. They parted; and often she arrived nearly senseless at Duke
Street, and once or twice fainted on entering the warm room: but it
was not pain she felt then - the emotions of the soul conquered the
sensation of her body, and pleasure, the intense pleasure of affection,
was predominant through all.
Sunday came again, and brought Villiers to her home. Mrs. Der-
ham took the opportunity to represent to him the injury that Ethel
was doing herself; and begged him, as he cared for her health, to for-
bid her exposing herself to the inclement weather.
"You hear this, Ethel," said Villiers; "and yet you are obstinate. Is
this right? What can I urge, what can I do, to prevent this wrong-
headed pertinacity?"
"You use such very hard words," replied Ethel, smiling, "that you
frighten me into believing myself criminal. But so far am I from con-
ceding, that you only give me courage to say, that I cannot any longer
endure the sad and separate life we lead. It must be changed, dearest;
we must be together."
Villiers was pacing the room impatiently: with an exclamation
almost approaching to anger, he stopped before his wife, to remon-
strate and to reproach. But as he gazed upon her upturned face, fixed
so beseechingly and fondly on him, he fancied that he saw the hues of
ill-health stealing across her cheeks, and thinness displacing the
roundness of her form. A strange emotion flashed across him; a new
fear, too terrible even to be acknowledged to himself, which passed,
like the shadow of a storm, across his anticipations, and filled him
with inquietude. His reprehension was changed to a caress, as he said,
"You are right, my love, quite right; we must not live thus.You are
unable to take care of yourself; and I am very wrong to give up my
dearest privilege, of watching day and night over the welfare of my
only treasure. We will be together, Ethel; if the worst come, it cannot
be very bad, while we are true to each other."
32 6 MARY SHELLE Y
Tears filled the poor girl's eyes — tears of joy and tenderness — at
hearing Edward echo the sentiments she cherished as the most sacred
in the world. For a few minutes, they forgot every thing in the affec-
tionate kiss, which ratified, as it were, this new law; and then Edward
considered how best he could carry into effect.
"Gayland," he said, (he was his solicitor,) "has appointed to see me
on Thursday morning, and has good hopes of definitively arranging
the conditions for the loan of the five hundred pounds, which is to
enable us to wait for better things. On Thursday evening, we will
leave town. We will go to some pretty country inn, to wait till I have
signed these papers; and trust to Providence that no ill will arise. We
must not be more than fifteen or twenty miles from London; so that
when I am obliged to go up, I can return again in a few hours. Tell
me, sweet, does this scheme please you?"
Ethel expressed her warmest gratitude; and then Villiers insinuated
his condition, that she should not come to see him in the interval, but
remain, taking care of herself, till, on Thursday afternoon, at six
o'clock, she came, with their chariot, to the northern side of St. Paul's
Churchyard, where he would immediately join her. They might
write, meanwhile: he promised letters as long as if they were to go to
India; and soothed her annoyance with every expression of thankful-
ness at her giving up this point. She did give it up, with all the readi-
ness she could muster; and this increased, as he dwelt upon the
enjoyment they would share, in exchanging foggy, smoky London, for
the ever-pleasing aspect of nature, which, even during frost and snow,
possesses her own charms - her own wonders; and can gratify our
senses by a thousand forms of beauty, which have no existence in a
dingy metropolis.
When the evening hour came for the young pair to separate, their
hearts were cheered by the near prospect of re-union; and a belief that
the, to them, trivial privations of poverty were the only ones they
would have to endure. The thrill of fear which had crossed the mind
ofVilliers, as to the health and preservation of his wife, had served to
dissipate the lingering sense of shame and degradation inspired by the
penury of their situation. He felt that there was something better than
wealth, and the attendance of his fellow-creatures; something worse
than poverty, and the world's scorn. Within the fragile form of Ethel,
LODOR E 327
there beat a heart of more worth than a king's ransom; and its pulsa-
tions were ruled by him. To lose her! What would all that earth can
afford, of power or splendour, appear without her? He pressed her to
his bosom, and knew that his arms encircled all life's worth for him.
Never again could he forget the deep-felt appreciation of her value,
which then took root in his mind; while she, became conscious, by
force of sympathy, of the kind of revolution that was made in his sen-
timents, felt that the foundations of her life grew strong, and that her
hopes in this world became stedfast and enduring. Before, a wall of
separation, however slight, had divided them; they had followed a sys-
tem of conduct independent of each other, and passed their censure
upon the ideas of either. This was over now - they were one - one
sense of right - one feeling of happiness; and when they parted that
night, each felt that they truly possessed the other; and that by min-
gling every hope and wish, they had confirmed the marriage of their
hearts.
32 8 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER IV.
Think but whither
Now you can go; what you can do to live;
How near you have barred all ports to your own
succour.
Except this one that here I open, love.
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
THE most pleasing thoughts shed their balmy influence on Ethel's
repose that night. Edward s scheme of a country inn, where the very
freedom would make them more entirely dependent upon each
other, was absolutely enchanting. Where we establish ourselves, and
look forward to the passage of a long interval of time, we form ties
with, and assume duties towards, many of our fellow-creatures, each
of which must diminish the singleness of the soul's devotion towards
the selected one. No doubt this is the fitting position for human
beings to place themselves in, as affording a greater scope for utility:
but for a brief space, to have no occupation but that of contributing
to the happiness of him to whom her life was consecrated, appeared
to Ethel a very heaven upon earth. It was not that she was narrow-
hearted: so much affection demands a spacious mansion for its abode;
but in their present position of struggle and difficulty, there was no
possibility of extending her sphere of benevolence, and she gladly
concentrated her endeavours in the one object whose happiness was
in her hands.
All night, even in sleep, a peculiar sense of calm enjoyment
soothed the mind of Ethel, and she awoke in the morning with buoy-
ant spirits, and a soul all alive to its own pleasurable existence. She sat
at her little solitary breakfast table, musing with still renewed delight
upon the prospect opened before her, when suddenly she was startled
by the vision of an empty purse. What could Villiers intend? She felt
assured that his stock was very nearly exhausted, and for herself two
sovereigns, which were not sufficient to meet the demands of the last
week, was all that she possessed. She tried to recollect if Edward had
i Love's Pilgrimage (1647) 5.4.
LODOR E 329
. . . . . .
said any thing that denoted any expectation of receiving money; on
the contrary — diving into the recesses of her memory, she called to
mind that he had said, "We shall receive your poor little dividend of a
hundred pounds, in less than a fortnight, so we shall be able to live,
even if Gayland should delay getting the other money — I suppose we
have enough to get on till then."
He had said this inquiringly, and she knew that she had made a
sign of assent, though at the time, she had no thought of the real pur-
port of his question or of her answer. What was to be done? The obvi-
ous consequence of her reflections was at once to destroy the
cherished scheme of going out of town with Villiers. This was a mis-
fortune too great to bear, and she at last decided upon having again
recourse to her aunt. Unused to every money transaction, she had not
that terror of obligation, nor dislike of asking, which is so necessary to
preserve our independence, and even our sense of justice, through life.
Money had always been placed like counters in her hand; she had
never known whence it came, and until her marriage, she had never
disposed of more than very small sums. Subsequently Villiers had been
the director of their expenses. This was the faulty part of her father's
system of education. But Lodore's domestic habits were for a great
part founded on experience in foreign countries, and he forgot that
an English wife is usually the cashier - the sole controller of the dis-
bursements of her family. It seemed as easy a thing for Ethel to ask for
money from Mrs. Fitzhenry, as she knew it would be easy for her to
give. In compliance, however, with Villiers s notions, she limited her
request to ten pounds, and tried to word her letter so as to create no
suspicion in her aunt's mind with regard to their resources. This task
achieved, she dismissed every annoying thought, and when Fanny
came to express her hope, that, bleak and snowy as was the day, she
did not intend to make her accustomed pilgrimage, with a counte-
nance beaming with delight, she dilated on their plan, and spoke as if
on the much-desired Thursday, the gates of Elysium were to be
thrown open for her.
There would have appeared something childish in her gladness to
the abstracted and philosophic mind of Fanny, but that the real evils of
her situation, and the fortitude, touching in its unconscious simplicity,
with which she encountered them, commanded respect. Ethel, as well
33 0 MARY SHELLE Y
as her friend, was elevated above the common place of life; she also
fostered a state of mind, "lofty and magnificent, fitted rather to com-
mand than to obey, not only suffering patiently, but even making light
of all human cares; a grand and dignified self-possession, which fears
nothing, yields to no one, and remains for ever unvanquished."
1
 When
Fanny, in one of their conversations, while describing the uses of phi-
losophy, had translated this eulogium of its effects from Cicero, Ethel
had exclaimed, "This is love — it is love alone that divides us from sor-
did earth-born thoughts, and causes us to walk alone, girt by its own
beauty and power."
Fanny smiled; yet while she saw slavery rather than a proud inde-
pendence in the creed of Ethel, she admired the warmth of heart
which could endow with so much brilliancy a state of privation and
solitude. At the present moment, when Mrs.Villiers was rapturously
announcing their scheme for leaving London, an expression of pain
mantled over Fannys features; her clear blue eyes became suffused, a
large tear gathered on her lashes. "What is the matter?" asked Ethel
anxiously.
"That I am a fool — but pardon me, for the folly is already passed
away. For the first time you have made it hard for me to keep my soul
firm in its own single existence. I have been debarred from all inter-
course with those whose ideas rise above the soil on which they
tread, except in my dear books, and I thought I should never be
attached to any thing but them. Yet do not think me selfish, Mr.Vil-
liers is quite right — it is much better that you should not be apart — I
am delighted with his plan."
"Away or near, dear Fanny," said Ethel, in a caressing tone, "I never
can forget your kindness - never cease to feel the warmest friendship
for you. Remember, our fathers were friends, and their children
ought to inherit the same faithful attachment."
Fanny smiled faintly. "You must not seduce me from my resolves,"
Emily Sunstein suggests that Shelley looked to Cicero for "spiritual strength" (174).
Between 1824-26 she kept a card with a Ciceronian quotation from Defaiibus bono-
mrn et malorum ("About the Ends of Goods and Evils," 45 B.C., Book 2, 14.46) in
her reticule (Sunstein 264). Fannys quotation is a version of it; perhaps Shelley is
quoting from memory. She is giving her character sentiments which are of impor-
tance to Shelley herself.
LODOR E 331
I
she said. "I know my fate in this world, and I am determined to be
true to myself to the end. Yet I am not ungrateful to you, even while I
declare, that I shall do my best to forget this brief interval, during
which, I have no longer, like Demogorgon, lived alone in my own
world, but become aware that there are ties of sympathy between me
and my fellow-creatures, in whose existence I did not believe
before."
1
Fannys language, drawn from her books, not because she tried to
imitate, but because conversing perpetually with them, it was natural
that she should adopt their style, was always energetic and imagina-
tive; but her quiet manner destroyed every idea of exaggeration of
sentiment: it was necessary to hear her soft and low, but very distinct
voice to utter her lofty sentiments, to be conscious that the calm of
deep waters was the element in which she dwelt - not the fretful
breakers that spend themselves in sound.
2
The day seemed rather long to Ethel, who counted the hours until
Thursday. Gladly she laid her head on the pillow at night, and bade
adieu to the foregone hours. The first thing that awoke her in the
morning, was the postman's knock; it brought, as she had been
promised, a long, long letter from Edward. He had never before writ-
ten with so much affection or with such an overflowing of tender-
ness, that made her the centre of his world - the calm fair lake to
receive into its bosom the streams of thought and feeling which
flowed from him, and yet which, after all, had their primal source in
her. "I am a very happy girl," thought Ethel, as she kissed the beloved
papers, and gazed on them in ecstasy; "more happy than I thought it
was ever given us to be in this world."
She rose and began to dress; she delayed reading more than a line
or two, that she might enjoy her dearest pleasure for a longer time -
then again, unable to controul her impatience, she sat half dressed, and
finished all - and was beginning anew, when there was a tap at her
door. It was Fanny. She looked disturbed and anxious, and Ethel's fears
were in a moment awake.
1 Demogorgon is a figure representing Necessity in Percy Shelley's Prometheus
Unbound (1820).
2 An echo of Cordelia's voice as described by Lear in Shakespeare's King Lear
5.3.272-273:"Her voice was ever soft, / Gentle, and low."
33 2 MARY SHELLEY
"Something annoying has occurred," she said; "yet I do not think
that there is any thing to dread, though there is a danger to prevent."
"Speak quickly," cried Ethel, "do not keep me in suspense."
"Be calm — it is nothing sudden, it is only a repetition of the old
story. A boy has just been here — a boy you gave a sovereign to — do
you remember? — the night of your arrival. It seems that he has vowed
himself to your service ever since. Those two odious men, who were
here once, are often at his master's place - an alehouse, you know.
Well, yesterday night, he overheard them saying, that Mr.Villiers's
resort at the London coffee-house, was discovered, or at least suspect-
ed, and that a writ was to be taken out against him in the city."
"What does that mean?" cried Ethel.
"That Mr.Villiers will probably be arrested to-day, or to-morrow, if
he remains where he is."
"I will go directly to him," cried Ethel; "we must leave town at
once. God grant that I am not too late!"
Seeing her extreme agitation, Fanny remained with her - forced
her to take some breakfast, and then, fearing that if any thing had real-
ly taken place, she would be quite bewildered, asked her permission to
accompany her. "Will you indeed come with me?" Ethel exclaimed,
"How dear, how good you are! O yes, do come — I can never go
through it all alone; I shall die, if I do not find him."
A hackney coach had been called, and they hastened with what
speed they might, to their destination. A kind of panic seized upon
Ethel, a tremor shook her limbs, so that when they at last stopped, she
was unable to speak. Fanny was about to ask for Mr.Villiers, when an
exclamation of joy from Ethel stopped her; Edward had seen them,
and was at the coach door. The snow lay thick around on the roofs of
the houses, and on every atom of vantage ground it could obtain; it
was then snowing, and as the chilly fleece dropped through or was
driven about in the dark atmosphere, it spread a most disconsolate
appearance over every thing; and nothing could look more dreary
than poor Ethel's jumbling vehicle, with its drooping animals, and the
half-frozen driver.Villiers had made up his mind that he should never
be mortified by seeing her again in this sort of equipage, and he hur-
ried down, the words of reproach already on his lips, "Is this your
promise?" he asked.
LODOR E 333
"Yes, dearest, it is. Come in, there is danger here. - Come in - we
must go directly."
Seeing Fanny,Villiers became aware that there was some absolute
cause for their journey, so he obeyed and quickly heard the danger
that threatened him. "It would have been better," he said, "that you
had come in the carriage, and that we had instantly left town."
"Impossible!" cried Ethel; "till to-morrow - that is quite impossi-
ble. We have no money until to-morrow."
"Well, my love, since it is so, we must arrange as well as we can. Do
you return home immediately — this cold will kill you. I will take care
of myself, and you can come for me on Thursday evening, as we pro-
posed."
"Do not ask it of me, Edward," said Ethel; "I cannot leave you. I
could never live through these two days away from you - you must
not desire it - you will kill me."
Edward kissed her pale cheek. "You tremble," he said; "how vio-
lently you tremble! Good God! what can we do? What would you
have me do?"
"Any thing, so that we remain together. It is of so little conse-
quence where we pass the next twenty-four hours, so that we are
together. There are many hotels in town."
"I must not venture to any of these; and then to take you in this
miserable manner, without servants, or any thing to command atten-
dance. But you shall have your own way; having deprived you of
every other luxury, at least, you shall have your will; which, you know,
compensates for every thing with your obstinate sex."
Ethel smiled, rejoicing to find him in so good and accommodating
a humour. "Yes, pretty one," he continued, marking her feelings, "you
shall be as wretched and uncomfortable as your heart can desire. We
will play the incognito in such a style, that if our adventures were
printed, they would compete with those of Don Quixote and the fair
Dulcinea.
1
 But Miss Derham must not be admitted into our vagabon-
dizing — we will not detain her."
The allusion is to Cervantes, Don Quixote (1605). Dulcinea delToboso is the name
Quixote gives to a peasant girl,Alonza Lorenzo, whom he names the mistress of his
heart.The English use "Dulcinea" to signify a sweetheart.
33 4 MARY SHELLEY
1
"Yet she must know whither we are going, to bring us the letters
that will confer freedom on us."
Villiers wrote hastily an address on a card. "You will find us there,"
he said. "Do not mention names when you come. We shall remain, I
suppose, till Thursday."
"But we shall see you some time to-morrow, dear Fanny?" asked
Ethel. Already she looked bright and happy; she esteemed herself for-
tunate to have gained so easily a point she had feared she must strug-
gle for — or perhaps give up altogether. Fanny left them, and the
coachman having received his directions, drove slowly on through the
deep snow, which fell thickly on the road; while they, nestling close to
each other, were so engrossed by the gladness of re-union, that had
Cinderella's godmother transmuted their crazy vehicle for a golden
coach, redolent of the perfumes of fairy land, they had scarcely been
aware of the change. Their own hearts formed a more real fairy land,
which accompanied them whithersoever they went, and could as eas-
ily spread its enchantments over the shattered machine in which they
now jumbled along, as amidst the cloth of gold and marbles of an
eastern palace.
LODOR E 335
CHAPTER V.
Few people know how little is necessary to live.
What is called or thought hardship is nothing; one
unhappy feeling is worse than a thousand years of it.
LOR D EDWARD FITZGERALD.
1
UNCERTAI N what to do,Villiers had hastily determined that they
should take up their abode at a little inn near Brixton,
2
 to wait till
Thursday. He did not know the place except by having passed it, and
observed a smart landlady at the door; so he trusted that it would be
neat and clean. There was nothing imposing in the appearance of the
young pair and their hackney coach, accordingly there was no
bustling civility displayed to receive them. However, when the fire
was once lighted, the old-fashioned sofa drawn near, and dinner
ordered, they sat together and felt very happy; outcasts though they
were, wanderers from civilized existence, shut out, through poverty,
from the refinements and gilt elegancies of life.
One only cloud there was, whenVilliers asked his wife an explana-
tion about their resources, and inquired whence she expected to
receive money on the following day Ethel explained. Villiers looked
disturbed. There was something almost of anger in his voice, when he
said, "And so, Ethel, you feel no compunction in acting in exact
opposition to my wishes, my principles, my resolves?"
"But, dear Edward, what can principles have to do with borrowing
a few pounds from dear good Aunt Bessy? Besides, we can repay her."
"Be assured that we shall," replied Villiers; "and you will never
again, I trust, behave so unjustly by me. There are certain things in
which we must judge and act for ourselves, and the question of
money transactions is one. I may suffer - and you, alas! may also,
through poverty; though you have taken pains to persuade me, that
you do not feel the struggles, which, for your sake chiefly, embitter
1 Thomas Moore, The Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald (London: Longman
and Co, 1831), volume i, 150. Shelley reviewed the book for the Westminster Review
16(1832): 110-21.
2 Brixton is a section of south London at the southern terminus of the Victoria
underground line. The southern route out of London runs through Brixton. In the
18305 it was a rural area.
33 6 MARY SHELLE Y
my existence. Yet they are nothing in comparison with the loss of my
independence - the sense of obligation - the knowledge that my kind
friends can talk over my affairs, take me to task, and call me a burthen
to them. Why am I as I am? I have friends and connexions who
would readily assist me in this extremity, if I asked it, and I might turn
their kind feelings into sterling gold if I would; but I have no desire to
work this transmutation — I prefer their friendship."
"Do you mean," inquired his wife, "that your friends would not
love you the better for having been of service to you?"
"If they could serve me without annoyance to themselves they
might; but high in rank and wealthy as many of my relations are, there
is not one among them, at least of those to whom I could have
recourse, who do not dispose of their resources to the uttermost
shilling, in their own way. I then come to interfere with and to dis-
arrange their plans; at first, this might not be much — but presently
they would weigh me against the gold I needed, and it might happen,
that my scale would kick the beam.
"I speak for myself not for others; I may be too proud, too sensitive
— but so I am. Ever since I knew what pecuniary obligations were, I
resolved to lay under such to no man, and this resolve was stronger
than my love for you; judge therefore of its force, and the violence
you do me, when you would oblige me to act against it. Did I begin
to borrow, a train of thoughts would enter the lenders mind; the con-
sciousness of which, would haunt me like a crime. My actions would
be scanned — I should be blamed for this, rebuked for that — even your
name, my Ethel, which I would place, like a star in the sky, far above
their mathematical measurements, would become stale in their
mouths, and the propriety of our marriage canvassed: could you bear
that?"
"I yield to all you say," she answered; "yet this is strange morality.
Are generosity, benevolence, and gratitude, to be exploded among us?
Is justice, which orders that the rich give of his superfluity to the
poor, to be banished from the world?"
"You are eloquent," said Villiers; "but, my little wild American, this
is philosophy for the back-woods only. We have got beyond the
primeval simplicity of barter and exchange among gentlemen; and it
is such if I give gratitude in return for fifty pounds: by-and-by my fel-
LODOR E 337
low-trader may grumble at the bargain. All this will become very
clear to you hereafter, I fear - when knowledge of the world teaches
you what sordid knaves we all are; it is to prevent your learning this
lesson in a painful way, that I guard you so jealously from making a
wrong step at this crisis."
"You speak of dreams," said Ethel, "as if dear aunt Bessy would feel
any thing but pleasure in sending her mite to her own dear niece."
"I have told you what I wish," replied her husband, "my honour is
in your hands; and I implore you, on this point, to preserve it in the
way I desire. There is but one relationship that authorizes any thing
like community of goods, it is that of parent and child; but we are
orphans, dearest — step-children, who are not permitted to foster our
filial sentiments. My father is unworthy of his name — the animal who
destroys its offspring at its birth is merciful in comparison with him:
had he cast me off at once, I should have hardened my hands with
labour, and earned my daily bread; but I was trained to "high-born
necessities," and have all the "wide wants and narrow powers"*
1
 of the
heir of wealth. But let us dismiss this ungrateful subject. I never will-
ingly advert, even in my own mind, to my father's unpaternal con-
duct. Let us instead fancy, sweet love, that we were born to what we
have — that we are cottagers, the children of mechanics, or wanderers
in a barbarous country, where money is not; and imagine that this
repose, this cheerful fire, this shelter from the pelting snow without, is
an unexpected blessing. Strip a man bare to what nature made him,
and place him here, and what a hoard of luxury and wealth would not
this room contain! In the Illinois, love, few mansions could compete
with this."
This was speaking in a language which Ethel could easily compre-
hend; she had several times wished to express this very idea, but she
feared to hurt the refined and exclusive feelings of her husband. A
splendid dwelling, costly living, and many attendants, were with her
the adjuncts, not the material, of life. If the stage on which she played
her part was to be so decorated, it was well; if otherwise, the change
did not merit her attention. Love scoffed at such idle trappings, and
could build his tent of canvas, and sleep close nestled in her heart as
i The Cenci. (Shelley's note).
33 8 MARY SHELLE Y
softly, being only the more lovely and the more true, from the absence
of every meretricious ornament.
This was another of Ethels happy evenings, when she felt drawn
close to him she loved, and found elysium in the intimate union of
their thoughts. The dusky room showed them but half to each other;
and the looks of each, beaming with tenderness, drank life from one
another's gaze.The soft shadows thrown on their countenances, gave a
lamp-like lustre to their eyes, in which the purest spirit of affection
sat, weaving such unity of sentiment, such strong bonds of attach-
ment, as made all life dwindle to a point, and freighted the passing
minute with the hopes and fears of their entire existence. Not much
was said, and their words were childish — words
Intellette dar loro soli ambedui,
1
which a listener would have judged to be meaningless. But the mys-
tery of love gave a deep sense to each syllable. The hours flew lightly
away. There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to disturb. Night came
and the day was at an end; but Ethel looked forward to the next, with
faith in its equal felicity, and did not regret the fleet passage of time.
They had been asked during the evening if they were going by any
early coach on the following morning, and a simple negative was
given. On that morning they sat at their breakfast, with some diminu-
tion of the sanguine hopes of the previous evening. For morning is
the time for action, of looking forward, of expectation, - and they
must spend this in waiting, cooped up in a little room, overlooking no
cheering scene. A high road, thickly covered with snow, on which
various vehicles were perpetually passing, was immediately before
them. Opposite was a row of mean-looking houses, between which
might be distinguished low fields buried in snow; and the dreary
dark-looking sky bending over all, added to the forlorn aspect of
nature.Villiers was very impatient to get away, yet another day must be
passed here, and there was no help.
On the breakfast-table the waiter had placed the bill of the previ-
ous day; it remained unnoticed, and he left it on the table when the
i Petrarch (1304-74) Canzoniere 341.11: "Understood only by us two."
LODOR E 339
things were taken away. "I wonder when Fanny will come," said Ethel.
"Perhaps not at all to-day," observed Villiers, "she knows that we
intend to remain till to-morrow here; and if your aunt's letter is
delayed till then, I see no chance of her coming, nor any use in it."
"But Aunt Bessy will not delay; her answer is certain of arriving
this morning."
"So you imagine, love. You know little of the various chances that
wait upon borrowing."
Soon after, unable to bear confinement to the house, uneasy in his
thoughts, and desirous a little to dissipate them by exercise,Villiers
went out. Ethel, taking a small Shakspeare, which her husband had
had with him at the coffee-house, occupied herself by reading, or
turning from the written page to her own thoughts, gave herself up to
reverie, dwelling on many an evanescent idea, and reverting delight-
edly to many scenes, which her memory recalled. She was one of
those who "know the pleasures of solitude, when we hold commune
alone with the tranquil solemnity of nature." The thought of her
father, of the Illinois, and the measureless forest rose before her, and in
her ear was the dashing of the stream which flowed near their abode.
Her light feet again crossed the prairie, and a thousand appearances of
sky and earth departed for ever, were retraced in her brain. "Would
not Edward be happy there?" she thought: "why should we not go?
We should miss dear Horatio; but what else could we regret that we
leave behind? and perhaps he would join us, and then we should be
quite happy." And then her fancy pictured her new home and all its
delights, till her eyes were suffused with tender feeling, as her imagi-
nation sketched a variety of scenes - the pleasant labours of cultiva-
tion, the rides, the hunting, the boating, all common-place
occurrences, which, attended on by love, were exalted into a perpetu-
al gorgeous procession of beatified hours. And then again she allowed
to herself that Europe or America could contain the same delights.
She recollected Italy, and her feelings grew more solemn and blissful
as she mediated on the wondrous beauty and changeful but deep
interest of that land of memory.
Villiers did not return for some hours; - he also had indulged in
reverie - long-drawn, but not quite so pleasant as that of his inexperi-
enced wife. The realities of life were kneaded up too entirely with his
34 0 MARY SHELLE Y
prospects and schemes, for them to assume the fairy hues that
adorned Ethel's. He could not see the end to his present struggle for
the narrowest independence. Very slender hopes had been held out to
him; and thus he was to drag out an embittered existence, spent upon
sordid cares, till his father died — an ungrateful idea, from which he
turned with a sigh. He walked speedily, on account of the cold; and as
his blood began to circulate more cheerily in his frame, a change
came over the tenor of his thoughts. From the midst of the desolation
in which he was lost, a vision of happiness arose, that forced itself on
his speculations, in spite, as he imagined, of his better reason. The
image of an elegant home, here or in Italy, adorned by Ethel —
cheered by the presence of friends, unshadowed by any cares, present-
ed itself to his mind with strange distinctness and pertinacity. At no
time hadVilliers loved so passionately as now. The difficulties of their
situation had exalted her, who shared them with such cheerful forti-
tude, into an angel of consolation. The pride of man in possessing the
affections of this lovely and noble-minded creature, was blended with
the tenderest desire of protecting and serving herf.]
1
 His heart glowed
with honest joy at the reflection that her happiness depended upon
him solely, and that he was ready to devote his life to secure it. Was
there any action too arduous, any care too minute, to display his grat-
itude and his perfect affection? As his recollection came back, he
found that he was at a considerable distance from her, so he swiftly
turned his steps homeward, (that was his home where she was,) and
scarcely felt that he trod earth as he recollected that each moment
carried him nearer, and that he should soon meet the fond gaze of the
kindest, sweetest eyes in the world.
Thus they met, with a renewed joy, after a short absence, each
reaping, from their separate meditations, a fresh harvest of loving
thoughts and interchange of grateful emotion. Great was the pity that
such was their situation — that circumstances, all mean and trivial,
drew them from their heaven-high elevation, to the more sordid cares
of this dirty planet. Yet why name it pity? their pure natures could
turn the grovelling substance presented to them, to ambrosial food for
the sustenance of love.
i Period omitted in the first edition.
LODOR E 341
CHAPTER VI.
There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.
VILLIER S had not been returned long, when the waiter came in, and
informed them, that his mistress declined serving their dinner, till her
bill of the morning was paid; and then he left the room. The gentle
pair looked at each other, and laughed. "We must wait till Fanny
comes, I fear," said Ethel; "for my purse is literally empty."
"And if Miss Derham should not come?" remarked Villiers.
"But she will! — she has delayed, but I am perfectly certain that she
will come in the course of the day: I do not feel the least doubt about
it."
To quicken the passage of time, Ethel employed herself in netting a
purse, (the inutility of which Villiers smilingly remarked,) while her
husband read to her some of the scenes from Shakspeare's play of
"Troilus and Cressida."The profound philosophy, and intense passion,
of this drama, adorned by the most magnificent poetry that can even
be found in the pages of this prince of poets, caused each to hang
attentive and delighted upon their occupation. As it grew dark,Villiers
stirred up the fire, and still went on; till having with difficulty
decyphered the lines -
"She was beloved — she loved; — she is, and doth;
But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth," -
 2
he closed the book. "It is in vain," he said; "our liberator does not
come; and these churls will not give us lights."
"It is early yet, dearest," replied Ethel; - "not yet four o'clock.
Would Troilus and Cressida have repined at having been left darkling
1 Thomas Moore, "The Fire-Worshippers" Lalla Rookh (1817).
2 Troilus and Cressida 4.5.292-293.
34 2 MARY SHELLEY
LALL A ROOKH.
1
a few minutes? How much happier we are than all the heroes and
heroines that ever lived or were imagined! they grasped at the mere
shadow of the thing, whose substance we absolutely possess. Let us
know and acknowledge our good fortune. God knows, I do, and am
beyond words grateful!"
"It is much to be grateful for - sharing the fortunes of a ruined
man!"
"You do not speak asTroilus does," replied Ethel smiling: "he knew
better the worth of love compared with worldly trifles."
"You would have me protest, then," saidVilliers; -
"But, alas!
I am as true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth;"
1
so that all I can say is, that you are a very ill-used little girl, to be
mated as you are - so buried, with all your loveliness, in this obscurity
- so bound, though akin to heaven, to the basest dross of earth."
"You are poetical, dearest, and I thank you. For my own part, I am in
love with ill luck. I do not think we should have discovered how very
dear we are to each other, had we sailed for ever on a summer sea."
Such talk, a little prolonged, at length dwindled to silence. Edward
drew her nearer to him; and as his arm encircled her waist, she placed
her sweet head on his bosom, and they remained in silent reverie. He,
as with his other hand he played with her shining ringlets, and parted
them on her fair brow, was disturbed in thought, and saddened by a
sense of degradation. Not to be able to defend the angelic creature,
who depended on him, from the world's insults, galled his soul, and
embittered even the heart's union that existed between them. She did
not think — she did know of these things. After many minutes of
silence, she said, - "I have been trying to discover why it is absolute
pleasure to suffer pain for those we love."
"Pleasure in pain! — you speak riddles."
"I do," she replied, raising her head; "but I have divined this. The
great pleasure of love is derived from sympathy — the feeling of union
i Troilus and Cressida 3.2.175-177.
LODOR E 343
- of unity. Any thing that makes us alive to the sense of love - that
imprints deeper on our plastic consciousness the knowledge of the
existence of our affection, causes an increase of happiness. There are
two things to which we are most sensitive - pleasure and pain. But
habit can somewhat dull the first; and that which was in its newness,
ecstasy - our being joined for ever - becomes, like the air we breathe,
a thing we could not live without, but yet in which we are rather pas-
sively than actively happy. But when pain comes to awaken us to a
true sense of how much we love - when we suffer for one another's
dear sake - the consciousness of attachment swells our hearts: we are
recalled from the forgetfulness engendered by custom; and the awak-
ening and renewal of the sense of affection brings with it a joy, that
sweetens to its dregs the bitterest cup."
"Encourage this philosophy, dear Ethel," replied Villiers; "you will
need it: but it shames me to think that I am your teacher in this
mournful truth." As he spoke, his whole frame was agitated by tender-
ness and grief. Ethel could see, by the dull fire-light, a tear gather on
his eye-lashes: it fell upon her hand. She threw her arms round him,
and pressed him to her heart with a passionate gush of weeping, occa-
sioned partly by remorse at having so moved him, and partly by her
heart's overflowing with the dear security of being loved.
They had but a little recovered from this scene, when the waiter,
bringing in lights, announced Miss Derham. Her coming had been
full of disasters. After many threatenings, and much time consumed in
clumsy repairs, her hackney-coach had fairly broken down: she had
walked the rest of the way; but they were much further from town
than she expected; and thus she accounted for her delay. She brought
no news; but held in her hand the letter that contained the means of
freeing them from their awkward predicament.
"We will not stay another minute in this cursed place," saidVilliers:
"we will go immediately to Salt Hill,
1
 where I intended to take you
i Salt Hill, Slough, Buckinghamshire, is near Windsor. Ethel, Aunt Bessy, andVilliers
stayed at an inn there when they visited Eton at the beginning of Volume 2.
Because it is on the Bath Road, there were a number of inns at Salt Hill. Salt Hill
was known for a ceremony in which Eton College students processed to Montem
Mound for the collection of "salt" (which is actually money). See Benjamin Dis-
raeli's novel Coningsby (1844) f°
r a
 description of the procession.
34 4 MARY SHELLEY
to-morrow. I can return by one of the many stages which pass contin-
ually, to keep my appointment with Gayland; and be back with you
again by night. So if these stupid people possess a post-chaise, we will
be gone directly."
Ethel was well pleased with this arrangement; and it was put in
execution immediately. The chaise and horses were easily procured.
They set Fanny down in their way through town. Ethel tried to repay
her kindness by heartfelt thanks; and she, in her placid way, showed
clearly how pleased she was to serve them.
Leaving her in Piccadilly, not far from her own door, they pursued
their way to Salt Hill; and it seemed as if, in this mere change of place,
they had escaped from a kind of prison, to partake again in the immu-
nities and comforts of civilized life. Ethel was considerably fatigued
when she arrived; and her husband feared that he had tasked her
strength too far. The falling and fallen snow clogged up the roads, and
their journey had been long. She slept, indeed, the greater part of the
way, her head resting on him; and her languor and physical suffering
were soothed by emotions the most balmy and by the gladdening
sense of confidence and security.
They arrived at Salt Hill late in the evening. The hours were pre-
cious; for early on the following day,Villiers was obliged to return to
town. On inquiry, he found that his best mode was to go by a night-
coach from Bath, which would pass at seven in the morning. They
were awake half the night, talking of their hopes, their plans, their
probable deliverance from their besetting annoyances. By this time
Ethel had taught her own phraseology, andVilliers had learned to
believe that whatever must happen would fall upon both, and that no
separation could take place fraught with any good to either.
When Ethel awoke, late in the morning, Villiers was gone. Her
watch told her, indeed, that it was near ten o'clock, and that he must
have departed long before. She felt inclined to reproach him for leav-
ing her, though only for a few hours, without an interchange of
adieu. In truth, she was vexed that he was not there: the world
appeared to her so blank, without his voice to welcome her back to it
from out of the regions of sleep. While this slight cloud of ill-humour
(may it be called?) was passing over her mind, she perceived a little
note, left by her husband, lying on her pillow. Kissing it a thousand
LODOR E 345
times, she read its contents, as if they possessed talismanic power. They
breathed the most passionate tenderness: they besought her, as she
loved him, to take care of herself, and to keep up her spirits until his
return, which would be as speedy as the dove flies back to its nest,
where its sweet mate fondly expects him. With these assurances and
blessings to cheer her, Ethel arose. The sun poured its wintry yet
cheering beams into the parlour, and the sparkling, snow-clad earth
glittered beneath. She wrapped herself in her cloak, and walked into
the garden of the hotel. Long immured in London, living as if its fogs
were the universal vesture of all things, her spirits rose to exultation
and delight, as she looked on the blue sky spread cloudlessly around.
As the pure breeze freshened her cheek, a kind of transport seized
her; her spirit took wings; she felt as if she could float on the bosom
of the air — as if there was a sympathy in nature, whose child and
nursling she was, to welcome her back to her haunts, and to reward
her bounteously for coming. The trees, all leafless and snow-
bedecked, were friends and intimates: she kissed their rough barks,
and then laughed at her own folly at being so rapt. The snow-drop, as
it peeped from the ground, was a thing of wonder and mystery; and
the shapes of frost, beautiful forms to be worshipped. All sorrow — all
care passed away, and left her mind as clear and bright as the uncloud-
ed heavens that bent over her.
34 6 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER VII.
Herein
Shall my captivity be made my happiness;
Since what I lose in freedom, I regain
With interest.
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
THE glow of enthusiasm and gladness, thus kindled in her soul, faded
slowly as the sun descended; and human tenderness returned in full
tide upon her. She longed for Edward to speak to; when would he
come back? She walked a little way on the London road; she
returned: still her patience was not exhausted. The sun's orb grew red
and dusky as it approached the horizon: she returned to the house. It
was yet early: Edward could not be expected yet: he had promised to
come as soon as possible; but he had prepared her for the likelihood
of his arrival only by the mail at night. It was long since she had writ-
ten to Saville. Cooped up in town, saddened by her separation from
her husband, or enjoying the brief hours of reunion, she had felt dis-
inclined to write. Her enlivened spirits now prompted her to pour
out some of their overflowings to him. She did not allude to any of
the circumstances of their situation, for Edward had forbidden that
topic: still she had much to say; for her heart was full of benevolence
to all mankind; besides her attachment to her husband, the prospect of
becoming a mother within a few months, opened another source of
tenderness; there seemed to be a superabundance of happiness within
her, a portion of which she desired to impart to those she loved.
Daylight had long vanished, andVilliers did not return. She felt
uneasy: - of course he would come by the mail; yet if he should not -
what could prevent him? Conjectures would force themselves on her,
unreasonable, she told herself; yet her doubts were painful, and she lis-
tened attentively each time that the sound of wheels grew, and again
faded, upon her ear. If the vehicle stopped, she was in a state of excita-
tion that approached alarm. She knew not what she feared; yet her
disquiet increased into anxiety. "Shall I ever see him again?" were
i The Laws of Candy (1647) 3.2.104-107.
LODOR E 347
words that her lips did not utter, and yet which lingered in her heart,
although unaccompanied by any precise idea to her understanding.
She had given a thousand messages to the servants; - and at last the
mail arrived. She heard a step - it was the waiter: - "The gentleman is
not come, ma'am," he said. "I knew it," she thought;—"yet why?
why?" At one time she resolved to set off for town; yet whither to go
- where to find him? An idea struck her, that he had missed the mail;
but as he would not leave her a prey to uncertainty, he would come
by some other conveyance. She got a little comfort from this notion,
and resumed her occupation of waiting; though the vagueness of her
expectations rendered her a thousand times more restless than before.
And all was vain. The mail had arrived at eleven o'clock - at twelve
she retired to her room. She read again and again his note: his injunc-
tion, that she should take care of herself, induced her to go to bed at a
little after one; but sleep was still far from her.Till she could no longer
expect — till it became certain that it must be morning before he
could come, she did not close her eyes. As her last hope quitted her,
she wept bitterly. Where was that joyousness of the morning? - the
exuberant delight with which her veins had tingled, which had paint-
ed life as a blessing? She hid her face in her pillow, and gave herself up
to tears, till sleep at last stole over her senses.
Early in the morning her door opened and her curtain was drawn
aside. She awoke immediately, and saw Fanny Derham standing at her
bed-side.
"Edward! where is he?" she exclaimed, starting up.
"Well, quite well," replied Fanny: "do not alarm yourself, dear Mrs.
Villiers, - he has been arrested."
"I must go to him immediately. Leave me for a little while, dear
Fanny, - I will dress and come to you; do you order the chaise mean-
while. I can hear every thing as we are going to town."
Ethel trembled violently — her speech was rapid but inarticulate;
the paleness that overspread her face blanching even her marble brow,
and the sudden contraction of her features, alarmed Fanny. The words
she had used in communicating her intelligence were cabalistic to
Ethel, and her fears were the more intolerable because mysterious and
undefined; the blood trickled cold in her veins, and a chilly moisture
stood on her forehead. She exerted herself violently to conquer this
34 8 MARY SHELLE Y
weakness, but it shackled her powers, as bands of rope would her
limbs, and after a few moments she sank back on her pillow almost
bereft of life. Fanny sprang to the bell, then sprinkled her with water;
some salts were procured from the landlady, and gradually the colour
revisited her cheeks, and her frame resumed its functions - an hysteric
fit, the first she had ever had, left her at last exhausted but more com-
posed. She herself became frightened lest illness should keep her from
Villiers; she exerted herself to become tranquil, and lay for some time
without speaking or moving. A little refreshment contributed to
restore her, and she turned to Fanny with a faint sweet smile, "You
see," said she, "what a weak, foolish thing I am; but I am well now,
quite rallied — there must be no more delay"
Her cheerful voice and lively manner gave her friend confidence.
Fanny was one who believed much in the mastery of mind, and felt
sure that nothing would be so prejudicial to Mrs.Villiers as contradic-
tion, and obstacles put in the way of her attaining the object of her
wishes. In spite therefore of the good people about, who insisted that
the most disastrous consequences would ensue, she ordered the hors-
es, and prepared for their immediate journey to town. Ethel repaid
her cares with smiles, while she restrained her curiosity, laid as it were
a check on her too impatient movements, and forced a calm of man-
ner which gave her friend courage to proceed.
It was not until they were on their way that the object of their
journey was mentioned. Fanny then spoke of the arrest as a trifling
circumstance — mentioned bail, and twenty things, which Ethel only
comprehended to be mysterious methods of setting him free; and
then also she asked the history of what had happened. The tale was
soon told. The moment Mr. Villiers had entered Piccadilly he had
caused a coach to be called, but on passing to it from the stage, two
men entered it with him, whose errand was too easily explained. He
had driven first to his solicitors, hoping to put every thing in train for
his instant liberation. The day was consumed in these fruitless endeav-
ours - he did not give up hope till past ten at night, when he sent to
Fanny, asking her to go down to Mrs .Villiers as early as possible in the
morning, and to bring her up to town. His wish was, he said, that
Ethel should take up her abode at Mrs. Derham s till this affair could
be arranged, and they were enabled to leave London. His note was
LODOR E 349
hurried; he promised that another, more explicit, should await his
wife on her arrival.
"You will tell the driver," said Ethel, when this story was finished,
"to drive to Edward's prison. I would not stay away five minutes from
him in his present situation to purchase the universe."
Any one but Miss Derham might have resisted Ethels wish - have
argued with her, and irritated her by the display of obstacles and
inconveniences. It was not Fanny's method ever to oppose the desires
of others. They knew best, she affirmed, their own sensations, and
what was most fitting for them. What is best for me, habit, education,
and a different texture of character, may render the worst for them. In
the present instance, also, she saw that Ethel's feelings were almost too
high wrought for her strength - that opposition, by making a further
call on her powers, might upset them wholly. She had besides, the
deepest respect for her attachment to her husband, and was willing to
reward it by bringing her to him without delay. Having thus fortu-
nately fallen into reasonable hands, guided by one who could under-
stand her character, and not torture her by forcing notions the
opposite of those on which she felt herself compelled to act, Ethel
became tranquil, and saw the mere panic of inexperience in her pre-
vious excessive alarm.
They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the
window of the chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little
stared, but said nothing. She gave things their own names, and never
dreamt of saving appearances, as it is called. What ought to be done,
that she dared do in the face of the whole world, and therefore to
make a mystery of their destination never once occurred to her. They
drove through the long interminable suburbs - through Piccadilly and
the Strand. Ethel's cheeks flushed with the excitement, and something
like apprehension made her heart flutter. She had endeavoured to
form an image in her own mind of whither they were going — it was
vague and therefore frightful - but Edward was there, and she also
would share the horrors of his prison-house.
They passed through Temple Bar, and going down an obscure
street or two, stopped at a dingy door-way. "This is not right," said
Ethel, almost gasping for breath, "this is not a prison."
"Something very like it, as you will find too soon," said her friend.
35 0 MARY SHELLEY
Still Ethel's imagination was relieved by the absence of the massy
walls, the portentous gates, the gloomy immensity of an absolute
prison. The door of the house being opened, Ethel stepped out from
the chaise and asked for Mr.Villiers.The man whom she addressed
hesitated, but Ethel had learnt one only worldly lesson, which was,
whenever she needed the services of people of the lower orders, to
disseminate money plentifully. Her purse was in her hand, and she
gave a sovereign to the man, who then at once showed them upstairs;
which she ascended, though every limb nearly refused to perform its
office as she approached the spot where again she was to find - to see
him, whose image lived eternally in her heart, and whom it was the
sole joy of her life to wait on, to be sheltered by, to live near.
The door was opened. In the dingy, dusty room, beside the fire,
which looked as it could not burn, and was never meant to warm
even the black neglected grate,Villiers sat, reading. His first emotion
was shame when he saw Ethel enter. There was no accord between
her spotless loveliness and his squalid prison-room. Any one who has
seen a sunbeam suddenly enter and light up a scene of housewifely
neglect, and vulgar discomfort, and felt how obtrusive it rendered all
that might be half-forgotten in the shade, can picture how the simple
elegance of Ethel displayed yet more distinctly to her husband the
worse than beggarly scene in which she found him. His cheeks
flushed, and almost he would have turned away. He would have
reproached, but a tenderness and an elevation of feeling animated her
expressive countenance, which turned the current of his thoughts.
Whether it were their fate to suffer the extremes of fortune in the
savage wilderness, or in the more appalling privations of civilized life
— love, and the poetry of love accompanied her, and gilded, and irra-
diated the commonest form of penury. She looked at him, and her
eyes then glanced to the barred windows. As Fanny and their conduc-
tor left them, she heard the key turn in the lock with an impertinent
intrusive loudness. She felt pained for him, but for herself it was as if
the world and all its cares were locked out, and as if in this near asso-
ciation with him, she reaped the reward of all her previous anxiety.
There was no repining in her thoughts, no dejection in her manner;
Villiers could read in her open countenance, as plainly as through the
clearest crystal, the sentiments that were passing in her mind - it was
LODOR E 351
something more satisfied than resignation, more contented than forti-
tude. It was a knowledge that whatever evil might attend her lot, the
good so far outweighed it, that, for his sake only, could she advert to
any feeling of distress. It was a consciousness of being in her place, and
of fulfilling her duty, accompanied by a sort of rapture in remember-
ing how thrice dear and hallowed that duty was. Angels could not feel
as she did, for they cannot sacrifice to those they love; yet there was in
her that absence of all self-emanating pain, which is the characteristic
of what we are told of the angelic essences.
As when at night autumnal winds are howling, and vast masses of
winged clouds are driven with indescribable speed across the sky - we
note the islands of dark ether, built round by the white fleecy shapes;
and as we mark the stars which gem their unfathomable depth, silence
and sublime tranquillity appear to have found a home in that deep
vault, and we love to dwell on the peace and beauty that live there,
while the clouds still rush on, and the face of the lower heaven is
more mutable than water. Thus the mind of Ethel, surrounded by the
world's worst forms of adversity, showed clear and serene, entirely
possessed by the repose of love. It was impossible but that, in spite of
shame and regret,Villiers should not participate in these feelings. He
gave himself up to the softening influence: he knew not how to
repine on his own account; Ethel's affection demanded to stand in
place of prosperity, and he could not refuse to admit so dear a claim.
The door had closed on them, and every outlet to liberty, or the
enjoyment of life, was barred up. Edward drew Ethel towards him and
kissed her fondly. Their eyes met, and the speechless tenderness that
beamed from hers reached his heart and soothed every ruffled feeling.
Sitting together, and interchanging a few words of comfort and hope,
mingled with kind looks and affectionate caresses, they neither of
them remembered indignity nor privation. The tedious mechanism of
civilized life, and the odious interference of their fellow-creatures
were forgotten, and they were happy.
352 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER VIII.
Veggo pur troppo
Che favola e la vita,
E la favola mia non e compita.
PETRARCA.
1
THE darker months of winter had passed away, and the chilly, blight-
ing English spring begun. Towards the end of March Lady Lodore
came to town. She had long ago, in her days of wealth, fitted up a
house in Park Lane,
2
 so she returned to it, as to a home - if home it
might be called - where no one welcomed her - where none sat
beside her at the domestic hearth.
For the first time she felt keenly this circumstance. During her
mother's lifetime she had had her constantly for a companion, and
afterwards as events pressed upon her, and while the anguish she felt
upon Horatio Saville's marriage was still fresh, she had not reverted to
her lonely position as the source of pain.
The haughty, the firm, the self-exalting soul of Cornelia had borne
up long. She had often felt that she walked on the borders of a
precipice, and that if once she admitted sentiments of regret, she
should plunge without retrieve into a gulph, dark, portentous, inex-
tricable. She had often repeated to herself that fate should not van-
quish her, and that in spite of despair she would be happy: it is true
that the misery occasioned by Saville's marriage was a canker at her
heart, for which there was no cure, but she had recourse to dissipation
that she might endeavour to forget it. A sad and ineffectual remedy.
She was surrounded by admirers, whom she disdained, and by friends
to whom she would have died rather than betray the naked misery of
her soul. She had never planned nor thought of marriage. The report
concerning the Earl of D was one of those which the world
1 A paraphrase of Catizotriere 254, 9-13: "And if this is so, my life, my short reposes,
and my / long troubles have come to an end. O harsh parting, / why have you put
me so far from my misfortunes? My brief tale / is already told. ..."
2 Park Lane runs along the eastern boundary of Hyde Park. While Ethel and Aunt
Bessy were living in Seymour Street, they were only a few blocks from Lady
Lodore s house.
LODOR E 353
always makes current, when two persons of opposite sexes are, by any
chance, thrown much together. His sister was Lady Lodore s friend,
and she had chaperoned her, and been of assistance to her, during the
courtship of the gentleman who was at present her husband. It was
their house that Lady Lodore had just quitted on arriving in town.
The new-born happiness of early wedded life had been a scene to call
her back to thoughts which were the sources of the bitterest anguish.
She abhorred herself that she could envy, that she could desire to
exchange places with, any created being. She abridged her visit, and
fancied that she should regain peace in the independence of her own
home. But the enjoyment of liberty was cold in her heart, and loneli-
ness added a freezing chilliness to her feeling.
The mind of Cornelia was much above the world she lived in,
though she had sacrificed all to it; and, so to speak, much above her-
self. Take pride from her, and there was understanding, magnanimity,
and great kindliness of disposition: but pride had been the wall of
China to shut up all her better qualities, and to keep them from com-
municating with the world beyond; — pride, which grew strong by
resistance, and towered above every aggressor; — pride, which crum-
bled away, when time and change were its sole assailants, till her inner
being was left unprotected and bare.
She found herself alone in the world. She felt that her life was aim-
less, unprofitable, blank. She was humiliated and saddened by her rela-
tive position in the world. She did not think of her daughter as a
resource; she was in the hands of her enemies, and no hope lay there.
She entertained the belief that Mrs.Villiers was weak both in charac-
ter and understanding; and that to make any attempt to interest her-
self in her, would end in disappointment, if not disgust. Imagining, as
we are all apt to do, how we should act in another person s place, she
had formed a notion of what she would have done, had she been
Ethel; and as nothing was done, she almost despised, and quite pitied
her. No! there was no help. She was alone; - none loved, none cared
for her; and the flower of the field, which a child plucks and wears for
an hour, and then casts aside, was of more worth than she.
Every amusement grew tedious — all society vacant and dull. When
she came back from dinners or assemblies, to her luxurious but empty
abode, the darkest thoughts, engendered by spleen, hung over its
35 4 MARY SHELLE Y
threshold, and welcomed her return. At such times, she would dismiss
her attendant, and remain half the night by her fireside, encouraging
sickly reveries, struggling with the fate that bound her, yet unable in
any way to make an effort for freedom.
"Time" - thus would her thoughts fashion themselves - "yes, time
rolls on, and what does it bring? I live in a desert; its barren sands feed
my hour-glass, and they come out fruitless as they went in. Months
change their names - years their cyphers: my brow is sadly trenched;
the bloom of youth is faded: my mind gathers wrinkles. What will
become of me?
"Hopes of my youth, where are ye? — my aspirations, my pride, my
belief that I could grasp and possess all things? Alas! there is nothing
of all this! My soul lies in the dust; and I look up to know that I have
been playing with shadows, and that I am fallen for ever! What do I
see around me? The tide of life is ebbing fast! I had fancied that pearls
and gold would have been left by the retiring waves; and I find only
barren, lonely sands! No voice reaches me from across the waters - no
one stands beside me on the shore! Would - O would I could lay my
head on the spray-sprinkled beach, and sleep for ever!
"This is madness! - these incoherent images that throng my brain
are the ravings of insanity! — yet what greater madness, than to know
that love, affection, the charities of life, the hopes of existence, are
empty words for me. Am I indeed to have done with these? What is it
that still moves up and down in my soul, making me feel as if some-
thing might yet be accomplished? Is it that the ardour of youth is not
yet tamed? Alas! my youth has departed for ever.Yet wherefore these
sighs, which wrap an eternity of wretchedness in their evanescent
breath? — why these tears, that, flowing from the inmost fountains of
the soul, endeavour to give passage to the flood of sorrow that deluges
and overwhelms it? The husband of my youth! - the thought of him
passes like a shadow across me! Had he borne with me a little longer
- had I submitted to his controul - how different my destiny had
been! But I will not think of that — I do not! A mightier storm than
any he could raise has swept across me since, and laid all waste. My
soul has been set upon a hope, which has vanished, and desolation has
come in its room. Could God, in his anger, bestow a bitterer curse on
a condemned spirit, than that which weighs on me, when I reflect,
LODOR E 355
that through my own fault I lost him, whom but to see was paradise?
The thought haunts me like a crime; yet when it is absent from me? -
it sleeps with me, rises with me - it is by me now, and I would will-
ingly die only to dismiss it for ever.
"Miserable Cornelia! Thou has been courted, lauded, waited on,
loved! — it is all over! I am alone! My poor, poor mother! — my much
reviled, my dearest mother! — by you, at least, I was valued! Ah! why
are you gone, leaving your wretched child alone?
"Oh that I could take wings and rise from out of the abyss into
which I am fallen! Can I not, myself being miserable, take pleasure in
the pleasure of others; and by force of strong sympathy, forget my sel-
fish woes? With whom can I sympathize? None desire my care, and all
would repay my officiousness with ingratitude, perhaps with scorn.
Once I could assist the poor; now I am poor myself: my limited
means scarce suffice to keep me in that station in society, from which,
did I once descend, I were indeed trampled upon and destroyed for
ever. Tears rush from my eyes — my heart sinks within me, as I look
forward. Again the same cares, the same coil, the same better result.
Hopes held out, only to be crushed; affections excited, only to be
scattered to the winds. I blamed myself for struggling too much with
fate, for rowing against wind and tide, for resolving to controul the
events that form existence: now I yield — I have long yielded — I have
let myself drift, as I hoped, into a quiet creek, where indifference and
peace ruled the hour; and lo! it is a whirlpool, to swallow all I had left
of enjoyment upon earth!"
It was not until she had exhausted herself by these gloomy and
restless reflections, that she laid her head upon her pillow, and tried to
sleep. Morning usually dawned before she closed her eyes; and it was
nearly noon before she rose, weary and unrefreshed. It was with a
struggle that she commenced a new day - a day that was to be
cheered by no event nor feeling capable of animating her to any sense
of joy. She had never occupied herself by intellectual exertion: her
employments had been the cultivation of what are called accomplish-
ments merely; and when now she reverted to these, it was with bitter-
ness. She remembered the interval when she had been inspirited by
the delightful wish to please Horatio. Now none cared how the for-
lorn Cornelia passed her time; - no one would hang enraptured on
35 6 MARY SHELLEY
her voice, or hail with gladness the development of some new talent.
"It is the same," she thought, "how I get rid of the heavy hours, so
that they go. I have but to give myself up to the sluggish stream that
bears me on to old age, not more bereft or unregarded than these
wretched years."
Thus she lingered idly through the morning; her only enjoyment
being, when she secured to herself a solitary drive, and reclining back
in her carriage, felt herself safe from every intrusion, and yet enjoying
a succession of objects, that a little varied the tenor of her thoughts.
She had deserted the park, and sought unfrequented drives in the
environs of London. Evening at last came, and with it her uninterest-
ing engagements, which yet she found better than entire seclusion.
Forced to rouse herself to adopt, as a mask, the smiling appearance
which had been natural to her for many years, she often abhorred
every one around her; and yet, hating herself more, took refuge
among them, from her own society. Her chief care was to repress any
manifestation of her despair, which too readily rose to her lips or in
her eyes. The glorious hues of sunset — the subduing sounds of music
— even the sight of a beautiful girl, resplendent with happiness and
youth, moving gracefully in dance — had power to move her to tears:
her blood seemed to curdle and grow thick, while gloomy shadows
mantled over her features. Often, she could scarcely forbear expressing
the bitterness of her feelings, and indulging in acrimonious remarks
on the deceits of life, and the inanity of all things. It seemed to her,
sometimes, that she must die if she did not give vent to the still
increasing horror with which she regarded the whole system of the
world.
Nor were her sufferings always thus negative. One evening, espe-
cially, a young travelled gentleman approached her, with all the satis-
faction painted on his countenance, which he felt at having secured a
topic for the entertainment of the fashionable Lady Lodore.
"You are intimate with the Misses Saville," he said; "what charm-
ing girls they are! I have just left them at Naples, where they have
been spending the carnival. I saw them almost every day, and capitally
we enjoyed ourselves.Their Italian sister-in-law spirited them up to
mask, and to make a real carnival of it. A most lovely woman that. Did
you ever see Mrs. Saville, Lady Lodore?"
LODOR E 357
"Never," replied his auditress.
"Such eyes! Gazelles, and stars, and suns, and the whole range of
poetic imagery, might be sought in vain, to do justice to her large
dark eyes. She is very young - scarcely twenty: and to see her with her
child, is positively a finer tableau than any Raphael or Correggio in
the world. She has a little girl, not a year old, with golden hair, and
eyes as black as the mothers - the most beautiful little thing, and so
intelligent. Saville doats on it: no wonder — he is not himself hand-
some, you know; though the lovely Clorinda would stab me if she
heard me say so. She positively adores him.You should have seen them
together."
Lady Lodore turned on him one of her sweetest smiles, and in her
blandest tone, said, "If you could only get me an ice from that servant,
who I see immovable behind those dear, wonderful dowagers, you
would so oblige me."
He was gone in a minute; and on his return, Lady Lodore was so
deeply engrossed in being persuaded to go to the next drawing room,
by the young and newly married Countess of G , that she could
only reward him with another heavenly smile. He was obliged to take
his carnival at Naples to some other listener.
Cornelia scarcely closed her eyes that night. The thought of the
happy wife and lovely child of Saville, pierced her as with remorse.
She had entirely broken off her acquaintance with his family, so that
she was ignorant of Clorinda s disposition, and readily fancied that she
was as happy as she believed that the wife of Horatio Saville must be.
She would not acknowledge that she was wicked enough to repine at
her felicity; but that he should be rendered happy by any other
woman than herself- that any other woman should have become the
sharer of his dearest affections, stung her to the core. Yet why should
she regret? She were well exchanged for one so lovely and so young.
At the age of thirty-four, which she had now reached, Cornelia per-
suaded herself, that the name of beauty was a mockery as applied to
her — though her own glass might have told her otherwise; for time
had dealt lightly with her, so that the extreme fascination of her man-
ner, and the animation and intelligence of her countenance, made her
compete with many younger beauties. She felt that she was deterio-
rated from the angelic being she had seemed when she first appeared
35 8 MARY SHELLEY
as Lodore s bride; and this made all compliments show false and vain.
Now she figured to herself the dark eyes of the Neapolitan; and easily
believed that the memory of her would contrast, like a faded picture,
with the rich hues of Clorinda's face; while her sad and withered feel-
ings were in yet greater opposition to the vivacity she had heard
described and praised - to the triumphant and glad feelings of a
beloved wife. It seemed to her as if she must weep for ever, and yet
that tears were unavailing to diminish in any degree the sorrow that
weighed so heavily at her heart. These reflections sat like a night-mare
on her pillow, troubling the repose she in vain courted. She arose in
the morning, scarcely conscious that she had slept at all — languid
from exhaustion - her sufferings blunted by their very excess.
LODOR E 359
CHAPTER IX.
O, where have I been all this time? How 'friended
That I should lose myself thus desp'rately,
And none for pity show me how I wandered!
BEAUMON T AND FLETCHER.
1
WHILE it was yet too early for visitors, and before she had ordered
herself to be denied to every one, as she intended to do, she was sur-
prised by a double knock at the door, and she rang hastily to prevent
any one being admitted. The servants, with contradictory orders,
found it difficult to evade the earnest desire of the visitor to see their
lady; and at last they brought up a card, on which was written, "Miss
Derham wishes to be permitted to see Lady Lodore for Mrs.Villiers."
From had first been written, erased, and for substituted. Lady Lodore
was alarmed; and the ideas of danger and death instantly presenting
themselves, she desired Miss Derham to be shown up. She met her
with a face of anxiety, and with that frankness and kindness of manner
which was the irresistible sceptre she wielded to subdue all hearts.
Fanny had hitherto disliked Lady Lodore. She believed her to be cold,
worldly, and selfish — now, in a moment, she was convinced, by the
powerful influence of manner, that she was the contrary of all this; so
that instead of the chilling address she meditated, she was impelled to
throw off her reserve, and to tell her story with animation and detail.
She spoke of what Mrs.Villiers had gone through previous to the
arrest of her husband — and how constantly she had kept her resolve
of remaining with him - though her situation day by day becoming
more critical, demanded attentions and luxuries which she had no
means of attaining. "Yet," said Fanny, "I should not have intruded on
you even now, but that they cannot go on as they are; their resources
are utterly exhausted, — and until next June I see no prospect for
them."
"Why does not Mr.Villiers apply to his father? even if letters were
of no avail, a personal appeal "
"I am afraid that Colonel Villiers has nothing to give," replied
i The Maid's Tragedy (1619) 4.1.177-179.
36 0 MARY SHELLEY
Fanny, "and at all events, Mr.Villiers's imprisonment "
"Prison!" cried Lady Lodore,"you do not mean - Ethel cannot be
living in prison!"
"They live within the rules, if you understand that term. They rent
a lodging close to the prison on the other side of the river."
"This must indeed be altered," said Lady Lodore, "this is far too
shocking - poor Ethel, she must come here! Dear Miss Derham, will
you tell her how much I desire to see her, and entreat her to make my
house her home."
Fanny shook head. "She will not leave her husband — I should
make your proposal in vain."
Lady Lodore looked incredulous. After a moment's thought she
persuaded herself that Ethel's having refused to return to the house of
Mrs. Derham, or having negatived some other proposed kindness
originated this notion, and she believed that she had only to make her
invitation in the most gracious possible way, not to have it refused. "I
will go to Ethel myself," she said; "I will myself bring her here, and so
smooth all difficulties."
Fanny did not object. Under her new favourable opinion of Lady
Lodore, she felt that all would be well if the mother and daughter
were brought together, though only for a few minutes. She wrote
down Ethel's address, and took her leave, while at the same moment
Lady Lodore ordered her carriage, and assured her that no time
should be lost in removing Mrs.Villiers to a more suitable abode.
Lady Lodore s feelings on this occasion were not so smiling as her
looks. She was grieved for her daughter, but she was exceedingly
vexed for herself. She had desired some interest, some employment in
life, but she recoiled from any that should link her with Ethel. She
desired occupation, and not slavery; but to bring the young wife to
her own house, and make it a home for her, was at once destructive of
her own independence. She looked forward with repugnance to the
familiarity that must thence ensue between her andVilliers. Even the
first step was full of annoyance, and she was displeased that Fanny had
given her the task of going to her daughter's habitation, and forced
her to appear personally on so degrading a scene; there was however
no held - she had undertaken it, and it must be done.
LODOR E 361
Every advance she made towards the wretched part of the town
where Ethel lived, added to her ill-humour. She felt almost personally
affronted by the necessity she was under of first coming in contact
with her daughter under such disastrous circumstances. Her spleen
against Lord Lodore revived: she viewed every evil that had ever
befallen her, as arising from his machinations. If Ethel had been
entrusted to her guardianship, she certainly had never become the
wife of Edward Villiers - nor ever have tasted the dregs of opprobri-
ous poverty.
At length, her carriage drew near a row of low, shabby houses; and
as the name caught her eye she found that she had reached her desti-
nation. She resolved not to see Villiers, if it could possibly be avoided;
and then making up her mind to perform her part with grace, and
every show of kindness, she made an effort to smooth her brow and
recall her smiles. The carriage stopped at a door - a servant-maid
answered to the knock. She ordered Mr.Villiers to be asked for; he
was not at home. One objection to her proceeding was removed by
this answer. Mrs.Villiers was in the house, and she alighted and desired
to be shown to her.
36 2 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER X.
As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken
As stars from night's loose hair are shaken;
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.
SHELLEY.
1
NEVE R before had the elegant and fastidious Lady Lodore entered
such an abode, or ascended such stairs. The servant had told her to
enter the room at the head of the first flight, so she made her way by
herself, and knocked at the door. The voice that told her to come in,
thrilled through her, she knew not why, and she became disturbed at
finding that her self-possession was failing her. Slight things act pow-
erfully on the subtle mechanism of the human mind. She had dressed
with scrupulous plainness, yet her silks and furs were strangely con-
trasted with the room she entered, and she felt ashamed of all the
adjuncts of wealth and luxury that attended her. She opened the door
with an effort: Ethel was seated near the fire at work - no place or
circumstance could deteriorate from her appearance — in her simple,
unadorned morning-dress, she looked as elegant and as distinguished
as she had done when her mother had last seen her in diamonds and
plumes in the presence of royalty. There was a charm about both,
strikingly in contrast, and yet equal in fascination - the polish of Lady
Lodore, and the simplicity of Ethel were both manifestations of
inward grace and dignity; and as they now met, it would have been
difficult to say which had the advantage of the other. Ethel's extreme
youth, by adding to the interest with which she must be regarded, was
in her favour. Yet full of sensibility and loveliness as was her face, she
had never been, nor was she even now, as strikingly beautiful as her
mother.
Lady Lodore could not restrain the tear that started into her eye on
beholding her daughter situated as she was. Ethel's feelings, on the
contrary, were all gladness. She had no pride to allay her gratitude for
her mother's kindness. "How very good of you to come!" she said,
i The Mask of Anarchy (1832) 122-125.
LODOR E 363
"how could you find out where we were?"
"How long have you been here?" asked Lady Lodore, looking
round the wretched little room.
"Only a few weeks — I assure you it is not so bad as it seems. I
should not much mind it, but that Edward feels it so deeply on my
account."
"I do not wonder," said her mother, "he must be cut to the soul -
but thank God it is over now. You shall come to me immediately, my
house is quite large enough to accommodate you - I am come to
fetch you."
"My own dearest mother!" - the words scarcely formed them-
selves on Ethel's lips; she half feared to offend the lovely woman
before her by showing her a daughter's affection.
"Yes, call me mother," said Lady Lodore; "I may, at last, I hope, be
allowed to prove myself one. Come then, dear Ethel, you will not
refuse my request - you will come with me?"
"How gladly - but - will they let Edward go? I thought there was
no hope of so much good fortune?"
"I fear indeed," replied her mother, "that Mr.Villiers must endure
the annoyance of remaining here a little longer; but I hope his affairs
will soon be arranged."
Ethel bent her large eyes inquiringly on her mother, as if not
understanding; and then, as her meaning opened on her, a smile
diffused itself over her countenance as she said, "Your intentions are
the kindest in the world - I am grateful, how far more grateful than I
can at all express, for your goodness. That you have had the kindness
to come to this odious place is more than I could ever dare expect."
"It is not worth your thanks, although I think I deserve your
acquiescence to my proposal.You will come home with me?"
Ethel shook her head, smilingly. "All my wishes are accomplished,"
she said, "through this kind visit. I would not have you for the world
come here again; but the wall between us is broken down, and we
shall not become strangers again."
"My dearest Ethel," said Lady Lodore, seriously, "I see what you
mean. I wish Mr.Villiers were here to advocate my cause.You must
come with me — he will be much more at ease when you are no
longer forced to share his annoyances. This is in every way an unfit
36 4 MARY SHELLE Y
place for you, especially at this time."
"I shall appear ungrateful, I fear," replied Ethel, "if I assure you how
much better off I am here than I could be any where else in the
wo rid. This place appears miserable to you — so I dare say it is; to me it
seems to possess every requisite for happiness, and were it not so, I
would rather live in an actual dungeon with Edward, than in the most
splendid mansion in England, away from him."
Her face was lighted up with such radiance as she spoke — there
was so much fervour in her voice — such deep affection in her speak-
ing eyes — suc h an earnest demonstration of heartfelt sincerity, that
Lady Lodore was confounded and overcome. Swift, as if a map had
been unrolled before her, the picture of her own passed life was
retraced in her mind - its loneless and unmeaning pursuits - and the
bitter disappointments that had blasted every hope of seeing better
days. She burst into tears. Ethel was shocked and tried to soothe her
by caresses and assurances of gratitude and affection. "And yet you
will not come with me?" said Lady Lodore, making an effort to
resume her self-command.
"I cannot. It is impossible for me voluntarily to separate myself
from Edward - I am too weak, too great a coward."
"And is there no hope of liberation for him?" This question of
Lady Lodore forced them back to matter-of-fact topics, and she
became composed. Ethel related how ineffectual every endeavour had
yet been to arrange his affairs, how large his debts, how inexorable his
creditors, how neglectful his attorney.
"And his father?" inquired her mother.
"He seems to me to be kind-hearted," replied Ethel, "and to feel
deeply his son's situation; and he has no means — he himself is in
want."
"He is keeping a carriage at this moment in Paris," said Lady
Lodore, "and giving parties - however, I allow that this is no proof of
his having money. Still you must not stay here."
"Nor shall we always," replied Ethel; "something of course will
happen to take us away, though as yet it is all hopeless enough."
"Aunt Bessy, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, might give you assistance.
Have you asked her? — has she refused?"
"Edward has exacted a promise from me not to reveal our per-
LODOR E 365
plexities to her — he is punctilious about money obligations, and I
have given my word not to hurt his delicacy on that point."
"Then that, perhaps, is the reason why you refused my request to
go home with me?" said Lady Lodore reproachfully
"No," replied Ethel,"! do not think that he is so scrupulous as to
prevent a mother from serving her child, but he shall answer for him-
self; I expect him back from his walk every minute "
"Then forgive me if I run away," said Lady Lodore;"! am not fit to
see him now. Better times will come, dearest Ethel, and we shall meet
again. God bless you, my child, as so much virtue and patience
deserve to be blest. Remember me with kindness."
"Do not you forget me," replied Ethel, "or rather, do not think of
me and my fortunes with too much disgust. We shall meet again, I
hope?"
Lady Lodore kissed her, and hurried away Scarcely was she in her
carriage than she sawVilliers advancing: his prepossessing appearance,
ingenuous countenance, and patrician figure, made more intelligible
to her world-practised eyes the fond fidelity of his wife. She drew up
the window that he might not see her, as she gave her directions for
^home," and then retreating to the corner of her carriage, she tried to
compose her thoughts, and to reflect calmly on what was to be done.
But the effort was vain. The further she was removed from the
strange scene of the morning, the more powerfully did it act on, and
agitate her mind. Her soul was in tumults.This was the being she had
pitied, almost despised! Her eager imagination now exalted her into
an angel. There was something heart-moving in the gentle patience,
and unrepining contentment with which she bore her hard lot. She
appeared in her eyes to be one of those rare examples sent upon earth
to purify human nature, and to demonstrate how near akin to perfec-
tion we can become. Latent maternal pride might increase her admi-
ration, and maternal tenderness add to its warmth. Her nature had
acknowledged its affinity to her child, and she felt drawn towards her
with inexpressible yearnings. A vehement desire to serve her sprung
up - but all was confused and tumultuous. She pressed her hand on
her forehead, as if so to restrain the strong current of thought. She
compressed her lips, so to repress her tears.
Arrived at home, she found herself in prison within the walls of
36 6 MARY SHELLEY
her chamber. She abhorred its gilding and luxury — she longed for
Ethel's scant abode and glorious privations.To alleviate her restless-
ness, she again drove out, and directed her course through the
Regent's Park, and along the new road to Hampstead, where she was
least liable to meet any one she knew. It was one of the first fine days
of spring. The green meadows, the dark boughs swelling and bursting
into bud, the fresh enlivening air, the holiday of nature's birth - all this
was lost on her, or but added to her agitation. Still her thoughts were
with her child in her narrow abode; every lovely object served but to
recall her image, and the wafting of the soft breeze seemed an emana-
tion from her. It was dark before she came back, and sent a hurried
note of excuse to the house where she was to have dined. "No more,
O never more," she cried, "will I so waste my being, but learn from
Ethel to be happy, and to love."
Many thoughts and many schemes thronged her brain. Something
must be done, or her heart would burst. Pride, affection, repentance,
all occupied the same channel, and increased the flood that swept
away every idea but one. Her very love for Horatio, true and engross-
ing as it had been, the source of many tears and endless regrets,
appeared as slight as the web of gossamer, compared to the chain that
bound her to her daughter. She could not herself understand, nor did
she wish to know, whence and why this enthusiasm had risen like an
exhalation in her soul, covering and occupying its entire space. She
only knew it was there, interpenetrating, paramount. Ethel's dark eyes
and silken curls, her sweet voice and heavenly smile, formed a mov-
ing, speaking picture, which she felt that it were bliss to contemplate
for ever. She retired at last to bed, but not to rest; and as she lay with
open eyes, thinking not of sleep — alive in every pore — her brain
working with ten thousand thoughts, one at last grew more importu-
nate than the rest, and demanded all her attention. Her ideas became
more consecutive, though not less rapid and imperious. She drew
forth in prospect, as it were, a map of what was to be done, and the
results. Her mind became fixed, and sensations of ineffable pleasure
accompanied her reveries. She was resolved to sacrifice every thing to
her daughter - to liberate Villiers, and to establish her in ease and
comfort. The image of self-sacrifice, and of the ruin of her own for-
tunes, was attended with a kind of rapture. She felt as if, in securing
LODOR E 367
Ethel's happiness, she could never feel sorrow more. This was some-
thing worth living for: the burden of life was gone - its darkness dissi-
pated - a soft light invested all things, and angels' voices invited her to
proceed. While indulging in these reveries, she sunk into a balmy
sleep — such a one she had not enjoyed for many months — nay, her
whole past life had never afforded her so sweet a joy. The thoughts of
love, when she believed that she should be united to Saville, were not
so blissful; for self-approbation, derived from a consciousness of virtue
and well-doing, hallowed every thought.
36 8 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XL
Like gentle rains on the dry plains,
Making that green which late was grey;
Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window panes,
With a broad light like day.
SHELLEY.
1
How mysterious a thing is the action of repentance in the human
mind! We will not dive into the debasing secrets of remorse for guilt.
Lady Lodore could accuse herself of none. Yet when she looked back,
a new light shone on the tedious maze in which she had been lost; a
light — and she blessed it — that showed her a pathway out of tempest
and confusion into serenity and peace. She wondered at her previous
blindness; it was as if she had closed her eyelids, and then fancied it
was night. No fear that she should return to darkness; her heart felt so
light, her spirit so clear and animated, that she could only wonder
how it was she had missed happiness so long, when it needed only
that she should stretch out her hand to take it.
Her first act on the morrow was to have an interview with her
son-in-law's solicitor. Nothing could be more hopeless than Mr. Gay-
land's representation of his client's affairs. The various deeds of settle-
ment and entail, through which he inherited his estate, were clogged
in such a manner as to render an absolute sale of his reversionary
prospects impossible, so that the raising of money on them could only
be effected at an immense future sacrifice. Under these circumstances
Gayland had been unwilling to proceed, and appeared lukewarm and
dilatory, while he was impelled by that love for the preservation of
property, which often finds place in the mind of a legal advisor.
Lady Lodore listened attentively to his statements. She asked the
extent of Edwards debts, and somewhat started at the sum named as
necessary to clear him. She then told Mr. Gayland that their ensuing
conversation must continue under a pledge of secrecy on his part. He
assented, and she proceeded to represent her intention of disposing of
i Peter Bell the Third (i839) 438-442.
LODOR E 369
her jointure
1
 for the purpose of extricating Villiers from his embar-
rassments. She gave directions for its sale, and instructions for obtain-
ing the necessary papers to effect it. Mr. Gayland's countenance
brightened; yet he offered a few words of remonstrance against such
unexampled generosity.
"The sacrifice," said Lady Lodore, "is not so great as you imagine.
A variety of circumstances tend to compensate me for it. I do not
depend upon this source of income alone; and be assured, that what I
do, I consider, on the whole, as benefiting me even more than Mr.Vil-
liers."
Mr. Gayland bowed; and Cornelia returned home with a light
heart. For months she had not felt such an exhilaration of spirits. A
warm joy thrilled through her frame, and involuntary smiles dimpled
her cheeks. Dusky and dingy as was the day, the sunshine of her soul
dissipated its shadows, and spread brightness over her path. She could
scarcely controul the expression of her delight; and when she sat
down to write to Ethel, it was several minutes before she was able to
collect her thoughts, so as to remember what she had intended to say.
Two notes were destroyed before she had succeeded in imparting that
sobriety to her expressions, which was needful to veil her purpose,
which she had resolved to lock within her own breast for ever. At
length she was obliged to satisfy herself with a few vague expressions.
This was her letter: -
"I cannot help believing, my dearest girl, that your trials are com-
ing to a conclusion. I have seen Mr. Gayland; and it appears to me that
energy and activity are chiefly wanting for the arrangement of your
husbands affairs: I think I have in some degree inspired these. He has
promised to write to Mr. Villiers, who, I trust, will find satisfaction in
his views. Do you, my dearest Ethel, keep up your spirits, and take
care of your precious health. We shall meet again in better days, when
you will be rewarded for your sufferings and goodness. Believe me, I
love as much as I admire you; so, in spite of the past, think of me with
indulgence and affection."
i A jointure is an annuity provided by the groom's family if the bride survives the
husband as a widow.
37 0 MARY SHELLEY
Lady Lodore dressed to dine out, and for an evening assembly. She
looked so radiant and so beautiful, that admiration and compliments
were showered upon her. How vain and paltry they all seemed; and
yet her feelings were wholly changed from that period, when she
desired to reject and scoff at the courtesy of her fellow-creatures. The
bitterness of spirit was gone, which had prompted her to pour out gall
and sarcasm, and had made it her greatest pleasure to revel in the con-
tempt and hate that filled her bosom towards herself and others. She
was now at peace with the world, and disposed to view its follies
charitably. Yet how immeasurably superior she felt herself to all those
around her! not through vanity or supercilious egotism, but from the
natural spring of inward joy and self-approbation, which a conscious-
ness of doing well opened in her before dried-up heart. She some-
what contemned her friends, and wholly pitied them. But she could
not dwell on any disagreeable sentiment. Her thoughts, while she
reverted to the circumstances that so changed their tenor, were
stained with the fairest hues, harmonized by the most delicious music.
She had risen to a sphere above, beyond the ordinary soarings of mor-
tals - a world without a cloud, without one ungenial breath. She
wondered at herself. She looked back with mingled horror and sur-
prise on the miserable state of despondence to which she had been
reduced. Where were now her regrets? - where her ennui, her repin-
ings, her despair? "In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!"— and she
arose, as from a second birth, to new hopes, new prospects, new feel-
ings; or rather to another state of being, which had no affinity to the
former. For poverty was now her pursuit, obscurity her desire, ruin
her hope; and she smiled on, and beckoned to these, as if life possessed
no greater blessings.
Her impetuosity and pride served to sustain the high tone of her
soul. She had none of that sloth of purpose, or weakness of feeling,
that leads to hesitation and regret. To resolve with her had been, dur-
ing the whole course of her life, to do; and what her mind was set
upon she accomplished — it might be rashly, but still with that inde-
pendence and energy, that gave dignity even to her more ambiguous
actions. As before, when she cast off Lodore, she had never admitted a
doubt that she was justified before God and her conscience for refus-
ing to submit to the most insulting tyranny; so now, believing that she
LODOR E 371
had acted ill in not demanding the guardianship of her daughter, and
resolving to atone for the evils which were the consequence of this
neglect of duty on her part, she had no misgivings as to the future, but
rushed precipitately onwards. As a racer at the Olympic games,
1
 she
panted to arrive at the goal, though it were only to expire at the
moment of its attainment.
Meanwhile, Ethel had been enchanted by her mother s visit, and
spoke of it to Villiers as a proof of the real goodness of her heart,
insisting that she was judged harshly and falsely. Villiers smiled incred-
ulously. "She gains your esteem at an easy rate," he observed; "cultivate
it, if it makes you happier. It will need more than a mere act of ordi-
nary courtesy - more than a slight invitation to her house, to per-
suade me that Lady Lodore is not - what she is - a worshipper of the
world, a frivolous, unfeeling woman. Mark me whether she comes
again."
Her letter, on the following day, strengthened his opinion. "This is
even insulting," he said: "she takes care to inform you that she will not
look again on your poverty, but will wait for better days to bring you
together. The kindness of such an intimation is quite admirable. She
has inspired Gayland with energy and activity! - O, then, she must be
a Medea, in more senses than the obvious one."
Ethel looked reproachfully. She saw that Villiers was deeply hurt
that Lady Lodore had become acquainted with their distresses, and
been a witness of the nakedness of the land. She could not inspire him
with the tenderness that warmed her heart towards her mother, and
the conviction she entertained, in spite of appearances, (for she was
forced to confess to herself that Lady Lodore s letter was not exactly
the one she expected,) that her heart was generous and affectionate. It
was a comfort to her that Fanny Derham participated in her opinions.
Fanny was quite sure that Lady Lodore would prove herself worthy of
the esteem she had so suddenly conceived for her; and Ethel listened
delightedly to her assertions — it was so soothing to think well of, to
love, and praise her mother.
The solicitor's letter, which came, as Lady Lodore announced,
somewhat surprised Villiers; yet, after a little reflection, he gave no
i Shelley is thinking of the ancient Greek games.
37 2 MARY SHELLEY
heed to its contents. It said, that upon further consideration of partic-
ular points, Gayland perceived certain facilities; by improving upon
which, he hoped soon to make a favourable arrangement, and to
extricate Mr. Villiers from his involvements. Any thing so vague
demanded explanation. Edward wrote earnestly, requesting one; but
his letter remained unanswered. Perplexed and annoyed, he obtained
permission to quit his bounds for a few hours, and called upon the
man of law. Gayland was so busy, that he could not afford more than
five minutes' conversation. He said that he had hopes - even expecta-
tions; that a little time would show more; and he begged his client to
be patient.Villiers returned in despair. The only circumstance that at
all served to inspire him with any hope, was, that on the day succeed-
ing to his visit, he received remittance of an hundred pounds from
Gayland, who begged to be considered as his banker till the present
negociations should be considered.
There was some humiliation in the knowledge of how welcome
this supply had become, and Ethel used her gentle influence to miti-
gate the pain of such reflections. If ever she drooped, it was not for
herself, but for Villiers; and she carefully hid even these disinterested
repinings. Her own condition did not inspire her with any fears, and
the anxiety that she experienced for her unborn child was untinc-
tured by bitterness or despair. She felt assured that their present mis-
fortunes would be of short duration; and instead of letting her
thoughts dwell on the mortifications or shame that marked the pass-
ing hour, she loved to fill her mind with pleasing sensations, inspire
by the tenderness of her husband, the kindness of poor Fanny, and the
reliance she had in the reality of her mother's affection. In vain, she
said, did the harsher elements of life try to disturb the serenity which
the love of those around her produced in her soul. Her happiness was
treasured in their hearts, and did not emanate from the furniture of a
room, not the comfort of an equipage. Her babe, if destined to open
its eyes first on such a scene, would be still less acted upon by its
apparent cheerlessness. Cradled in her arms, and nourished at her
bosom, what more benign fate could await the little stranger? What
was there in their destiny worthy of grief, while they remained true
to each other?
LODOR E 373
With such arguments she tried to inspire Villiers with a portion of
that fortitude and patience which was a natural growth in herself.
They had but slender effect upon him. Their different educations had
made her greatly his superior in these virtues; besides that she, with
her simpler habits and unprejudiced mind, was less shocked by the
concomitants of penury, than he, bred in high notions of aristocratic
exclusiveness. She had spent her youth among settlers in a new coun-
try, and did not associate the idea of disgrace with want. Nakedness
and gaunt hunger had often been the invaders of her forest home,
scarcely to be repelled by her fathers forethought and resources. How
could she deem these shameful, when they had often assailed the most
worthy and industrious, who were not the less regarded or esteemed
on that account. She had acquired a practical philosophy, while inhab-
iting the western wilderness, and beholding the vast variety of life that
it presents, which stood her in good stead under her European vicissi-
tudes. The white inhabitants of America did not form her only
school. The Red Indian and his squaw were also human beings, sub-
ject to the same necessities, moved, in the first instance, by the same
impulses as herself. All that bore the human form were sanctified to
her by the spirit of sympathy; and she could not, as Edward did, feel
herself wholly outcast and under ban, while kindness, however hum-
ble, and intelligence, however lowly, attended upon her.
Villiers could not yield to her arguments, nor partake her wisdom;
yet he was glad that she possessed any source of consolation, however
unimaginable by himself. He buried within his heart the haughty
sense of wrong. He uttered no complaint, though his whole being
rebelled against the state of inaction to which he was reduced. It mad-
dened him to feel that he could not stir a finger to help himself, even
while he fancied that he saw his young wife withering before his
eyes; and looked forward to the birth of his child, under circum-
stances, that rendered even the necessary attendance difficult, if not
impracticable. The heaviest weight of slavery fell upon him, for it was
he that was imprisoned, and forbidden to go beyond certain limits;
and though Ethel religiously confined herself within yet narrower
bounds than those allotted to him, he only saw, in this delicacy, anoth
er source of evil. Nor were these real tangible ills those which inflict-
ed the greatest pain. Had these misfortunes visited him in the
37 4 MARY SHELLEY
American wilderness, or in any part of the world where the majesty
of nature had surrounded them, he fancied that he should have been
less alive to their sinister influence. But here shame was conjoined
with the perpetual spectacle of the least reputable class of the civilized
community. Their walks were haunted by men who bore the stamp of
profligacy and crime; and the very shelter of their dwelling was shared
by the mean and vulgar. His aristocratic pride was sorely wounded at
every turn; — not for himself so much, for he was manly enough to
feel "that a man's a man for all that,"
1
 — but for Ethel's sake, whom he
would have fondly placed apart from all that is deformed and
unseemly, guarded even from the rougher airs of heaven, and sur-
rounded by every thing most luxurious and beautiful in the world.
There was no help. Now and then he got a letter from his father,
full of unmeaning apologies and unmanly complaints. The more irre-
trievable his poverty became, the firmer grew his resolve not to bur-
den with his wants any more distant relation. He would readily give
up every prospect of future wealth to purchase ease and comfort for
Ethel; but he could not bend to any unworthy act; and the harder he
felt pressed upon and injured by fortune, the more jealously he main-
tained his independence of feeling; on that he would lean to the last,
though it proved a sword to pierce him.
He looked forward with despair, yet he tried to conceal his worst
thoughts, which would still be brooding upon absolute want and star-
vation. He answered Ethel's cheering tones in accents of like cheer,
and met the melting tenderness of her gaze with eyes that spoke of
love only He endeavoured to persuade her that he did not wholly
shut his heart from the hopes she was continually presenting to him.
Hopes, the very names of which were mockery. For they must neces-
sarily be embodied in words and ideas - and his father or uncle were
mentioned - the one had proved a curse, the other a temptation. He
could trace his reverses as much to the habits of expense, and the false
views of his resources, acquired under Lord Maristow's tutelage, as to
the prodigality and neglect of his parent. Even the name of Horatio
Saville produced bitterness. Why was he not here? He would not
intrude his wants upon him in his Italian home; but he had been in
i Robert Burns, "Song—For a' that and a' that—" (1795) 12.
LODOR E 375
England, they had been saved from these worst blows of fate.
The only luxury ofVilliers was to steal some few hours of solitude,
when he could indulge in his miserable reflections without restraint.
The loveliness and love of Ethel were then before his imagination to
drive him to despair. To surfer alone would have been nothing; but to
see this child of beauty and tenderness, this fairest nursling of nature
and liberty, droop and fade in their narrow, poverty-stricken home,
bred thoughts akin to madness. During each live-long night he was
kept waking by the anguish of such reflections. Darker thought some-
times intruded themselves. He fancied that if he were dead, Ethel
would be happier. Her mother, his relations, each and all would come
forward to gift her with opulence and ease. The idea of self-destruc-
tion thus became soothing; and he pondered with a kind of savage
pleasure on the means by which he should end the coil of misery that
had wound round him.
At such times the knowledge of Ethel's devoted affection checked
him. Or sometimes, as he gazed on her as she lay sleeping at his side,
he felt that every sorrow was less than that which separation must
produce; and that to share adversity with her was greater happiness
than the enjoyment of prosperity apart from her. Once, when brought
back from the gloomiest desperation by such a return of softer emo-
tions, the words of Francesca da Rimini rushed upon his mind and
completed the change. He recollected how she and her lover were
consoled by their eternal companionship in the midst of the infernal
whirlwind.
1
 "And do I love you less, my angel?" he thought; "are you
not more dear to me than woman ever was to man, and would I
divide myself from you because we suffer? Perish the thought!
Whether for good or ill, let our existences still continue one, and
from the sanctity and sympathy of our union, a sweet will be extract-
ed, sufficient to destroy the bitterness of this hour. We prefer remain-
ing together, mine own sweet love, for ever together, though it were
for an eternity of pain. And these woes are finite. Your pure and exalt-
ed nature will be rewarded for its sufferings, and I, for your sake, shall
be saved. I could not live without you in this world; and yet with
insane purpose I would rush into the unknown, away from you, leav-
i Dante, The Divine Comedy i: Inferno, Canto 5, 88-142.
37 6 MARY SHELLEY
ing you to seek comfort and support from other hands than mine. I
was base and cowardly to entertain the thought, but for one moment
- a traitor to my own affection, and the stabber of your peace. Ah
dearest Ethel, when in a few hours your eyes will open on the light,
and seek me as the object most beloved by them, were I away, unable
to return their fondness, incapable of the blessing of beholding them,
what hell could be contrived to punish more severely my dereliction
of duty?"
With this last thought another train of feeling was introduced, and
he strung himself to more manly endurance. He saw that his post was
assigned him in this world, and that he ought to fulfil its duties with
courage and patience. Hope came hand in hand with such ideas - and
the dawn of content on his soul was a proof that the exercise of virtue
brought with it its own reward. He could not always keep his feelings
in the same tone, but he no longer saw greatness of mind in the
indulgence of sorrow.
He remembered that throughout the various stations into which
society has divided human beings, adversity and pain belong to each,
and that death and treachery are more frightful evils than all the hard-
ships of life. He thought of his unborn child, and of his duties towards
it — not only in a worldly point of view, but as its teacher and guide in
morals and religion. The beauty and use of the ties of blood, to which
his peculiar situation had hitherto blinded him, became intelligible at
once to his heart and his understanding; and while he felt how ill his
father had fulfilled the paternal duties, he resolved that his own
offspring should never have cause to reproach him for similar miscon-
duct. Before he had repined because the evils of his lot seemed gratu-
itous suffering; but now he felt, as Ethel had often expressed it, that
the sting of humilation is taken from misfortune, when we nerve our-
selves to endure it for another's sake.
LODOR E 377
CHAPTER XII.
The world had just begun to steal
Each hope that led me lightly on,
I felt not as I used to feel,
And life grew dark and love was gone.
THOMA S MOORE.
1
WHILE the young pair were thus struggling with the severe visitation
of adversity, Lady Lodore was earnestly engaged in her endeavours to
extricate them from their difficulties.The ardour of her zeal had made
her take the first steps in this undertaking, with a resolution that
would not look behind, and a courage not to be dismayed by the
dreary prospect which the future afforded. The scheme which she had
planned, and was now proceeding to execute, was unbounded in gen-
erosity and self-sacrifice. It was not in her nature to stop short at half-
measures, nor to pause when once she had fixed her purpose. If she
ever trembled on looking forward to the utter ruin she was about to
encounter, her second emotion was to despise herself for such pusilla-
nimity, and to be roused to renewed energy. She intended to devote as
much as was necessary of the money arising from the sale of her join-
ture, as fixed by her marriage settlement, for the liquidation of her
son-in-law's debts.The remaining six hundred a-year, bequeathed to
her in Lord Lodore's will, under circumstances of cruel insult, she
resolved to give up to her daughter's use, for her future subsistence.
She hoped to save enough from the sum produced by the disposal of
her jointure, to procure the necessaries of life for a few years, and she
did not look beyond. She would quit London for ever. She must leave
her house, which she had bought during her days of prosperity, and
which she had felt so much pride and delight in adorning with every
luxury and comfort: to crown her good work, she intended to give it
up to Ethel. And then with her scant means she would take refuge in
the solitude where Lodore found her, and spend the residue of her
days among the uncouth and lonely mountains of Wales, in poverty
and seclusion. It was from no agreeable association with her early
i "To " 1-4, Epistles, Odes, and other Poems (1806).
37 8 MARY SHELLEY
youth, that she selected the neighbourhood of Rhaider Gowy for her
future residence; nor from a desire of renewing the recollections of
the period spent there, nor of revisiting the scenes, where she had
stepped beyond infancy into the paths of life. Her choice simply arose
from being obliged to think of economy in its strictest sense, and she
remembered this place as the cheapest in the world, and the most
retired. Besides, that in fixing on a part of the country which she had
before inhabited, and yet where she would be utterly unknown, the
idea of her future home assumed distinctness, and a greater sense of
practicability was imparted to her schemes, than could have been the
case, had she been unable to form any image in her mind of the exact
spot whither she was about to betake herself.
The first conception of this plan had dawned on her soul, as the
design of some sublime poem or magnificent work of art may present
itself to the contemplation of the poet and man of genius. She dwelt
on it in its entire result, with a glow of joy; she entered into its details
with childish eagerness. She pictured to herself the satisfaction ofVil-
liers and Ethel at finding themselves suddenly, as by magic, restored to
freedom and the pleasures of life. She figured their gladness in
exchanging their miserable lodging for the luxury of her elegant
dwelling; their pleasure in forgetting the long train of previous mis-
fortunes, or remembering them only to enhance their prosperity,
when pain and fear, disgrace and shame, should be exchanged for
security and comfort. She repeated to herself, "I do all this — I, the
despised Cornelia! I who was deemed unworthy to have the
guardianship of my own child. I, who was sentenced to desertion and
misery, because I was too worldly and selfish to be worthy of Horace
Saville! How little through life has my genuine character been
known, or its qualities appreciated! Nor will it be better understood
now. My sacrifices will continue a mystery, and even the benefits I am
forced to acknowledge to flow from me, I shall diminish in their eyes,
by bestowing them with apparent indifference. Will they ever deign to
discover the reality under the deceitful appearances which it will be
my pride to exhibit? I care not; conscience will approve me - and
when I am alone and unthought of, the knowledge that Ethel is
happy through my means will make poverty a blessing."
It was not pride alone that induced Lady Lodore to resolve on
LODOR E 379
concealing the extent of her benefits. All that she could give was not
much if compared with the fortunes of the wealthy — but it was a
competence, which would enable her daughter and her husband to
expect better days with patience; but if they knew how greatly she
was a sufferer for their good, they would insist at least upon her shar-
ing their income — and what was scanty in its entireness, would be
wholly insufficient when divided.Villiers also might dispute or reject
her kindness, and deeply injured as she believed herself to have been
by him - injured by his disesteem, and the influence he had used over
Saville, in a manner so baneful to her happiness, she felt irrepressible
exultation at the idea of heaping obligation on him, - and knowing
herself to be deserving of his deepest gratitude. All these sentiments
might be deemed fantastic, or at least extravagant.Yet her conclusions
were reasonable, for it was perfectly true that Villiers would rather
have returned to his prison, than have purchased freedom at the vast
price she was about to pay for it. No, her design was faultless in its
completeness, meagre and profitless if she stopt short of its full execu-
tion. Nor would she see Ethel again in the interim - partly fearful of
not preserving her secret inviolate - partly because she felt so strongly
drawn towards her, that she dreaded finding herself the slave of an
affection — a passion, which, under her circumstances, she could not
indulge. Without counsellor, without one friendly voice to encour-
age, she advanced in the path she had marked out, and drew from her
own heart only the courage to proceed.
It required, however, all her force of character to carry her forward.
A thousand difficulties were born at every minute, and the demands
made were increased to such an extent as to make it possible that they
would go beyond her means of satisfying them. She had not the assis-
tance of one friend acquainted with the real state of things to direct
her - her only adviser was a man of law, who did what he was direct-
ed - not indeed with passive obedience, but whose deviations from
mere acquiescence, arose from technical objections and legal difficul-
ties, at once unintelligible and tormenting.
Besides these more palpable annoyances, other clouds arose, natur-
al to wavering humanity, which would sometimes shadow Cornelia's
soul, so that she drooped from the height she had reached, with a
timid and dejected spirit. At first she looked forward to ruin, exile, and
38 0 MARY SHELLE Y
privation, as to possessions which she coveted - but the further she
proceeded, the more she lost view of the light and gladness which had
attended on the dawn of her new visions. Futurity became enveloped
in an appalling obscurity, while the present was sad and cheerless. The
ties which she had formed in the world, which she had fancied it
would be so easy to cut asunder, assumed strength; and she felt that
she must endure many pangs in the act of renouncing them for ever.
The scenes and persons which, a little while ago, she had regarded as
uninteresting and frivolous - she was now forced to acknowledge to
be too inextricably interwoven with her habits and pursuits, to be all
at once quitted without severe pain. When the future was spoken of
by others with joyous anticipation, her heart sunk within her, to think
how her hereafter was to become disjointed and cast away from all
that had preceded it. The mere pleasures of society grew into delights,
when thought of as about to become unattainable; and slight partiali-
ties were regarded as if founded upon strong friendship and tender
affection. She was not aware till now how habit and association will
endear the otherwise indifferent, and how the human heart, prone to
love, will entwine its ever-sprouting tendrils around any object, not
absolutely repulsive, which is brought into near contact with it. When
any of her favourites addressed her in cordial tones, when she met the
glance of one she esteemed, directed towards her with an expression
of kindliness and sympathy, her eyes grew dim, and a thrill of anguish
passed through her frame. All that she had a little while ago scorned as
false and empty, she now looked upon as the pleasant reality of life,
which she was to exchange for she scarcely knew what - a living
grave, a friendless desart — for silence and despair.
It is a hard trial at all times to begin the world anew, even when we
exchange a mediocre station for one which our imagination paints as
full of enjoyment and distinction. How much more difficult it was for
Lady Lodore to despoil herself of every good, and voluntarily to
encounter poverty in its most unadorned guise. As time advanced, she
became fully aware of what she would have to go through, and her
heroism was the greater, because, though the charm had vanished, and
no hope of compensation or reward was held out, she did not shrink
from accomplishing her task. She could not exactly say, like old Adam
in the play,
LODOR E 381
At seventeen many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week.
1
Yet at her age it was perhaps more difficult to cast off the goods of this
world, than at a more advanced one. Midway in life, we are not
weaned from affections and pleasures - we still hope. We even
demand more of solid advantages, because the romantic ideas of
youth have disappeared, and yet we are not content to give up the
game. We no longer set our hearts on ephemeral joys, but require to
be enabled to put our trust in the continuance of any good offered to
our choice. This desire of durability in our pleasures is equally felt by
the young; but ardour of feeling and ductility of imagination is then at
hand to bestow a quality, so dear and so unattainable to fragile
humanity, on any object we desire should be so gifted. But at a riper
age we pause, and seek that our reason may be convinced, and fre-
quently prefer a state of prosperity less extatic and elevated, because its
very sobriety satisfies us that it will not slip suddenly from our grasp.
The comforts of life, the esteem of friends - these are things which
we then regard with the greatest satisfaction; and other feelings, less
reasonable, yet not less keenly felt, may enter into the circle of sensa-
tions, which forms the existence of a beautiful woman. It is less easy
for one who has been all her life admired and waited upon, to give up
the few last years of such power, than it would have been to cast away
the gift in earlier life. She has learned to doubt her influence, to know
its value, and to prize it. In girlhood it may be matter of mere triumph
- in after years it will be looked on as an inestimable quality by which
she may more easily and firmly secure the benevolence of her fellow-
creatures. All this depends upon the polish of the skin and the fire of
the eye, which a few years will deface and quench - and while the
opprobrious epithet of old woman approaches within view, she is glad
to feel secure from its being applied to her, by perceiving the signs of
the influence of her surviving attractions marked in the countenances
of her admirers. Lady Lodore never felt so kindly inclined towards
hers, as now that she was about to withdraw from them. Their admi-
ration, for its own sake, she might contemn, but she valued it as the
i Shakespeare, As You Like It 2.3.73-4.
38 2 MARY SHELLEY
testimony that those charms were still hers, which once had subdued
the soul of him she loved - and this was no disagreeable assurance to
one who was on the eve of becoming a grandmother.
Her sensibility, awakened by the considerations forced on her by
her new circumstances, caused her to make more progress in the
knowledge of life, and in the philosophy of its laws, than love or
ambition had ever done before. The last had rendered her proud from
success, the first had caused her to feel dependent on one only; but
now that she was about to abandon all, she found herself bound to all
by stronger ties than she could have imagined. She became aware that
any new connexion could never be adorned by the endearing recol-
lections attending those she had already formed. The friends of her
youth, her mere acquaintances, she regarded with peculiar partiality, 
being the witnesses or sharers of her past joys and successes. Each
familiar face was sanctified in her eyes by association; and she walked
among those whom she had so lately scorned, as if they were saintly
memorials to be approached with awe, and quitted with eternal
regret. Her hopes and prospects had hinged upon them, but her life
became out of joint when she quitted them. Her sensitive nature
melted in unwonted tenderness while occupied by such contempla-
tions, and they turned the path, she had so lately entered as one of tri-
umph and gladness, to gloom and despondence.
Sometimes she pondered upon means for preserving her connex-
ion with the world. But any scheme of that kind was fraught, on the
one hand, with mortification to herself, on the other, with the over-
throw of her designs, through the repugnance which Ethel and her
husband would feel at occasioning such unmeasured sacrifices. She
often regretted that there were no convents, to which she might retire
with safety and dignity. Conduct, such as she contemplated pursuing,
would, under the old regime in France, have been recompensed by
praise and gratitude; while its irrevocability must prevent any resis-
tance to her wishes. In giving up fortune and station, she would have
placed herself under the guardianship of a community; and have
found protection and security, to compensate for poverty and slavery.
The very reverse of all this must now happen. Alone, friendless,
unknown, and therefore despised, she must shift for herself, and rely
on her own resources for prudence to insure safety, and courage to
LODOR E 383
endure the evils of her lot. To one of another sex, the name of loneli-
ness can never convey the idea of desolation and disregard, which
gives it so painful a meaning in a woman's mind. They have not been
taught always to look up to others, and to do nothing for themselves;
so that business becomes a matter of heroism to a woman, when con-
ducted in the most common-place way; but when it is accompanied
by mystery, she feels herself transported from her fitting place, and as if
about to encounter shame and contumely. Lady Lodore had never
been conversant with any mode of life, except that of being waited on
and watched over. In the poverty of her early girlhood, her mother
had been constantly at her side. The necessity of so conducting herself
as to prevent the shadow of slander from visiting her, had continued
this state of dependence during all her married life. She had never
stept across a street without attendance; nor put on her gloves, but as
brought to her by a servant. Her look had commanded obedience,
and her will had been law with those about her. This was now to be
altered. She scarcely reverted in her mind to these minutiae; and when
she did, it was to smile at herself for being able to give weight to such
trifles. She was not aware how, hereafter, these small things would
become the shapings and embodyings which desertion and penury
would adopt, to sting her most severely. The new course she was
about to enter, was too unknown to make her fears distinct. There was
one vast blank before her, one gigantic and mishapen image of deser-
tion, which filled her mind to the exclusion of every other, but whose
parts were not made out, though this very indistinctness was the thing
that often chiefly appalled her.
She said, with the noble exile,* -
 1
"I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now."
It is true that she had not, like him, to lament that —
"My native English, now I must forego;"
i *Richard II. (Shelley's footnote.) The subseqent quotations are from Shakespeare,
Richard II 1.3.170-171; 1.3.160; and 1.3.162; 164-165.
38 4 MARY SHELLEY
but there is another language, even more natural than the mere dialect
in which we have been educated. When our lips no longer utter the
sentiments of our heart - when we are forced to exchange the spon-
taneous effusions of the soul for cramped and guarded phrases, which
give no indication of the thought within, — then, indeed, may we say,
that our tongue becomes
"an unstringed viol, or a harp,
put into his hands,
That knows no touch to tune the harmony."
And this was to be Lady Lodore's position. Her only companions
would be villagers; or, at best, a few Welsh gentry, with whom she
could have no real communication. Sympathy, the charm of life, was
dead for her, and her state of banishment would be far more complete
than if mountains and seas only constituted its barriers.
Lady Lodore was often disturbed by these reflections, but she did
not on that account waver in her purpose. The flesh might shrink, but
the spirit was firm. Sometimes, indeed, she wondered how it was that
she had first conceived the design, which had become the tyrant of
her life. She had long known that she had a daughter, young, lovely,
and interesting, without any great desire to become intimate with her.
Sometimes pride, sometimes indignation, had checked her maternal
feelings.The only time before, in which she had felt any emotion sim-
ilar to that which now governed her, was on the day when she had
spoken to her in the House of Lords. But instead of indulging it, she
had fled from it as an enemy, and despised herself as a dupe, for being
for one instant its subject. When her fingers then touched her daugh-
ter's cheek, she had not trembled like Ethel; yet an awful sensation
passed through her frame, which for a moment stunned her, and she
hastily retreated, to recover herself. Now, on the contrary, she longed
to strain her child to her heart; she thought no sacrifice too great,
which was to conduce to her advantage; and that she condemned
herself never to see her more, appeared the hardest part of the lot she
was to undergo. Why was this change? She could not tell - memory
could not inform her. She only knew that since she had seen Ethel in
her adversity, the stoniness of her heart had dissolved within her, that
LODOR E 385
her whole being was subdued to tenderness, and that the world was
changed from what it had been in her eyes. She felt that she could not
endure life, unless for the sake of benefiting her child; and that this
sentiment mastered her in spite of herself, so that every struggle with
it was utterly vain.
Thus if she sometimes repined at the hard fate that drove her into
exile, yet she never wavered in her intentions; and in the midst of
regret, a kind of exultation was born, which calmed her pain. Smiles
sat upon her features, and her voice was attuned to cheerfulness. The
new-sprung tenderness of her soul imparted a fascination to her man-
ner far more irresistible than that to which tact and polish had given
rise. She was more kind and affectionate, and, above all, more sincere,
and therefore more winning. Every one felt, though none could
divine the cause of, this change. It was remarked that she was
improved: some shrewdly suspected that she was in love. And so she
was - with an object more enchanting than any earthly lover. For the
first time she knew and loved the Spirit of good and beauty, an affini-
ty to which affords the greatest bliss that our nature can receive.
38 6 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XIII.
It is the same, for be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free;
Man's yesterday can ne'er be like his morrow,
Nor aught endure save mutability.
SHELLEY.
1
THE month of June had commenced. In spite of lawyer's delays and
the difficulties attendant on such negociations, they were at last con-
cluded, and nothing remained but for Lady Lodore to sign the paper
which was to consign her to comparative destitution. In all changes
we feel most keenly the operation of small circumstances, and are
chiefly depressed by the necessity of stooping to the direction of petty
arrangements, and having to deal with subordinate persons.To com-
plete her design, Lady Lodore had to make many arrangements, trivial
yet imperative, which called for her attention, when she was least
fitted to give it. She had met these demands on her patience without
shrinking; and all was prepared for the finishing stroke about to be put
to her plans. She dismissed those servants whom she did not intend to
leave in the house for Ethel's use. She contrived to hasten the intend-
ed marriage of her own maid, so to disburthen herself wholly. The
mode by which she was, solitary and unknown, to reach the moun-
tains ofWales, without creating suspicion, or leaving room for conjec-
ture, was no easy matter. In human life, one act is born of another, so
that any one that disjoins itself from the rest, instantly gives rise to
curiosity and inquiry. Lady Lodore, though fertile in expedients, was
almost foiled: the eligibility of having one confidant pressed itself
upon her. She thought of Fanny Derham; but her extreme youth, and
her intimacy with Mrs.Villiers, which would have necessitated many
falsehoods, so to preserve the secret, deterred her: she determined at
last to trust to herself alone. She resolved to take with her one servant
only, who had not been long in her service, and to dismiss him imme-
diately after leaving London. Difficulties presented themselves on
every side; but she believed that they could be best surmounted by
i "Mutability" (1816) 13-16.
LODOR E 387
obviating them in succession as they arose, and that any fixed artificial
plan would only tend to embarrass, while a simple mode of proceed
ing would continue unquestioned.
Her chief art consisted in not appearing to be making any change
at all. She talked of a visit of two or three months to Emms,
1
 and
mentioned her intention of lending her house, during the interval, to
her daughter. She thus secured to herself a certain period during
which no curiosity would be excited; and after a month or two had
passed away, she would be utterly forgotten: — thus she reasoned; and
whether it were a real tomb that she entered, or the living grave
which she anticipated, her name and memory would equally vanish
from the earth, and she be thought of no more. If Ethel ever enter-
tained a wish to see her,Villiers would be at hand to check and divert
it. Who else was there to spend a thought upon her? Alone upon
earth, no friendly eye, solicitous for her welfare, would seek to pene-
trate the mystery in which she was about to envelope herself.
The day came, it was the second of June, when every preliminary
was accomplished. She had signed away all that she possessed — she
had done it with a smile — and her voice was unfaltering. The sum
'which she had saved for herself consisted of but a few hundred
pounds, on which she was to subsist for the future. Again she enforced
his pledge of secrecy on Mr. Gayland; and glad that all was over, yet
heavy at heart in spite of her gladness, she returned to her home,
which in a few hours she was to quit for ever.
During all this time, her thoughts had seldom reverted to Saville.
Hope was dead, and the regrets of love had vanished with it. That he
would approve her conduct, was an idea that now and then flashed
across her mind; but he would remain in eternal ignorance, and there-
fore it could not bring their thoughts into any communion. Whether
he came to England, or remained at Naples, availed her nothing. No
circumstance could add to, or diminish, the insuperable barrier which
his marriage placed between them.
She returned home from her last interview with Mr. Gayland: it
was four o'clock in the day; at six she had appointed Fanny Derham
to call on her; and an hour afterwards, the horses were ordered to be
i Ems, on the Lahn River, is a popular German health resort with thermal springs.
38 8 MARY SHELLEY
at the door, which were to convey her away.
She became strangely agitated. She took herself to task for her
weakness; but every moment disturbed yet more the calm she was so
anxious to attain. She walked through the rooms of the house she had
dwelt in for so many years. She looked on the scene presented from
her windows. The drive in Hyde Park was beginning to fill with car-
riages and equestrians, to be thronged with her friends whom she was
never again to see. Deep sadness crept over her mind. Her uncontrol-
lable thoughts, by some association of ideas, which she could not dis-
entangle — brough t before her the image of Lodore, with more
vividness than it had possessed for years. A kind of wish to cross the
Atlantic, and to visit the scenes where he had dwelt so long, arose
within her; and then again she felt a desire to visit Longfield, and to
view the spot in which his mortal remains were laid. As her imagina-
tion pictured the grave of the husband of her youth, whom she had
abandoned and forgotten, tears streamed from her eyes — the first she
had shed, even in idea, beside it. "It is not to atone — for surely I was
not guilty towards him" - such were Lady Lodore s reflections, - "yet,
methinks, in this crisis of my fate, when about to imitate his abrupt
and miserable act of self-banishment, my heart yearns for some com-
munication with him; and it seems to me as if, approaching his cold,
silent dust, he would hear me if I said, 'Be at peace! your child is
happy through my means.'"
Again her reveries were attended by a gush of tears. "How strange
a fate is mine, ever to be abandoned by, or to abandon, those towards
whom I am naturally drawn into near contact. Fifteen years are flown
since I parted from Lodore for ever! Then by inspiring one so high-
minded, so richly gifted, as Saville, with love for me, fortune appeared
ready to compensate for my previous sufferings; but the curse again
operated, and I shall never see him more.Yet do I not forget thee, Sav-
ille, nor thy love! — nor can it be a crime to think of the past, which is
as irretrievable as if the grave had closed over it. Through Saville it has
been that I have not lived quite in vain - that I have known what love
is; and might have even tasted of happiness, but for the poison which
perpetually mingles with my cup. I never wish to see him more; but if
I earnestly desire to visit Lodore s grave, how gladly would I make a
far longer pilgrimage to see Saville's child, and to devote myself to
LODOR E 389
one who owes its existence to him. Wretched Cornelia! what
thoughts are these? Is it now, that you are a beggar and an outcast, that
you first encourage unattainable desires?"
Still as she looked round, and remembered how often Saville had
been beside her in that room, thoughts and regrets thronged faster
and more thickly on her. She recollected the haughty self-will and
capricious coquetry which had caused the destruction of her dearest
hopes. She took down a miniature of herself, which her lover had so
fruitlessly besought her to give him. It was on the belief that she had
bestowed this picture on a rival that he had so suddenly come to the
determination of quitting England. It seemed now in its smiles and
youth to reproach her for having wasted both; and the sight of it agi-
tated her bosom, and produced a tumult of regret and despair at his
loss — till she threw it from her, as too dearly associated with one she
must forget. And yet wherefore forget? — he had forgotten; but as a
dead wife might in her grave, love her husband, though wedded to
another, so might the lost, buried Cornelia remember him, though
the husband of Clorinda. Self-compassion now moved her to tears,
and she wept plentiful showers, which rather exhausted than relieved
her.
With a strong effort she recalled her sense of what was actually
going on, and struggling resolutely to calm herself, she sat down and
began a letter to her daughter, which was necessary, as some sort of
explanation, at once to allay wonder and baffle curiosity. Thus she
wrote:
"DEAREST ETHEL,
"My hopes have not been deceived. Mr. Gayland has at last con-
trived means for the liberation of your husband; and to-morrow
morning you will leave that shocking place. Perhaps I receive more
pleasure from this piece of good fortune than you, for your sense of
duty and sweet disposition so gild the vilest objects, that you live in a
world of your own, as beautiful as yourself, and the accident of situa-
tion is immaterial to you.
"It is not enough, however, that you should be free. I hope that the
punctilious delicacy of Mr.Villiers will not cause you to reject the
benefits of a mother. In this instance there is more of justice than gen-
39 0 MARY SHELLE Y
erosity in my offer; and it may therefore be accepted without the
smallest hesitation. My jointure ought to satisfy me, and the addition-
al six hundred a year - which I may call the price of blood, since I
bought it at the sacrifice of the dearest ties and duties, - is most freely
at your service. It will delight me to get rid of it, as much as if thus I
threw off the consciousness of a crime. It is yours by every law of
equity, and will be hereafter paid into your banker's hands. Do not
thank me, my dear child - be happy, that will be my best reward. Be
happy, be prudent - this sum will not make you rich; and the only
acknowledgement I ask of you is, that you make it suffice, and avoid
debt and embarrassment.
"By singular coincidence I am imperatively obliged to leave Eng-
land at this moment. The horses are ordered to be here in half an hour
- I am obliged therefore to forego the pleasure of seeing you until my
return. Will you forgive me this apparent neglect, which is the result
of necessity, and favour me by coming to my house to-morrow, on
leaving your present abode, and making it your home until my
return? Miss Derham has promised to call here this afternoon; I shall
see her before I go, and through her you will learn how much you
will make me your debtor by accepting my offers, and permitting me
to be of some slight use to you.
"Excuse the brevity and insufficiency of this letter, written at the
moment of departure. -You will hear from me again, when I am able
to send you my address, and I shall hope to have a letter from you.
Meanwhile Heaven bless you, my angelic Ethel! Love your mother,
and never, in spite of every thing, permit unkind thoughts of her to
harbour in your mind. Make Mr.Villiers think as well of me as he can,
and believe me that your welfare will always be the dearest wish of
my heart. Adieu.
"Ever affectionately yours,
"C. LODORE. "
She folded and sealed this letter, and at the same moment there
was a knock at the door of her house, which she knew announced the
arrival of Fanny Derham. She was still much agitated, and trying to
calm herself, she took up a newspaper, and cast her eyes down the
columns; so, by one of the most common place of the actions of our
LODOR E 391
life, to surmount the painful intensity of her thoughts. She read
mechanically one or two paragraphs — she saw the announcements of
births, marriages, and deaths. "My moral death will not be recorded
here," she thought, "and yet, I shall be more dead than any of these."
The thought in her mind remained as it were truncated; her eye was
arrested — a paleness came over her — the pulses of her heart paused,
and then beat tumultuously — how strange — how fatal were the words
she read! -
"Died suddenly at the inn at the Mola di Gaeta, on her way from
Naples, Clorinda, the wife of the honourable Horatio Saville, in the
twenty-second year of her age."
Her drawing-room door was opened, the butler announced Miss
Derham, while her eyes still were fixed on the paragraph: her head
swam round - the world seemed to slide from under her. Fanny's
calm clear voice recalled her. She conquered her agitation — she spoke
as if she had not just crossed a gulf— not been transported to a new
world; and, again, swifter than light, brought back to the old one. She
conversed with Fanny for some time; giving some kind of explana-
tion for not having been to see Ethel, begging her young friend to
press her invitation, and speaking as if in autumn they should all meet
again. Fanny, philosophic as she was, regarded Lady Lodore with a
kind of idolatry. The same charm that had fascinated the unworldly
and abstracted Saville, she exercised over the thoughtful and ingenu-
ous mind of the fair young student. It was the attraction of engaging
manners, added now to the sense of right, joined to the timid softness
of a woman, who trembled on acting unsupported, even though her
conscience approved her deeds. It was her loveliness which had
gained in expression what it had lost in youth, and kindness of heart
was the soul of the enchantment. Fanny ventured to remonstrate
against her sudden departure. "O we shall soon meet again," said Cor-
nelia; but her thoughts were more of heaven than earth, as the scene
of meeting; for her heart was chilled - her head throbbed - the word
she had read operated a revolution in her frame, more allied to sick-
ness and death, than hope or triumph.
Fanny at length took her leave, and Lady Lodore was again alone.
She took up the newspaper - hastily she read again the tidings; she
39 2 MARY SHELLEY
sunk on the sofa, burying her face in the pillow, trying not to think,
while she was indeed the prey to the wildest thoughts.
"Yes," thus ran her reflections, "he is free - he is no longer married!
Fool, fool! he is still lost to you! - an outcast and a beggar, shall I
solicit his love! which he believes that I rejected when prosperous.
Rather never, never, let me see him again. My beauty is tarnished, my
youth flown; he would not see me to wonder how he had ever loved
me. Better hide beneath the mountains among which I am soon to
find a home - better, far better, die, than see Saville and read no love
in his eyes.
"Yet thus again I cast happiness from me. What then would I do?
Unweave the web - implore Mr.Villiers to endure my presence -
reveal my state of beggary — ask thanks for my generosity, and humbly
wait for a kind glance from Saville, to raise me to wealth as well as to
happiness. — Cornelia, awake! — be not subdued at the last — act not
against your disposition, the pride of your soul - the determinations
you have formed - do not learn to be humble in adversity - you, who
were disdainful in happier days - no! if they need me - if they love
me — if Saville still remembers the worship — the heart's entire sacrifi-
ce which once he made to me — will a few miles — the obscurity of
my abode — or the silence and mystery that surrounds me, check his
endeavours that we should once again meet?
"No!" she said, rising, "my destiny is in other and higher hands
than my own. It were vain to endeavour to controul it. Whatever I do,
works against me; now let the thread be spun to the end, while I do
nothing; I can but endure the worst patiently; and how much better
to bear in silence, than to struggle vainly with the irrevocable decree!
I submit. Let Providence work out its own ends, and God dispose of
the being he has made - whether I reap the harvest in this world or in
the next, my part is played, I will strive no more!"
She believed in her own singleness of purpose as she said this, and
yet she was never more deceived. While she boasted of her resigna-
tion, she was yielding not to a high moral power, but to the pride of
her soul. Her resolutions were in accordance with the haughtiness of
her disposition, and she felt satisfied, not because she was making a
noble sacrifice, but because she thus adorned more magnificently the
LODOR E 393
idol she set up for worship, and believed herself to be more worthy of
applause and love. Yet who could condemn even errors that led to
such unbending and heroic forgetfulness of all the baser propensities
of our nature. Nor was this feeling of triumph long-lived; the wound-
ing and humiliating realities of life, soon degraded her from her
pedestal, and made her feel, as it were, the disgrace and indignities of
abdication.
Her travelling chariot drove up to the door, and, after a few
moments' preparation, she was summoned. Again she looked round
the room; her heart swelled high with impatience and repining, but
again she conquered herself. She took up her miniature — that now
she might possess - for she could not remember without sin - she
took up the newspaper, which did or did not contain the fiat of her
fate; but this action appeared to militate against the state of resignation
she had resolved to attain, so she threw it down: she walked down the
stairs, and passed out from her house for the last time - she got into
the carriage - the door was closed - the horses were in motion - all
was over.
Her head felt sick and heavy; she leaned back in her carriage half
stupified.When at last London and its suburbs were passed, the sight
of the open country a little revived her - but she soon drooped again.
Nothing presented itself to her thoughts with any clearness, and the
exultation which had supported her vanished totally. She only knew
that she was alone, poor, forgotten; these words hovered on her lips,
mingled with others, by which she endeavoured to charm away her
despondency. Fortitude and resignation for herself- freedom and
happiness for Ethel. "O yes, she is free and happy — it matters not then
what I am!" No tears flowed to soften this thought.The bright green
country - the meadows mingled with unripe corn-fields - the tufted
woods — the hedge-rows full of flowers, could not attract her eye;
pangs every now and then seized upon her heart — she had talked of
resignation, but she was delivered up to despair.
At length she sank into a kind of stupor. She was accompanied by
one servant only; she had told him where she intended to remain that
night. It was past eleven before they arrived at Reading; the night was
chill, and she shivered while she felt as if it were impossible to move,
even to draw up the glasses of her chariot. When she arrived at the
39 4 MARY SHELLE Y
inn where she was to pass the night, she felt keenly the discomfort of
having no female attendant. It was new — she felt as if it were dis-
graceful, to find herself alone among strangers, to be obliged to give
orders herself, and to prepare alone for her repose.
All night she could not sleep, and she became aware at last that she
was ill. She burnt with fever — her whole frame was tormented by
aches, by alternate hot and shivering fits, and by a feeling of sickness.
When morning dawned, it was worse. She grew impatient — she rose.
She had arranged that her servant should quit her at this place. He
had been but a short time with her, and was easily dismissed under
the idea, that she was to be joined by a man recommended by a
friend, who was accustomed to the continent, whither it was sup-
posed that she was going. She had dismissed him the night before, he
was already gone, when on the morrow she ordered the horses. - She
paid her bills herself- and had to answer questions about luggage; all
these things are customary to the poor, and to the other sex. But take
a high-born woman and place her in immediate contact with the
rough material of the world, and see how like a sensitive plant she will
shrink, close herself up and droop, and feel as if she had fallen from
her native sphere into a spot unknown, ungenial, and full of storms.
The illness that oppressed Lady Lodore, made these natural feelings
even more acute, till at last they were blunted by the same cause. She
now wondered what it was that ailed her, and became terrified at the
occasional wanderings that interrupted her torpor. Once or twice she
wished to speak to the post-boy, but her voice failed her. At length
they drove up to the inn at Newbury; fresh horses were called for, and
the landlady came up to the door of the carriage, to ask whether the
lady had breakfasted — whether she would take anything. There was
something ghastly in Lady Lodore's appearance, which at once fright
ened the good woman, and excited her compassion. She renewed her
questions, which Lady Lodore had not at first heard, adding, "You
seem ill, ma'am; do take something — had you not better alight?"
"O yes, far better," said Cornelia, "for I think I must be very ill."
The change of posture and cessation of motion a little revived her,
and she began to think that she was mistaken, and that it was all noth-
ing, and that she was well. She was conducted into the parlour of the
inn, and the landlady left her to order refreshment. "How foolish I
LODOR E 395
am," she thought; "this is mere fancy; there is nothing the matter with
me;" and she rose to ring the bell, and to order horses. When sudden-
ly, without any previous warning, struck as by a bolt, she fainted, and
fell on the floor, without any power of saving herself. The sound of
her fall quickened the steps of the landlady, who was returning; all the
chamber-maids were summoned, a doctor sent for, and when Lady
Lodore opened her eyes she saw unknown faces about her, a strange
place, and voices yet stranger. She did not speak, but tried to collect
her thoughts, and to unravel the mystery, as it appeared, of her situa-
tion. But soon her thoughts wandered, and fever and weakness made
her yield to the solicitations of those around. The doctor came, and
could make out nothing but that she was in a high fever: he ordered
her to be put to bed. And thus — Saville, and Ethel, and all hopes and
fears, having vanished from her thoughts, - given up to delirium and
suffering, poor Lady Lodore, alone, unknown, and unattended,
remained for several weeks at a country inn - under the hands of a
village doctor - to recover, if God pleased, if not, to sink, unmourned
and unheard of, into an untimely grave.
39 6 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XIV.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipped image from its base,
To give to me the ruined place—
Then fare thee well — I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
LALL A ROOKH.
1
ON the same day Mr. and Mrs.Villiers left their sad dwelling to take
possession of Lady Lodore s house. The generosity and kindness of her
mother, such as it appeared, though she knew but the smallest portion
of it, charmed Ethel. Her heart, which had so long struggled to love
her, was gladdened by the proofs given that she deserved her warmest
affection. The truest delight beamed from her lovely countenance.
Even she had felt the gloom and depression of adversity. The sight of
misery or vice in those around her tarnished the holy fervour with
which she would otherwise have made every sacrifice for Edward s
sake. There is something in this world, which even while it gives an
unknown grace to rough, and hard, and mean circumstances, contam-
inates the beauty and harmony of the noble and exalted. Ethel had
been aware of this; she dreaded its sinister influence overVilliers, and
in spite of herself she pined; she had felt with a shudder that in spite
of love and fortitude, a sense, chilling and desponding, was creeping
over her, making her feel the earth alien to her, and calling her away
from the sadness of the scene around to a world bright and pure as
herself. Her very despair thus dressed itself in the garb of religion; and
though these visitations of melancholy only came during the absence
ofVilliers and were never indulged in, yet they were too natural a
growth of their wretched abode to be easily or entirely dismissed.
Even now that she was restored to the fairer scenes of life, compassion
i Thomas Moore, "The Fire-Worshippers" Lalla Rookh (1817).
LODOR E 397
for the unfortunate beings she quitted haunted her, and her feelings
were too keenly alive to the miseries which her fellow-creatures
suffered, to permit her to be relieved from all pain by her own
exemption. She turned from such reflections to the image of her dear
kind mother with delight. The roof that sheltered her was hallowed as
hers; all the blessings of life which she enjoyed came to her from the
same source as life itself. She delighted to trace the current of feeling
which had occasioned her to give up so much, and to imagine the
sweetness of disposition, the vivacity of mind, the talents and accom-
plishments which her physiognomy expressed, and the taste manifest-
ed in her house, and all the things which she had collected around
her, evinced.
In less than a month after their liberation, she gave birth to [a]
son.
1
 The mingled danger and rejoicing attendant on this event,
imparted fresh strength to the attachment that united Edward to her;
and the little stranger himself was a new object of tenderness and
interest. Thus their days of mourning were exchanged for a happiness
most natural and welcome to the human heart. At this time also Hor-
atio Saville returned from Italy with his little girl. She was scarcely
more than a year old, but displayed an intelligence to be equalled only
by her extraordinary beauty. Her golden silken ringlets were even
then profuse, her eyes were as dark and brilliant as her mother's, but
her complexion was fair, and the same sweet smile flitted round her
infant mouth, as gave the charm to her fathers face. He idolized her,
and tried by his tenderness and attention to appease, as it were, the
manes of the unfortunate Clorinda.
She, poor girl, had been the victim of the violence of passion and
ill-regulated feelings native to her country, excited into unnatural
force by the singularity of her fate. When Saville saw her first in her
convent, she was pining for liberty; she did not think of any joy
beyond escaping the troublesome impertinence of the nuns and the
monotonous tenor of monastic life, of associating with people she
loved, and enjoying the common usages of life, unfettered by the
restrictions that rendered her present existence a burthen. But though
she desired no more, her disgust for the present, her longing for a
i "gave birth to son" (first edition).
39 8 MARY SHELLEY
change, was a powerful passion. She was adorned by talents, by genius;
she was eloquent and beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and feeling.
Saville pitied her; he lamented her future fate among her unworthy
countrymen; he longed to cherish, to comfort, and to benefit her. His
heart, so easily won to tenderness, gave her readily a brothers regard.
Others, seeing the active benevolence and lively interest that this sen-
timent elicited, might have fancied him inspired by a warmer feeling;
but he well knew the difference, he ardently desired her happiness,
but did not seek his own in her.
He visited her frequently, he brought her books, he taught her
English. They were allowed to meet daily in the parlour of the con-
vent, in the presence of a female attendant; and his admiration of her
talents, her imagination, her ardent comprehensive mind, increased on
every interview. They talked of literature — the poets — the arts;
Clorinda sang to him, and her fine voice, cultivated by the nicest art,
was a source of deep pleasure and pain to her auditor. His sensibility
was awakened by the tones of love and rapture - sensibility, not alas!
for her who sang, but for the false and absent. While listening, his
fancy recalled Lady Lodore's image; the hopes she had inspired, the
rapture he had felt in her presence - the warm vivifying effect her
voice and looks had on him were remembered, and his heart sank
within him to think that all this sweetness was deceptive, fleeting, lost.
Once, overcome by these thoughts, he resolved to return suddenly to
England, to make one effort more to exchange unendurable
wretchedness for the most transporting happiness; - absence from
Cornelia, to the joy of pouring out the overflowing sentiments of his
heart at her feet. While indulging in this idea, a letter from his sister
Lucy caused a painful revulsion; she painted the woman of the world
given up to ambition and fashion, rejoicing in his departure, and wait-
ing only the moment when she might with decency become the wife
of another. Saville was almost maddened - he did not visit Clorinda
for three days. She received him, when at last he came, without
reproach, but with transport; she saw that sadness, even sickness,
dimmed his eye; she soothed him, she hung over him with fondness,
she sung to him her sweetest, softest airs; his heart melted, a tear stole
from his eye. Clorinda saw his emotion; it excited hers; her Neapoli-
tan vivacity was not restrained by shame nor fear, - she spoke of her
LODOR E 399
love for him with the vehemence she felt, and youth and beauty hal-
lowed the frankness and energy of her expressions. Saville was
touched and pleased, - he left her to meditate on this new state of
things — for free from passion himself, he had never suspected the
growth of it in her heart. He reflected on all her admirable qualities,
and the pity it was that they should be cast at the feet of one of her
own unrefined, uneducated countrymen, who would be incapable of
appreciating her talents — even her love — so that at last she would
herself become degraded, and sink into that system of depravity
which makes a prey of all that is lovely or noble in our nature. He
could save her — she loved him, and he could save her; lost as he was
to real happiness, it were to approximate to it, if he consecrated his life
to her welfare.
Yet he would not deceive her. The excess of love which she
bestowed demanded a return which he could not give. She must
choose whether, such as he was, he were worth accepting. Actuated
by a sense of justice, he opened his heart to her without disguise: he
told her of his ill-fated attachment to another - of his self-banish-
ment, and misery — he declared his real and earnest affection for her —
his desire to rescue her from her present fate, and to devote his life to
her. Clorinda scarcely heard what he said, - she felt only that she
might become his — that he would marry her; her rapture was undis-
guised, and he enjoyed the felicity of believing that one so lovely and
excellent would at once owe every blessing of life to him, and that the
knowledge of this must ensure his own content. The consent of her
parents was easily yielded, — the Pope is always ready to grant a dis-
pensation to a Catholic wife marrying a Protestant husband, - the
wedding speedily took place - and Saville became her husband.
Their mutual torments now began. Horatio was a man of high and
unshrinking principle. He never permitted himself to think of Lady
Lodore, and the warmth and tenderness of his heart led him to attach
himself truly and affectionately to his wife. But this did not suffice for
the Neapolitan. Her marriage withdrew the veil of life - she imag-
ined that she distinguished the real from the fictitious, but her new
sense of discernment was the source of torture. She desired to be
loved as she loved; she insisted that her rival should be hated - she wa
shaken by continual tempests of jealousy, and the violence of her tem-
40 0 MARY SHELLE Y
per, restrained by no reserve of disposition, displayed itself frightfully.
Saville reasoned, reproached, reprehended, without any avail, except
that when her violence had passed its crisis, she repented, and wept,
and besought forgiveness. Ethel's visit had been a blow hard to bear.
She was the daughter of her whom Saville loved — whom he regret-
ted - on whom he expended that passion and idolatry, to attain which
she would have endured the most dreadful tortures. These were the
reflections, or rather, these were the ravings, of Clorinda. She had
never been so furious in her jealousy, or so frequent in her fits of pas-
sion, as during the visit of the unconscious and gentle Ethel.
The birth of her child operated a beneficial change for a time; and
except when Saville spoke of England, or she imagined that he was
thinking of it, she ceased to torment him. He was glad; but the moment
was passed when she could command his esteem, or excite his sponta-
neous sympathy. He pitied and he loved her; but it was almost as we
may become attached to an unfortunate and lovely maniac; less than
ever did he seek his happiness in her. He loved his infant daughter now
better than any other earthly thing. Clorinda rejoiced in this tie, though
she soon grew jealous even of her own child.
The arrival of Lord Maristow and his daughters was at first full of
benefit to the discordant pair. Clorinda was really desirous of obtain-
ing their esteem, and she exerted herself to please: when they talked
of her return to England with them, it only excited her to try to ren-
der Italy so agreeable as to induce them to remain there. They were
not like Ethel. They were good girls, but fashionable and fond of plea-
sure. Clorinda devised a thousand amusements — concerts, tableaux,
the masquerades of the carnival, were all put in requisition. They car-
ried their zeal for amusement so far as to take up their abode for a day
or two at Pompeii, feigning to be its ancient inhabitants, and, bringing
the corps operatique to their aid, got up Rossini's opera of the Ultimi
Giorni di Pompeii among the ruins, ending their masquerade by a
mimic eruption.
1
 These gaieties did not accord with the classic and
Shelley saw a number of operas by Rossini in London and in Italy, though she calls
him "no favourite of mine" in a letter to Marianne Hunt (Letters 1.89). Perhaps the
choice is meant as ridicule of their activities. But Rossini did not write the L'Ultimo
giortto di Pornpei ("The Last Day of Pompei"), an opera seria in two acts by Giovan-
ni Pacini, based on a libretto by Andrea Leone Tottola (1825).
LODOR E 401
I
refined tastes of Saville; but he was glad to find his wife and sisters
agree so well, and under the blue sky, and in the laughing land of
Naples, it was impossible not to find beauty and enjoyment even in
extravagance and folly.
Still, like a funeral bell heard amidst a feast, the name of England,
and the necessity of her going thither, struck on the ear and chilled
the heart of the Neapolitan. She resolved never to go; but how could
she refuse to accompany her husband's sisters? how resist the admoni-
tions and commands of his father? She did not refuse therefore - she
seemed to consent - while she said to Saville, "Poison, stab me - cast
me down the crater of the mountain - exhaust your malice and
hatred on me as you please here - but you shall never take me to
England but as a corpse."
Saville replied, "As you will." He was tired of the struggle, and left
the management of his departure to others.
One day his sisters described the delights of a London season, and
strove to win Clorinda by the mention of its balls, parties, and opera;
they spoke of Almack's, and the leaders of fashion; they mentioned
Lady Lodore. They were unaware that Clorinda knew any thing of
their brother's attachment, and speaking of her as one of the most dis-
tinguished of their associates in the London world, made their sister-
in-law aware, that when she made a part of it, she would come into
perpetual contact with her rival. This allusion caused one of her most
violent paroxysms of rage as soon as she found herself alone with her
husband. So frantic did she seem, that Horatio spoke seriously to his
father, and declared that he knew of no argument nor power which
could induce Clorinda to accompany them to England. "Then you
must go without her," said Lord Maristow; "your career, your family,
your country, must not be sacrificed to her unreasonable folly." And
then, wholly unaware of the character of the person with whom he
had to deal, he repeated the same thing to Clorinda. "You must
choose," he said, "between Naples and your husband - he must go; do
you prefer being left behind?"
Clorinda grew pale, even livid. She returned home. Horatio was
not there; she raved through her house like a maniac; her servants
even hid her child from her, and she rushed from room to room tear-
ing her hair, and calling for Saville. At length he entered; her eyes were
40 2 MARY SHELLEY
starting from her head, her frame working with convulsive violence;
she strove to speak — to give utterance to the vehemence pent up
within her. She darted towards him; when suddenly, as if shot to the
heart, she fell on the marble pavement of her chamber, and a red
stream poured from her lips — she had burst a blood-vessel.
For many days she was not allowed to speak nor move. Saville
nursed her unremittingly — he watched by her at night — he tried to
soothe her - he brought her child to her side - his sweetness, and
gentleness, and real tenderness were all expended on her. Although
violent, she was not ungenerous. She was touched by his attentions,
and the undisguised solicitude of his manner. She resolved to conquer
herself, and in a fit of heroism formed the determination to yield, and
to go to England. Her first words, when permitted to speak, were to
signify her assent. Saville kissed and thanked her. She had half imag-
ined that he would imitate her generosity, and give up the journey.
No such thought crossed his mind; her distaste was too unreasonable
to elicit the smallest sympathy, and consequently any concession. He
thanked her warmly, it is true; and looked delighted at this change, but
without giving her time to retract, he hurried to communicate to his
relations the agreeable tidings.
As she grew better she did not recede, but she felt miserable. The
good spirits and ready preparations of Horatio were all acts of treason
against her: sometimes she felt angry — but she checked herself. Like
all Italians, Clorinda feared death excessively; beside that, to die was to
yield the entire victory to her rival. She struggled therefore, and con-
quered herself; and neither expressed her angry jealousy nor her ter-
rors. She had many causes of fear; she was again in a situation to
increase her family within a few months; and while her safety
depended on her being able to attain a state of calm, she feared a con-
finement in England, and believed that it was impossible that she
should survive.
She was worn to a skeleton - her large eyes were sunk and ringed
with black, while they burnt with unnatural brilliancy, for her vivaci-
ty did not desert her, and that deceived those around; they fancied
that she was convalescent, and would soon recover strength and good
looks, while she nourished a deep sense of wrong for the slight atten-
tion paid to her sufferings. She wept over herself and her friendless
LODOR E 403
state. Her husband was not her friend, for he was not her country-
man: and full as Saville was of generous sympathy and kindliness for
all, the idea of returning to England, to his home and friends, to the
stirring scenes of life, and the society of those who loved literature,
and were endowed with the spirit of liberal inquiry and manly habits
of thinking, so absorbed and delighted him, that he could only thank
Clorinda again and again — caress her, and entreat her to get well, that
she might share his pleasures. His words chilled her, and she shrunk
from his caresses. "He is thinking of her, and of seeing her again," she
thought. She did him the most flagrant injustice. Saville was a man of
high and firm principle, and had he been aware of any latent weak-
ness, of any emotion allied to the master-passion of his soul, he would
have conquered it, or have fled from the temptation. He never
thought less of Lady Lodore than now. The unwonted gentleness and
concessions of his wife - his love for his child, and the presence of his
father and dear sisters, dissipated his regrets, - his conscience was
wholly at ease, and he was happy.
Clorinda dared not complain to her English relatives, but she lis-
tened to the lamentations of her Neapolitan friends with a luxury of
woe. They mourned over her as if she were going to visit another
sphere; they pointed out the little island on a map, and seated far off as
it was amidst the northern sea, night and storms, they averred, perpet-
ually brooded over it, while from the shape of the earth they
absolutely proved that it was impossible to get there. It is true that
Lord Maristow and his daughters, and Saville himself, had come
thence - that was nothing - it was easy to come away. "You see," they
said, "the earth slopes down, and the sun is before them; but when
they have to go back, ah! it is quite another affair; the Alps rise, and
the sea boils over, and they have to toil up the wall of the world itself
into winter and darkness. It is tempting God to go there.
1
 O stay,
Clorinda, stay in sunny Italy. Orazio will return: do not go to die in
that miserable birth-place of night and frost."
Clorinda wept yet more bitterly over her hard fate, and the impos-
sibility of yielding to their wishes. "Would to God," she thought, "I
could abandon the ingrate, and let him go far from Italy and Clorin-
40 4 MARY SHELLEY
i This is an example of British contempt for the Italians that can also be found in the
Shelleys' letters.
da, to die in his wretched country! Would I could forget, hate, desert
him! Ah, why do I idolize one born in that chilly land, where love
and passion are unknown or despised!"
At length the day arrived when they left Naples. It was the month
of May, and very warm. No imagination could paint the glorious
beauty of this country of enchantment, on the completion of spring,
before the heats of summer had withered its freshness. The sparkling
waves of the blue Mediterranean encircled the land, and contrasted
with its hues: the rich foliage of the trees — the festooning of the lux-
uriant vines, and the abundant vegetation which sprung fresh from
the soil, decorating the rocks, and mantling the earth with flowers and
verdure, were all in the very prime and blossoming of beauty. The sis-
ters of Saville expressed their admiration in warm and enthusiastic
terms; the words trembled on poor Clorinda's lips; she was about to
say, "Why then desert this land of bliss?" but Horatio spoke instead: "It
is splendid, I own, and once I felt all that you express. Now a path
along a grassy field — a hedge-row — a copse with a rill murmuring
through it — a white cottage with simple palings enclosing a flower-
garden — the spire of a country church rising from among a tuft of
elms — the skies all shadowy with soft clouds — and the homesteads of
a happy thriving peasantry — these are the things I sigh for. A true
English home-scene seems to me a thousand times more beautiful, as
it must be a thousand times dearer than the garish showy splendour of
Naples."
Clorinda's thoughts crept back into her chilled heart; large tear-
drops rose in her eyes, but she concealed them, and shrinking into a
corner of the carriage, she felt more lonely and deserted than she
would have done among strangers who had loved Italy, and participat-
ed in her feelings.
They arrived at the inn called the Villa di Cicerone, at the Mola di
Gaeta.
1
 All the beauty of the most beautiful part of the Peninsula
seems concentred in that enchanting spot — the perfume of orange
flowers filled the air - the sea was at their feet - the vine-clad hills
around. All this excess of loveliness only added to the unutterable mis-
ery of the Neapolitan girl. Her companions talked and laughed, while
LODOR E 405
I Shelley stayed at the inn named after Cicero, who was murdered nearby, in Novem-
ber 1818. For a description of the inn, see Journals 241.
she felt her frame convulsed by internal combats, and the unwonted
command she exercised over her habitual vehemence. Horatio con-
versed gaily with his sisters, till catching a glimpse of the pale face of
his wretched wife, her mournful eyes and wasted cheeks, he drew
near her. "You are fatigued, dearest Clorinda," he said, "will you not
go to rest?"
He said this in a tender caressing tone, but she felt, "He wants to
send me away — to get rid even of the sight of me." But he sat down
by her, and perceiving her dejection, and guessing partly at its cause,
he soothed her, and talked of their return to her native land, and
cheered her by expressions of gratitude for the sacrifice she was mak-
ing. Her heart began to soften, and her tears to flow more freely,
when a man entered, such as haunt the inns in Italy, and watch for the
arrival of rich strangers to make profit in various ways out of them.
This man had a small picture for sale, which he declared to be an
original Carlo Dolce.
1
 It was the head of a seraph painted on copper
- it was probably a copy, but it was beautifully executed; besides the
depth of colour and grace of design, there was something singularly
beautiful in the expression of the countenance portrayed, — it symbol-
ized happiness and love; a beaming softness animated the whole face;
a perfect joy, an ineffable radiance shone out of it. Clorinda took it in
her hand - the representation of heart-felt gladness increased her self-
pity; she was turning towards her husband with a reproachful look,
thinking, "Such smiles you have banished from my face for ever," -
when Sophia Saville, who was looking over her shoulder, exclaimed,
"What an extraordinary resemblance! there was never any thing so
like."
"Who? what?" asked her sister.
"It is Lady Lodore herself," replied Sophia; "her eyes, her mouth,
her very smile."
Lucy gave a quick glance towards her brother. Horatio involuntar-
ily stepped forward to look, and then as hastily drew back. Clorinda
saw it all - she put down the picture, and left the room - she could
not stay - she could not speak - she knew not what she felt, but that a
fiery torture was eating into her, and she must fly, she knew not
406 MARY SHELLE Y
i Carlo Dolchi (1616-86), a painter from Florence.
whither. Saville was pained; he hesitated what to do or say — so he
remained; supper was brought in, and Clorinda not appearing, it was
supposed that she had retired to rest. In about an hour and a half after,
Horatio went into her room, and to his horror beheld her stretched
upon the cold bricks of the chamber, senseless; the moonbeams rested
on her pale face, which bore the hues of death. In a moment the
house was alarmed, the village doctor summoned, a courier dis-
patched to Naples for an English physician, and every possible aid
afforded the wretched sufferer. She was placed on the bed, - she still
lived; her faint pulse could not be felt, and no blood flowed when a
vein was opened, but she groaned, and now and then opened her eyes
with a ghastly stare, and closed them again as if mechanically. All was
horror and despair - no help - no resource presented itself; they hung
round her, they listened to her groans with terror, and yet they were
the only signs of life that disturbed her death-like state. At last, soon
after the dawn of day, she became convulsed, her pulse fluttered, and
blood flowed from her wounded arm; in about an hour from this time
she gave birth to a dead child. After this she grew calmer and fainter.
The physician arrived, but she was part mortal cure, - she never
opened her eyes more, nor spoke, nor gave any token of conscious-
ness. By degrees her groans ceased, and she faded into death: the slen-
der manifestations of lingering vitality gradually decreasing till all was
still and cold. After an hour or two her face resumed its loveliness, pale
and wasted as it was: she seemed to sleep, and none could regret that
repose possessed that heart, which had been alive only to the deadliest
throes of unhappy passion. Yet Saville did more than regret — he
mourned her sincerely and deeply, — he accused himself of hard-
heartedness, - he remembered what she was when he had first seen
her; - how full of animation, beauty, and love. He did not remember
that she had perished the victim of uncontrolled passion; he felt that
she was his victim. He would have given worlds to restore her to life
and enjoyment. What was a residence in England — the promises of
ambition — the pleasures of his native land — all that he could feel or
know, compared to the existence of one so young, so blessed with
Heavens choicest gifts of mind and person. She was his victim, and he
could never forgive himself.
For his father's and sisters' sake he subdued the expression of his
LODOR E 407
grief, for they also loved Clorinda, and were struck with sorrow at the
sudden catastrophe. His strong mind, also, before long, mastered the
false view he had taken of the cause of her death. He lamented her
deeply, but he did not give way to unavailing remorse, which was
founded on his sensibility, and not on any just cause for repentance.
He turned all his thoughts to repairing her errors, rather than his
own, by cherishing her child with redoubled fondness. The little girl
was too young to feel her loss; she had always loved her father, and
now she clung to his bosom and pressed her infant lips to his cheek,
and by her playfulness and caresses repaid him for the tenderness that
he lavished on her.
After some weeks spent in the north of Italy he returned to Eng-
land with her. Lord Maristow and his daughters were already there,
and had gone to Maristow Castle. Saville took up his abode with his
cousin Villiers. His situation was new and strange. He found himself in
the very abode of the dreaded Cornelia, yet she was away, unheard of,
almost, it seemed, forgotten. Did he think of her as he saw the traces
of by-gone scenes around? He played with his child — he secluded
himself among his books - he talked with Ethel of what had hap-
pened since their parting, and reproached Villiers bitterly for not hav-
ing applied to him in his distress. But a kind of spell sealed the lips of
each, and Lady Lodore, who was the living spirit of the scene around
- the creator of its peace and happiness - seemed to have passed away
from the memory of all. It was in appearance only. Not an hour, not a
minute of the day passed, that did not bring her idea to their minds,
and Saville and Ethel each longed for the word to be uttered by
either, which would permit them to give expression to the thoughts
that so entirely possessed them.
40 8 MARY SHELLEY
CHAPTER XV.
The music
Of man's fair composition best accords,
When 'tis in consort, not in single strains:
My heart has been untuned these many months,
Wanting her presence, in whose equal love
True harmony consisted.
FORD.
1
AT the beginning of September the whole party assembled at Maris-
tow Castle. Even Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was among the guests. She
had not visited Ethel in London, because she would not enter Lady
Lodore's house, but she had the true spinster's desire of seeing the
baby, and thus overcame her reluctance to quitting Longfield for a few
weeks. Fanny Derham also accompanied them, unable to deny Ethel's
affectionate entreaties. Fanny's situation had been beneficially
changed. Sir Gilbert Derham, finding that his granddaughter associat-
ed with people in the world, and being applied to by Lord Maristow,
was induced to withdraw Mrs. Derham from her mean situation, and
to settle a small fortune on each of her children. Fanny was too
young, and too wedded to her platonic notions of the supremacy of
mind, to be fully aware of the invaluable advantages of pecuniary
independence for a woman. She fancied that she could enter on the
career - the only career permitted her sex - of servitude, and yet pos-
sess her soul in freedom and power.
2
 She had never, indeed, thought
much of these things: life was, as it concerned herself, a system of
words only. As always happens to the young, she only knew suffering
through her affections, and the real chain of life - its necessities and
cares - and the sinister influences exercised by the bad passions of our
fellow-creatures - had not yet begun to fetter her aspiring thoughts.
Beautiful in her freedom, in her enthusiasm, and even in her learning,
but, above all, in the lively kindliness of her heart, she excited the
wonder and commanded the affections of all. Saville had never seen
1 The Lover's Melancholy (1629) 4.3.50-55.
2 Wollstonecraft's experiences as a governess seem reflected here, perhaps those of
Claire Clairmont as well.
LODOR E 409
any one like her - she brought to his recollection his own young feel-
ings before experience had lifted "the painted veil which those who
live call live,"
1
 or passion and sorrow had tamed the ardour of his
mind; he looked on her with admiration, and yet with compassion,
wondering where and how the evil spirit of the world would show its
power to torment, and conquer the free soul of the disciple of wis-
dom.
Yet Saville s own mind was rather rebuked than tamed: he knew
what suffering was, yet he knew also how to endure it, and to turn it
to advantage, deriving thence lessons of fortitude, of forbearance, and
even of hope. It was not, however, till the seal on his lips was taken off,
and the name of Cordelia mentioned, that he became aware that the
same heart warmed his bosom, as had been the cause at once of such
rapture and misery in former times. Yet even now he did not
acknowledge to himself that he still loved, passionately, devotedly
loved, Lady Lodore. The image of the pale Clorinda stretched on the
pavement — his victim — still dwelt in his memory, and he made a sac-
rifice at her tomb of every living feeling of his own. He fancied,
therefore, that he spoke coldly of Cornelia, with speculation only,
while in fact, at the very mention of her name a revulsion took place
in his being - his eyes brightened, his face beamed with animation,
his very figure enlarged, his heart was on fire within him.Villiers saw
and appreciated these tokens of passion; but Ethel only perceived an
interest in her mother, shared with herself, and was half angry that he
made no professions of the constancy of his attachment.
Still, day after day, and soon, all day long, they talked of Lady
Lodore. None but a lover and a daughter could have adhered so perti-
naciously to one subject; and thus Saville and Ethel were often left to
themselves, or joined only by Fanny. Fanny was very mysterious and
alarming in what she said of her beautiful and interesting favourite.
While Ethel lamented her mother's love of the continent, conjectured
concerning her return, and dwelt on the pleasures of their future
intercourse, Fanny shook her head, and said, "It was strange, very
strange, that not one letter had yet reached them from her." She was
41 0 MARY SHELLEY
i Percy Shelley, "Sonnet: Lift not the Painted Veil," published in Mary Shelley's edi-
tion of the Posthumous Poems (1824).
asked to explain, but she could only say, that when she last saw Lady
Lodore, she was impressed by the idea that all was not as it seemed.
She tried to appear as if acting according to the ordinary routine of
life, and yet was evidently agitated by violent and irrepressible feeling.
Her manner, she had herself fancied, to be calm, and yet it betrayed a
wandering of thought, a fear of being scrutinized, manifested in her
repetition of the same phrases, and in the earnestness with which she
made assurances concerning matters of the most trivial import. This
was all that Fanny could say, but she was intimately persuaded of the
correctness of her observation, and lamented that she had not
inquired further and discovered more. "For," she said, "the mystery,
whatever it is, springs from the most honourable motives. There was
nothing personal nor frivolous in the feelings that mastered her;" and
Fanny feared that at that very moment she was sacrificing herself to
some project — some determination, which, while it benefited others,
was injuring herself. Ethel, with all her affection for her mother, was
not persuaded of the justice of these suspicions, nor could be brought
to acknowledge that the mystery of Lady Lodore's absence was
induced by any motives as strange and forcible as those suggested by
Fanny; but believed that her young friend was carried away by her
own imagination and high-flown ideas. Saville was operated differ-
ently upon. He became uneasy, thoughtful, restless: a thousand times
he was on the point of setting out to find a clue to the mystery, and to
discover the abode of the runaway,- but he was restrained. It is usual-
ly supposed that women are always under the influence of one senti-
ment, and if Lady Lodore acted under the direction and for the sake
of another, wherefore should Saville interfere? what right had he to
investigate her secrets, and disturb her arrangements?
Several months passed. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to
Longfield, and still the mystery concerning Ethel's mother continued,
and the wonder increased. Soon after Christmas Mr. Gayland, who
was also Lord Maristow s solicitor, came down to the Castle for a few
days. He made inquiries concerning Lady Lodore, and was somewhat
surprised at her strange disappearance and protracted absence. He
asked several questions, and seemed to form conclusions in his own
mind; he excited the curiosity of all, yet restrained himself from satis-
fying it; he was evidently disquieted by her unbroken silence, yet
LODOR E 411
feared to betray the origin of his uneasiness.
While he remained curiosity was dominant: when he went he
requested Villiers to be good enough to let him know if any thing
should be heard of Lady Lodore. He asked this more than once, and
required an absolute promise. After his departure, his questions, his
manner, and his last words recurred, exciting even more surprise than
when he had been present. Fanny brought forward all he said to sup-
port her own conjectures; a shadow of disquiet crossed Ethels mind;
she asked Villiers to take some steps to discover where her mother
was, and on his refusal argued earnestly, though vainly, to persuade
him to comply. Villiers was actuated by the common-place maxim of
not interfering with the actions and projects of others. "Lady Lodore
is not a child," he said, "she knows what she is about — has she not
always avoided you, Ethel? Why press yourself inopportunely upon
her?"
But Ethel was not now to be convinced by the repetition of these
arguments. She urged her mothers kindness and sacrifice; her having
given up her home to them; her house still unclaimed by her, still at
their disposal, and which contained so many things which must have
been endeared by long use and habit, and the relinquishing of which
showed something extraordinary in her motives. This was a woman's
feeling, and made little impression on Villiers — he was willing to
praise and to thank Lady Lodore for her generosity and kindness, but
he suspected nothing beyond her acknowledged acts.
Saville heard this disquisition; he wished Villiers to be convinced -
he was persuaded that Ethel was right — he was angry at his cousin's
obstinacy - he was miserable at the idea that Cornelia should feel
herself treated with neglect - that she should need protection and not
have it - that she should be alone, and not find assistance proffered,
urged upon her. He mounted his horse and took a solitary ride, med-
itating on these things - his imagination became heated, his soul on
fire. He pictured Lady Lodore in solitude and desertion, and his heart
boiled within him. Was she sick, and none near her? - was she dead,
and her grave unvisited and unknown? A lover's fancy is as creative as
a poet's, and when once it takes hold of any idea, it clings to it tena-
ciously. If it is thus even with ordinary minds, how much more with
Saville, with all the energy which was his characteristic, and the latent
41 2 MARY SHELLE Y
fire of love burning in his heart. His resolution was sudden, and acted
on at once. He turned his horse s head towards London. On reaching
the nearest town, he ordered a chaise and four post horses. He wrote a
few hurried lines announcing an absence of two or three days, and
with the rapidity that always attended the conception of his purposes
and their execution, the next morning, having travelled all night, he
was in Mr. Gayland's office, questioning that gentleman concerning
Lady Lodore, and seeking from him all the light he could throw upon
her long-continued and mysterious absence.
Mr. Gayland had promised Lady Lodore not to reveal her secret to
Mr. or Mrs.Villiers; but he felt himself free to communicate it to any
other person. He was very glad to get rid of the burden and even the
responsibility of being her sole confidant. He related all he knew to
Saville, and the truth flashed on the lover's mind. His imagination
could not dupe him — he could conceive, and therefore believe in her
generosity, her magnanimity. He had before, in some degree, divined
the greatness of mind of which Lady Lodore was capable; though as
far as regarded himself, her pride, and his modesty, had deceived him.
Now he became at once aware that Cornelia had beggared herself for
Ethel's sake. She had disposed of her jointure, given up the residue of
her income, and wandered away, poor and alone, to avoid the discov-
ery of the extent and consequences of her sacrifices. Saville left Mr.
Gayland's office with a bursting and a burning heart. At once he paid
a warm tribute of admiration to her virtues, and acknowledged to
himself his own passionate love. It became a duty, in his eyes, to
respect, revere, adore one so generous and noble. He was proud of the
selection his heart had made, and of his constancy. "My own Cor-
nelia," such was his reverie, "how express your merit and the admira-
tion it deserves! — other people talk of generosity, and friendship, and
parental affection — but you manifest a visible image of these things;
and while others theorize, you embody in your actions all that can be
imagined of glorious and angelic." He congratulated himself on being
able to return to the genuine sentiments of his heart, and in finding
reality give sanction to the idolatry of his soul.
He longed to pour out his feelings at her feet, and to plead the
cause of his fidelity and affection, to read in her eyes whether she
would see a reward for her sufferings in his attachment. Where was
LODOR E 413
she, to receive his protestations and vows? He half forgot, in the fer-
vour of his feelings, that he knew not whither she had retreated, nor
possessed any clue whereby to find her. He returned to Mr. Gayland
to inquire from him; but he could tell nothing; he went to her house
and questioned the servants, they remembered nothing; at last he
found her maid, and learnt from her, where she was accustomed to
hire her post-horses; this was all the information at which he could
arrive.
Going to Newman's, with some difficulty he found the post-boy,
who remembered driving her. By his means he traced her to Read-
ing, but here all clue was lost. The inn to which she had gone had
passed into other hands, and no one knew any thing about the arrivals
and departures of the preceding summer. He made various perquisi-
tions, and lighted by chance on the servant she had taken with her to
Reading, and there dismissed. From what he said, and a variety of
other circumstances, he became convinced that she had gone abroad.
He searched the foreign passport-office, and found that one had been
taken out at the French Ambassador s in the month of April, by a Mrs.
Fitzhenry. He persuaded himself that this was proof that she had gone
to Paris. It was most probable that, impoverished as she was, and
desirous of concealing her altered situation, that she should, as Lodore
had formerly done, dismiss a title which would at once encumber and
betray her. He immediately resolved to cross to France. And yet for a
moment he hesitated, and reflected on what it was best to do.
He had given no intimation of his proceedings to his cousin, and
they were unaware that his journe y was connected with Lady Lodore.
He had a lover's wish to find her himself- himself to be the only
source of consolation — the only mediator to restore her to her
daughter and to happiness. But his fruitless attempts at discovery
made him see that his wishes were not to be effected easily. He felt
that he ought to communicate all he knew to his cousins, and even to
ensure their assistance in his researches. Before going abroad, there-
fore, he returned to Maristow Castle.
He arrived late in the evening. Lord Maristow and his daughters
were gone out to dinner. The three persons whom Saville especially
wished to see, alone occupied the drawing-room. Edward was writing
to his father, who had advised him, now that he had a son, entirely to
41 4 MARY SHELLEY
cut off the entail and mortgage a great part of the property: it was a
distasteful task to answer the suggestions of unprincipled selfishness.
While he was thus occupied, Ethel had taken from her desk her
mother's last letter, and was reading it again and again, weighing every
syllable, and endeavouring to discover a hidden meaning. She went
over to the sofa on which Fanny was sitting, to communicate to her a
new idea that had struck her. The studious girl had got into a corner
with her Cicero, and was reading the Tusculan Questions,
1
 which she
readily laid aside to enter on a subject so deeply interesting. Saville
opened the door, and appeared most unexpectedly among them. His
manner was eager and abrupt, and the first words he uttered were, "I
am come to disturb you all, and to beg of you to return to London: —
no time must be lost — can you go to-morrow?"
"Certainly," saidVilliers,"if you wish it."
"But why?" asked Ethel.
"You have found Lady Lodore!" exclaimed Fanny."
2
"You are dreaming, Fanny," said Ethel; "you see Horace shakes his
head. But if we go to-morrow, yet rest to-night. You are fatigued, pale,
and ill, Horace — you have been exerting yourself too much — explain
your wishes, but take repose and refreshment."
Saville was in too excited a state to think of either. He repelled
Ethel's feminine offers, till he had related his story. His listeners heard
him with amazement. Villiers's cheeks glowed with shame, partly at
the injustice of his former conduct — partly at being the object of so
much sacrifice and beneficence on the part of his mother-in-law.
Fanny's colour also heightened; she clasped her hands in delight, min-
gling various exclamations with Saville s story "Did I not say so? I was
sure of it. If you had seen her when I did, on the day of her going
away, you would have been as certain as I." Ethel wept in silence, her
heart was touched to the core, "the remorse of love" awakened in it.
How cold and ungrateful had been all her actions: engrossed by her
love for her husband, she had bestowed no sympathy, made no
demonstrations towards her mother. The false shame and Edward's
oft-repeated arguments which had kept her back, vanished from her
1 Tusculan Disputations (44 B.C.) is a treatise of five books in which Cicero considers
the conditions for happiness.
2 The extra quotation marks were added in the first edition.
LODOR E 415
mind. She reproached herself bitterly for lukewarmness and neglect;
she yearned to show her repentance — to seek forgiveness — to
express, however feebly, her sense of her mother's angelic goodness.
Her tears flowed to think of these things, that her mother was away,
poor and alone, believing herself wronged in all their thoughts,
resenting perhaps their unkindness, mourning over the ingratitude of
her child.
When the first burst of feeling was over, they discussed their future
proceedings. Saville communicated his discoveries and his plan of
crossing to France. Villiers was as eager as his cousin to exert himself
actively in the pursuit. His ingenuous and feeling mind was struck by
his injustice, and he was earnest in his wish to atone for the past, and
to recompense her, if possible, for her sacrifices. As every one is apt to
do with regard to the ideas of others, he was not satisfied with his
cousins efforts or conclusions; he thought more questions might be
asked - more learnt at the inns on the route which Lady Lodore had
taken. The passport Saville had imagined to be hers, was taken out for
Dover. Reading was far removed from any road to Kent. They argued
this. Horatio was not convinced; but while he was bent on proceeding
to Paris, Edward resolved to visit Reading — to examine the neigh-
bourhood — to requestion the servants — to put on foot a system of
inquiry which must in the end assure them whether she was still in
the kingdom. It was at once resolved, that on the morrow they should
go to London.
Thither they accordingly went. They repaired to Lady Lodore's
house. Saville on the next morning departed for France, and a letter
soon reached them from him, saying, that he felt persuaded that the
Mrs. Fitzhenry was Lady Lodore, and that he should pursue his way
with all speed to Paris. It appeared, that the lady in question had
crossed to Calais on the eleventh of June, and intimated her design of
going to the Bagneres de Bigorre among the Pyrenees,
1
 passing
through Paris on her way. The mention of the Bagneres de Bigorre
clinched Saville's suspicions - it was such a place as one in Lady
Lodore s position might select for her abode - distant, secluded, situ-
41 6 MARY SHELLE Y
i A popular health resort, known for its sulfur springs, on the Adour River in the
Pyrenees district of southwest France. Shelley's stepbrother Charles Clairmont visit-
ed there in 1816.
ated in sublime and beautiful scenery, singularly cheap, and seldom
visited by strangers; yet the annual resort of the French from Bor-
deaux and Lyons, civilized what otherwise had been too rude and
wild for an English lady It was a long journey thither — the less 'won-
der that nothing was heard, or seen, or surmised concerning the
absentee by her numerous acquaintances, many of whom were scat-
tered on the continent. Saville represented all these things, and
expressed his conviction that he should find her. His letter was brief,
for he was hurried, and he felt that it were better to say nothing than
to express imperfectly the conflicting emotions alive in his heart. "My
life seems a dream," he said at the conclusion of his letter; "a long
painful dream, since last I saw her. I awake, she is not here; I go to seek
her — my actions have that single scope — my thoughts tend to that
aim only; I go to find her — to restore her to Ethel. If I succeed in
bestowing this happiness on her, I shall have my reward, and, whatev-
er happens, no selfish regret shall tarnish my delight."
He urged Villiers, meanwhile, not to rely too entirely on the con-
viction so strong in himself, but to pursue his plan of discovery with
vigour. Villiers needed no spur. His eagerness was fully alive; he could
not rest till he had rescued his mother-in-law from solitude and
obscurity. He visited Reading; he extended his inquiries to Newbury:
here more light broke in on his researches. He heard of Lady Lodore s
illness — of her having resided several months at a villa in the neigh-
bourhood, while slowly recovering from a fever by which for a long
time her life had been endangered. He also heard of her departure,
her return to London. Then again, all was obscurity. The innkeepers
and letters of post-horses in London, were all visited in vain - the
mystery became as impenetrable as ever. It seemed most probable that
she was living in some obscure part of the metropolis - Ethels heart
sunk within her at the thought.
Edward wrote to Saville to communicate this intelligence, which
put an end to the idea of her being in France - but he was already
gone on to Bagneres. He himself perambulated London and its out-
skirts, but all in vain. The very thought that she should be residing in a
place so sad, nay, so humiliating, without one gilding circumstance to
solace poverty and obscurity, was unspeakably painful both to Villiers
and his wife. Ethel thought of her own abode in Duke street during
LODOR E 417
her husband's absence, and how miserable and forlorn it had been —
she now wept bitterly over her mother's fate; even Fanny's philosophy
could not afford consolation for these ideas.
An accident, however, gave a new turn to their conjectures. In the
drawer]
1
 of a work-table, Ethel found an advertisement cut out of a
newspaper, setting forth the merits of a cottage to be let near Rhaiy-
der Gowy in Radnorshire, and with this, a letter from the agent at
Rhaiyder, dated the 13th of May, in answer to inquiries concerning
the rent and particulars. The letter intimated, that if the account gave
satisfaction, the writer would get the cottage prepared for the tenant
immediately, and the lady might take possession at the time men-
tioned, on the 1st of June. The day after finding the letter, Villiers set
out for Wales.
But first he persuaded Ethel to spend the interval of his absence at
Longfield. She had lately fretted much concerning her mother, and as
she was still nursing her baby, Edward became uneasy at her pale
cheeks and thinness. Ethel was anxious to preserve her health for her
child; she felt that her uneasiness and pining would be lessened by a
removal into the country. She was useless in London, and there was
something in her residence in her mother's house — in the aspect of
the streets - in the memory of what she had suffered there, and the
fear that Lady Lodore was enduring a worse repetition of the same
evils, that agitated and preyed upon her. Her aunt had pressed her
very much to come and see her, and she wrote to say, that she might
be expected on the following day She bade adieu to Villiers with
more of hope with regard to his success than she had formerly felt.
She became half convinced that her mother was not in London.
Fanny supported her in these ideas; they talked continually of all they
knew — of the illness of Lady Lodore — of her firmness of purpose in
not sending for her daughter, or altering her plans in consequence;
they comforted themselves that the air of Wales would restore her
health, and the beauty of the scenery and the freedom of nature sooth
her mind. They were full of hope - of more - of expectation. Ethel,
indeed, had at one time proposed accompanying her husband, but she
yielded to his entreaties, and to the fear suggested, that she might
41 8 MARY SHELLEY
i "draw" in the first edition.
injure her child's health. Villiers's motions would be more prompt
without her.They separated. Ethel wrote to Saville a letter to find him
at Paris, containing an account of their new discoveries, and then pre-
pared for her journey to Essex with Fanny, her baby, and the beautiful
little Clorinda Saville, who had been left under her care, on the fol-
lowing day.
LODOR E 419
CHAPTER XVI.
I am not One who much or oft delights
To season my Friends with personal talk,—
Of Friends who live within an easy walk,
Or Neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight.
And, for my chance acquaintances, Ladies bright.
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
MRS . Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield from Maristow Cas-
tle the end of the month of November. She gladly came back, in all
the dinginess and bleakness of that dismal season, to her beloved
seclusion at Longfield. The weather was dreary, a black frost invested
every thing with its icy chains, the landscape looked disconsolate, and
now and then wintry blasts brought on snow-storms, and howled
loudly through the long dark nights. The amiable spinster drew her
chair close to the fire; with half-shut eyes she contemplated the glow-
ing embers, and recalled many past winters just like this, when Lodore
was alive and in America; or, diving yet deeper into memory, when
the honoured chair she now occupied, had been dignified by her
father, and she had tried to sooth his querulous complaints on the
continued absence of her brother Henry. When, instead of these
familiar thoughts, the novel ones of Ethel andVilliers intruded them-
selves, she rubbed her eyes to be quite sure that she did not dream. It
was a lamentable change; and who the cause? Even she whose
absence had been, she felt, wickedly lamented at Maristow Castle,
Cornelia Santerre - she, who in an evil hour, had become Lady
Lodore, and who would before God, answer for the disasters and
untimely death of her ill-fated husband.
With any but Mrs. Fitzhenry, such accusations had, after the soft-
ening process of time, been changed to an admission, that, despite her
errors, Lady Lodore had rather been misled and mistaken, than
42 0 MARY SHELLEY
WORDSWORTH.
1
i "Personal Talk" (1807) 1-8.
heinously faulty; and her last act, in sacrificing so much to her daugh-
ter, although the extent of her sacrifice was unknown to her sister-in-
law, had cancelled her former delinquencies. But the prejudiced old
lady was not so easily mollified; she was harsh alone towards her, but
all the gall of her nature was collected and expended on the head of
her brother s widow. Probably an instinctive feeling of her unreason-
ableness made her more violent. Her language was bitter whenever
she alluded to her - she rejoiced at her absence, and instead of enter-
ing into Ethels gratitude and impatience,she fervently prayed that she
might never appear on the scene again.
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was less of a gossip than any maiden lady
who had ever lived singly in the centre of a little village. Her heart
was full of the dead and the absent — of past events, and their long
train of consequences, so that the history of the inhabitants of her vil-
lage, possessed no charm for her. If any one among them suffered
from misfortune she endeavoured to relieve them, and if any died, she
lamented, moralized on the passage of time, and talked of Lodore's
death; but the scandal, the marriages, the feuds, and wonderful things
that came to pass at Longfield, appeared childish and contemptible,
the flickering of earth-born tapers compared to the splendour, the
obscuration, and final setting of the celestial luminary which had been
the pole-star of her life.
It was from this reason that Mrs. Fitzhenry had not heard of the
Lady who lodged at Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, till
the time, when, after having exhausted the curiosity of Longfield, she
was almost forgotten. The Lady, she was known by no other name,
had arrived in the town during Mrs. Fitzhenry s visit to Maristow cas-
tle. She had arrived in her own chariot, unattended by any servant; the
following day she had taken up her abode at Dame Nixon's cottage,
saying, that she was only going to stay a week: she had continued
there for more than three months.
Dame Nixon's cottage was situated about a mile and a half from
Longfield. It stood alone in a little hollow embowered by trees; the
ground behind rose to a slight upland, and a rill trickled through the
garden. You got to it by a bye path, which no wheeled vehicle could
traverse, though a horse might, and it was indeed the very dingle and
cottage which Ethel had praised during her visit into Essex in the
LODOR E 421
preceding year. The silence and seclusion were in summer tranquilliz-
ing and beautiful; in winter sad and drear; the fields were swampy in
wet weather, and in snow and frost it seemed cut off from the rest of
the world. Dame Nixon and her granddaughter lived there alone. The
girl had been engaged to be married. Her lover jilted her, and wedded
a richer bride. The story is so old, that it is to be wondered that
women have not ceased to lament so common an occurrence. Poor
Margaret was, on the contrary, struck to the heart - she despised her-
self for being unable to preserve her lover s affections, rather than the
deceiver for his infidelity. She neglected her personal appearance, nor
ever showed herself among her former companions, except to sup-
port her grandmother to church. Her false lover sat in the adjoining
pew. She fixed her eyes on her Prayer-book during the service, and on
the ground as she went away. She did not wish him to see the change
which his faithlessness had wrought, for surely it would afflict him.
Once there had not bloomed a fresher or gayer rose in the fields of
Essex — now she had grown thin and pale — her young light step had
become slow and heavy - sickness and sorrow made her eyes hollow,
and her cheeks sunken. She avoided every one, devoting herself to
attendance on her grandmother. Dame Nixon was nearly doting. Life
was ebbing fast from her old frame; her best pleasure was to sun her-
self in the garden in summer, or to bask before the winter s fire. While
enjoying these delights, her dimmed eyes brightened, and a smile
wreathed her withered lips; she said, "Ah! this is comfortable;" while
her broken-hearted grandchild envied a state of being which could
content itself with mere animal enjoyment. They were very poor.
Margaret had to work hard; but the thoughts of the head, or, at least,
the feelings of the heart, need not wait on the labour of the hands.
The Sunday visit to church kept alive her pain; her very prayers were
bitter, breathed close to the deceiver and her who had usurped her
happiness: the memory and anticipation haunted her through the
week; she was often blinded by tears as she patiently pursued her
household duties, or her toil in their little garden. Her hands were
hardened with work, her throat, her face sunburnt; but exercise and
occupation did not prevent her from wasting away, or her cheek from
becoming sunk and wan.
Dame Nixon's cottage was poor but roomy; some years before, a
42 2 MARY SHELLE Y
gentleman from London had, in a freak, hired two rooms in it, and
furnished them. Since then, she had sometimes let them, and now
they were occupied by the stranger lady. At first all three of the inhab-
itants appeared each Sunday at church. The Lady was dressed in spot-
less and simple white, and so closely veiled, that no one could see her
face; of course she was beautiful. Soon after Mrs. Elizabeth's return
from Maristow Castle, it was discovered that first the lady stayed away,
and soon, that the whole party absented themselves on Sunday; and as
this defalcation demanded inquiry, it was discovered that a pony
chaise took them three miles off to the church of the nearest village.
This was a singular and yet a beneficial change. The false swain must
rejoice at losing sight of the memento of his sin, and Margaret would
certainly pray with a freer heart, when she no longer shrunk from his
gaze and that of his wife.
It was not until the end of January that Mrs. Elizabeth heard of the
Lady; it was not till the beginning of February that she asked a single
question about her.
In January, passing the inn-yard, the curate s wife, who was walking
with her, said, "There is the chariot belonging to the Lady who
lodges at dame Nixon's cottage. I wonder who she is. The arms are
painted out."
"Ah, dame Nixon has a lodger then; that is a good thing, it will
help her through the winter. I have not seen her or her daughter at
church lately."
"No," replied the other, "they go now to Bewling church."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Fitzhenry; "it is much better for
poor Margaret not to come here."
The conversation went on, and the Lady was alluded to, but no
questions were asked or curiosity excited. In February she heard from
the doctor's wife, that the doctor had been to the cottage, and that the
Lady was indisposed. She heard at the same time that this Lady had
refused to receive the visits of the curates lady and the doctor's lady —
excusing herself, that she was going to leave Essex immediately. This
had happened two months before. On hearing of her illness, Mrs.
Elizabeth thought of calling on her, but this stopped her. "It is very
odd," said the doctor's wife, "she came in her own carriage, and yet
has no servants. She lives in as poor a way as can be, down in that cot-
LODOR E 423
tage, yet my husband says she is more like the Queen of England in
her looks and ways than any one he ever saw."
"Like the Queen of England?" said Mrs. Fitzhenry," What queen?
- Queen Charlotte?" who had been the queen of the greater part of
the good lady's life.
1
"She is as young and beautiful as an angel," said the other, half
angry; "it is very mysterious. She did not look downcast like, as if any
thing was wrong, but was as cheerful and condescending as could be.
'Condescending, Doctor,' said I, for my husband used the word; 'you
don't want condescension from a poor body lodging at dame
Nixon's.' — 'A poor body!' said he, in a huff, 'she is more of a lady,
indeed more like the Queen of England than any rich body you ever
saw.' And what is odd, no one knows her name - Dame Nixon and
Margaret always call her Lady — the very marks are picked out from
her pocket handkerchiefs.Yet I did hear that there was a coronet plain
to be seen on one — a thing impossible unless she was a poor cast-
away; and the doctor says he'd lay his life that she was nothing of that.
He must know her name when he makes out her bill, and I told him
to ask it plump, but he puts off, and puts off, till I am out of all
patience."
A misty confused sense of discomfort stole over Mrs. Elizabeth
when she heard of the coronet in the corner of the pocket handker-
chief, but it passed away without suggesting any distinct idea to her
mind. Nor did she feel curiosity about the stranger — she was too
much accustomed to the astonishment, the conjectures, the gossip of
Longfield, to suppose that there was any real foundation for surprise,
because its wonder-loving inhabitants choose to build up a mystery
out of every common occurrence of life.
This absence of inquisitiveness must long have kept Mrs. Fitzhenry
in ignorance of who her neighbour was, and the inhabitants of Long-
field would probably have discovered it before her, had not the truth
been revealed even before she entertained a suspicion that there was
any secret to be found out.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said her maid to her one evening, as
i A joke, as Queen Charlotte (wife of George III who reigned from 1760-1820) was
neither queenly in her looks nor her ways. She was homely and parsimonious.
42 4 MARY SHELLEY
she was superintending the couchee of the worthy spinster, "I think
you ought to know, though I am afraid you may be angry."
The woman hesitated; her mistress encouraged her. "If it is any
thing I ought to know,Wilmot, tell it at once, and don't be afraid.
What has happened to you?"
"To me, ma'am, - la! nothing," replied the maid; "it's something
about the Lady at dame Nixon's, only you commanded me never to
speak the name of "
And again the good woman stopped short. Mrs. Fitzhenry, a little
surprised, and somewhat angry, bade her go on. At length, in plain
words she was told:
"Why, ma'am, the Lady down in the Vale is no other than my lady
— than Lady Lodore."
"Ridiculous — who told you so?"
"My own eyes, ma'am; I shouldn't have believed any thing else. I
saw the Lady, and it was my Lady, as sure as I stand here."
"But how could you know her? it is years since you saw her."
"Yes, ma'am," said the woman, with a smile of superiority; "but it is
not easy to forget Lady Lodore. See her yourself, ma'am, - you will
know then that I am right."
Wilmot had lived twenty years with Mrs. Fitzhenry. She had visit-
ed town with her at the time of Ethel's christening. She had been
kept in vexatious ignorance of subsequent events, till the period of the
visit of her mistress and niece to London two years before, when she
indemnified herself. Through the servants ofVilliers, and of the Misses
Saville, she had learnt a vast deal; and not satisfied with mere hearsay,
she had seen Lady Lodore several times getting into her carriage at
her own door, and had even been into her house: such energy is there
in a liberal curiosity. The same disinterested feeling had caused her to
go down to dame Nixon's with an offer from her mistress of service
to the Lady, hearing she was ill. She went perfectly unsuspicious of the
wonderful discovery she was about to make, and was thus rewarded
beyond her most sanguine hopes, by being in possession of a secret,
known to herself alone. The keeping of a secret is, however, a post of
no honour if all knowledge be confined to the possessor alone. Mrs.
Wilmot was tolerably faithful, with all her love of knowledge; she was
sure it would vex her mistress if Lady Lodore s strange place of abode
LODOR E 425
were known at Longfield, and Mrs. Fitzhenry was consequently the
first person to whom she had hinted the fact. All this account she
detailed with great volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion
most earnestly; and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her
information was correct.
"I wish you would go and judge for yourself, ma'am," said the
maid.
"God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see
Lady Lodore again! She will go soon.You tell me that dame Nixon
says she is only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need
never be known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever here."
There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat com-
pensated for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had
anticipated with intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and
over again, of her secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the
exhortation to forget all she had learnt as quickly as possible.
"Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing?" Mrs.
Fitzhenry asked herself over and over again. She could not guess. It
was strange, it was mysterious, and some mischief was at the bottom -
but she would go soon — "would that she were already gone!"
It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left
Maristow Castle before the arrival of Mr. Gayland, and had therefore
no knowledge of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady
Lodore's absence. Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and gen-
erosity, her pity was not excited, her feelings were all against her. She
counted the days as they passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hop-
ing that she would quickly bring tidings of the Lady's departure. In
vain; the doctor ceased to visit the cottage, but the Lady remained. All
at once the doctor visited it again with greater assiduity than ever -
not on account of his beautiful patient - but Dame Nixon had had a
paralytic stroke, and the kind Lady had sent for him, and promised to
defray all the expenses of the poor woman's illness.
All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked
Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visitor was still there. Where-
fore? What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head? The
good lady could think of no motive, while she considered her pres-
ence an insult. She was still more annoyed when she received a letter
42 6 MARY SHELLEY
from Ethel. It had been proposed that Mr. and Mrs.Villiers should pay
her a visit in the spring; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be
immediately expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my
dear mother," wrote Ethel; "it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio
can hear nothing of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going
to Wales, as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself
there. While he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay
long - he will come at the end of a week to fetch me."
Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever.
She experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the resi-
dence of Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union
effected. It seemed desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to
Ethel — the greatest misfortune that could befal any of them. Her feel-
ings were exaggerated, but they were on that account the more pow-
erful. How could she avert the evil? - a remedy must be sought, and
she fixed on one — a desperate one, in truth, which appeared to her
the sole mode of saving them all from the greatest disasters.
She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impro-
priety and wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daugh-
ter, and to entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence
might almost seem madness; but all people who live in solitude
become to a certain degree insane. Their views of things are not cor-
rected by comparing them with those of others; and the strangest
want of proportion always reigns in their ideas and sentiments.
LODOR E 427
CHAPTER XVII.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
THOMA S MOORE.
1
ON the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale
of Bewling. It was the last day of February. The March winds were
hushed as yet; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful; a few
soft clouds flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between
them calm and pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness - it
caressed the cheek — and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quick-
ening influence. The almond-trees were in bloom - the pear blossoms
began to whiten — the tender green of the young leaves showed
themselves here and there among the hedges. The old lady felt the
cheering influence, and would have become even gay, had not the
idea of the errand she was on checked her spirits. Sometimes the
remembrance that she was really going to see her sister-in-law
absolutely startled her; once or twice she thought of turning back; she
passed through the lanes, and then alighting from her carriage, walked
by a raised foot-way, across some arable fields — and again through a
little grove; the winding path made a turn, and dame Nixon's white,
low-roofed cottage was before her. Every thing about it looked trim,
but very humble: and it was unadorned during this early season by
the luxury of flowers and plants, which usually give even an appear-
ance of elegance to an English cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the lit-
tle gate — her knees trembled as she walked through the scanty
garden, which breathed of the new-sprung violets. The entrance to
the cottage was by the kitchen: she entered this, and found Margaret
occupied by a culinary preparation for her grandmother. Mrs.
Fitzhenry asked after the old woman's health, and thus gained a little
time. Margaret answered in her own former quiet yet cheerful voice;
she was changed from what she had been a few weeks before. The
42 8 MARY SHELLEY
i "As Slow Our Ship" Irish Melodies (1807-34) 5-8.
bloom had not returned to her cheeks, but they no longer appeared
streaked with deathly paleness; her motions had lost the heaviness that
showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth congratulated her on the
restoration of her health.
"Oh yes," she replied, with a blush, "I am not the same creature I
used to be, thank God, and the angel he has sent us here; — if my poor
grandmother would but get well I should be quite happy; but that is
asking too much at her time of life."
The old lady made no further observations: she did not wish to
hear praises of her sister-in-law. "Your lodger is still here?" at length
she said.
"Yes, God be praised!" replied Margaret.
"Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that I
wish to see her."
"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret; "only the lady has refused to see any
one, and she does not like being asked."
"I do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive," answered Mrs. Eliz-
abeth; "only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of
course she will do as she likes.Where is she?"
"She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse - Heaven
bless her! she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said - is lain
down to sleep, and she said she would watch by grandmother while I
got the gruel; but it's ready now, and I will go and tell her."
Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady
Lodore watching the sick-bed of an old cottager — Lady Lodore
immured in a poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of
country people. It was more than strange, it was miraculous. "Yet she
refused to accompany poor Henry to America! there must be some
strange mystery to all this, that does not tell well for her."
So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her
brothers widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two,
and then Margaret came to usher her into the wicked one's presence.
The sitting-room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain.
The walls were wainscotted and painted white, - the windows small
and latticed, - the furniture was old black, shining mahogany; the
chairs high-backed and clumsy; the table heavy and incommodious;
the fire-place large and airy; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost
LODOR E 429
as high as the low ceiling: there were a few things of a more modern
construction; a comfortable sofa, a rose-wood bureau and large fold-
ing screen; near the fire was a large easy chair of Gillows s
1
 manufac-
ture, two light cane ones, and two small tables; vases filled with
hyacinths, jonquils, and other spring flowers stood on one, and an
embroidery frame occupied the other. There was a perfume of fresh-
gathered flowers in the room, which the open window rendered very
agreeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the fire — (for Wilmot was
not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now presented herself to
Mrs. Fitzhenry s eyes) - she might be agitated - she did not show it -
she came forward and held out her hand. "Dear Bessy," she said, "you
are very kind to visit me; I thank you very much."
The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting
frightened her: she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard
purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought,"
at length she stammered out, "that you did not wish to be known. I
am glad you are not offended, Cornelia."
"Offended by kindness? O no! It is true I did not wish — I do not
wish that it should be known that I am here — but since, by some
strange accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grate-
ful for your visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have
heard any thing. Ah! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel?"
Tears glistened in the mothers eyes: she asked many questions, and
Mrs. Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered
them. She looked at Lady Lodore - she was changed - she could no
fail of being changed after so many years, — she was no longer a beau-
tiful girl, but she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years,
which however lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned;
expression so embellished her that it was impossible not to admire;
brilliancy had given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she
was fair — still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes
were full of fire; her smile had more than its former charm - it came
from the heart.
i Robert Gillow (1703-73) began making furniture in Lancaster; his son Richard
(1734-1811) established a store on Oxford Street in London, and was the inventor
of the telescopic dining table. The Gillows were known for making fine furniture
out of mahogany.
43 0 MARY SHELLEY
Mrs. Fitzhenry was not, however, to be subdued by a little outward
show. She was there, who had betrayed and deserted (such were the
energetic words she was accustomed to employ) the noble, broken-
hearted Lodore. The thought steeled her purpose, and she contrived
at last to ask whether Lady Lodore was going to remain much longer
in Essex?
"I have been going every day since I came here. In a few weeks I
shall certainly be gone. Why do you ask?"
"Because I thought - that is - you have made a secret of your
being here, and I expect Ethel in a day or two, and she would certain-
ly discover you."
"Why should she not?" asked Lady Lodore. "Why should you be
averse to my seeing Ethel?"
It is very difficult to say a disagreeable thing, especially to one
unaccustomed to society, and who is quite ignorant of the art of con-
cealing the sting of her intentions by flowery words. Mrs. Fitzhenry
said something about her sister-in-law's own wishes, and the desire
expressed by Lodore that there should be no intercourse between the
mother and daughter.
Cornelia's eyes flashed fire — "Am I," she exclaimed, "to be always
the sacrifice?"
1
 Is my husbands vengeance to pursue me beyond his
grave — even till I reach mine? Unjust as he was, he would not have
desired this."
Mrs. Elizabeth coloured with anger. Lady Lodore continued -
"Pardon me, Bessy, I do not wish to say any thing annoying to you or
in blame of Lodore. God knows I did him a great wrong — but — "
"O Cornelia," cried the old lady, "do you indeed acknowledge that
you were to blame?"
Lady Lodore smiled, and said, "I were strangely blind to the defects
of my own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I
not conscious of my errors; but retrospection is useless, and the pun-
ishment has been - is - sufficiently severe. Lodore himself would not
have perpetuated his resentment, had he lived only a very little while
longer. But I will speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and
you shall decide on my further stay here. From circumstances which it
LODOR E 431
i An extra set of quotation marks was placed here in the first edition.
is immaterial to explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute soli-
tude. I shall never live in London again — never again see any of my
old friends and acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely
changed; and whether I life here or elsewhere, I shall live in obscurity
and poverty. I do not wish Ethel to know this. She would wish to
assist me, and she has scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a
burthen — I do not like being pitied — I do not like being argued
with, or to have my actions commented upon. You know that my dis-
position was always independent."
Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven.
Lady Lodore smiled and went on. "You think this is a strange place
for me to live in: whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any
better: I shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave
Essex, for the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves
me, - it is always pleasant to be loved."
A tear again filled Cornelia s eyes — she tried to animate herself to
a smile. "I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel; I
do love her; every one must love her — she is so gentle — so kind — so
warm-hearted and beautiful, - I love her more than my own heart s
blood; she is my child — part of that blood — part of myself — the bet-
ter part; I have seen little of her, but every look and word is engraved
on my heart. I love her voice — her smiles — the pressure of her soft
white hand. Pity me, dear Bessy, I am never to see any of these, which
are all that I love on earth, again. This idea fills me with regret — with
worse - with sorrow. There is a grave not far from here which con-
tains one you loved beyond all others, — what would you not give to
see him alive once again? To visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I
must not see even the walls within which my blessed child lives.You
alone can help me — can be of comfort to me. Do not refuse — do not
send me away. If I leave this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in
Wales, and be quite - quite alone; the sun will shine, and the grass will
grow at my feet, but my heart will be dead within me, and I shall pine
and die. I have intended to do this; I have waited only till the suffer-
ings of the poor woman here should be at an end, that I may be of
service to Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in
kindness, has put other thoughts into my head.
"Do not object to my staying here; let me remain; and do yet more
43 2 MARY SHELLEY
for me - come to me sometimes, and bring me tidings of my daugh-
ter — tell me 'what she says — how she looks, — tell me that she is at
each moment well and happy. Ah! do this, dear Bessy, and I will bless
you. I shall never see her — at least not for years; there are many things
to prevent it: yet how could I drag out those years quite estranged
from her? My heart has died within me each time I have thought of
it. But I can live as I say; I shall expect you every now and then to
come and talk to me of her; she need never know that I am so near —
she comes so seldom to Essex. I shall soon be forgotten at Longfield.
Will you consent? you will do a kind action, and God will bless you."
Mrs. Fitzhenry was one of those persons who always find it diffi-
cult to say, No; and Lady Lodore asked with so much earnestness that
she commanded; she felt that her request ought to be granted, and
therefore it was impossible to refuse it. Before she well knew what she
had said, the good lady had yielded her consent and received her sis-
ter-in-law's warm and heart-felt thanks.
Mrs. Fitzhenry looked round the room: "But how can you think of
staying here, Cornelia?" she said; "this place is not fit for you. I should
have thought that you could never have endured such homely
rooms."
"Do you think them so bad?" replied the lady; "I think them very
pleasant, for I have done with pride, and I find peace and comfort
here. Look," she continued, throwing open a door that led into the
garden, "is that not delightful? This garden is very pretty: that clear
rivulet murmurs by with so lulling a sound; — and look at these vio-
lets, are they not beautiful? I have planted a great many flowers, and
they will soon come up. Do you not know how pleasant it is to watch
the shrubs we plant, and water, and rear ourselves? - to see the little
green shoots peep out, and the leaves unfold, and then the flower
blossom and expand, diffusing its delicious odour around, — all, as it
were, created by oneself, by ones own nursing, out of a bit of stick or
an ugly bulb? This place is very pretty, I assure you: when the leaves
are on the trees they make a bower, and the grove behind the house is
shady, and leads to lanes and fields more beautiful than any I ever saw.
I have loitered for hours in this garden, and been quite happy. Now I
shall be happier than ever, thanks to you. You will not forget me.
Come as often as you can.You say that you expect Ethel soon?
LODOR E 433
Lady Lodore walked with her sister-in-law to the garden-gate, and
beyond, through the little copse, still talking of her daughter. "I cannot
go further," she said, at last, "without a bonnet - so good-bye, dear
Bessy Come soon. Thank you - thank you for this visit."
She held out her hand: Mrs. Fitzhenry took it, pressed it, a half
feeling came over her as if she were about to kiss the cheek of her
offending relative, but her heart hardened, she blushed, and muttering
a hasty good-bye, she hurried away. She was bewildered, and after
walking a few steps, she turned round, and saw again the white dress
of Cornelia, as a turn in the path hid her. The grand, the exclusive
Lady Lodore — the haughty, fashionable, worldly-heartless wife thus
metamorphosed into a tender-hearted mother — suing to her for
crumbs of charitable love — and hiding all her boasted advantages in
that low-roofed cottage! What could it all mean?
Mrs. Fitzhenry walked on. Again she thought, "How odd! I went
there, determining to persuade her to go away, and miserable at the
thoughts of seeing her only once; and now I have promised to visit
her often, and agreed that she shall live here. Have I not done wrong?
What would my poor brother say? Yet I could not refuse. Poor thing!
how could I refuse, when she said that she had nothing else to live
for? Besides, to go away and live alone in Wales - it would be too
dreadful; and she thanked me as if she were so grateful. I hope I have
not done wrong.
"But how strange it is that Henry's widow should have become so
poor; she has given up a part of her income to Ethel, but a great deal
remains. What can she have done with it? She is mysterious, and there
is never any good in mystery. Who knows what she may have to con-
ceal?" Mrs. Elizabeth got in her carriage, and each step of the horses
took her farther from the web of enchantment which Cornelia had
thrown over her. "She is always strange," — thus ran her meditations;
"and how am I to see her, and no one find it out? and what a story for
Longfield, that Lady Lodore should be living in poverty in dame
Nixon's cottage. I forgot to tell her that — I forgot to say so many
things I meant to say — I don't know why, except that she talked so
much, and I did not know how to bring in my objections. But it can-
not be right: and Ethel in her long rambles and rides with Miss Der-
ham or Mr. Villiers, will be sure to find her out. I wish I had not seen
43 4 MARY SHELLEY
her — I will write and tell her I have changed niy mind, and entreat
her to go away."
As it occurs to all really good-natured persons, it was very dis-
agreeable to Mrs. Fitzhenry to be angry, and she visited the ill-temper
so engendered on the head of poor Cornelia. She disturbed herself by
the idea of all the disagreeable things that might happen - of her sis-
ter-in-law's positive refusal to go; the very wording which she imag-
ined for her intended letter puzzled and irritated her. She no longer
felt the breath of spring as pleasant, but sat back in the chariot, "nurs-
ing her wrath to keep it warm."
1
 When she reached her home, Ethel's
carriage was at her door.
The meeting, as ever, between aunt and niece was affectionate.
Fanny was welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda
admired, but the theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced
— her mother. The disquietudes she felt on her account — Mr. Saville's
journey to Paris — the visit ofVilliers to Wales to discover her place of
concealment — the inutility of all their endeavours.
"But why are they so anxious?" asked her aunt; "I can understand
you: you have some fantastic notion about your mother, but how can
Mr.Villiers desire so very much to find her?"
"I could almost say," said Ethel, "that Edward is more eager than
myself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude; but
he was more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of oblig-
ation more keenly; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that
my dearest mother has done for us — the unparalleled sacrifices she
has made."
Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had communi-
cated — the sale of her jointure — the very small residue of money she
had kept for herself- the entire payment ofVilliers s debts - and after-
wards the surrender of the remainder of her income and of her house
to them. Her eyes glistened as she spoke; her heart, overflowing with
admiration and affection, shone in her beautiful face, her voice was
pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions full of deep feeling.
Mrs. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone - far from it; it was, except
in the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable materials. She
LODOR E 435
i Robert Burns, Tarn O'Slianter (1791) 12.
heard Ethel's story — she caught by sympathy the tenderness and pity
she poured forth - she thought of Lady Lodore at the cottage, a
dwelling so unlike any she had ever inhabited before — poverty-
striken and mean; she remember her praises of it — her cheerfulness —
the simplicity of taste which she displayed - the light-hearted content
with which she spoke of every privation except the absence of Ethel.
What before was mysterious wrong, was now manifest heroism. The
loftiness and generosity of her mind rose upon the old lady uncloud-
ed; her own uncharitable deductions stung her with remorse; she
continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate, and the big tears gathered in
her eyes, and rolled down her venerable cheeks, — tears at once of
repentance and admiration.
43 6 MARY SHELLE Y
CHAPTER XX. [XVIII]
1
Repentance is a tender sprite;
If aught on earth have heavenly might,
'Tis lodged within her silent tear.
WORDSWORTH .2
MRS. ELIZABETH FITZHENRY was not herself aware of all that Lady
Lodore had suffered, or the extent of her sacrifices. She guessed dark-
ly at them, but it was the detail that rendered them so painful, and, but
for their motive, humiliating to one nursed in luxury, and accustomed
to all those intermediate servitors and circumstances, which stand
between the rich and the bare outside of the working-day world.
Cornelia shrunk from the address of those she did not know, and from
the petty acts of daily life, which had gone on before without her
entering into their detail.
Her illness at Newbury had been severe. She was attacked by the
scarlet fever; the doctor had ordered her to be removed from the bus-
tle of the inn, and a furnished villa had been taken for her, while she
could only give a languid assent to propositions which she under-
stood confusedly She was a very long time ill — a long time weak and
slowly convalescent. At length health dawned on her, accompanied by
a disposition attuned to content and a wish for tranquillity. Her resi-
dence was retired, commodious, and pretty; she was pleased with it,
she did not wish to remove, and was glad to procrastinate from day to
day any consideration of the future. Thus it was a long time before the
strength of her thoughts and purposes was renewed, or that she began
to think seriously of where she was, and what she was going to do.
During the half delirium, the disturbed and uncontrollable, but not
unmeaning reveries, of her fever, the idea of visiting Lodore s grave
had haunted her pertinaciously. She had often dreamt of it: at one
time the tomb seemed to rise in a lonely desert; and the dead slept
peacefully beneath sunshine or starlight. At another, storms and howl-
ing winds were around, groans and sighs, mingled with the sound of
1 Chapter misnumbered in the first edition.
2 Peter Bell (1819) 148-150.
LODOR E 437
the tempest, and menaces and reproaches against her were breathed
from the cold marble. Now her imagination pictured it within the
aisles of a magnificent cathedral; and now again the real scene - the
rustic church of Longfield was vividly present to her mind. She saw
the pathway through the green churchyard — the ruined ivy-mantled
tower, which showed how much larger the edifice had been in for-
mer days, near which might be still discerned on high a niche con-
taining the holy mother and divine child — the half-defaced porch on
which rude monkish imagery was carved - the time-worn pews, and
painted window. She had never entered this church but once, many,
many years ago; and it was strange how in sleep and fever-troubled
reverie, each portion of it presented itself distinctly and vividly to her
imagination. During these perturbed visions, one other form and
voice perpetually recurred. She heard Ethel continually repeat,
"Come! come!" and often her figure flitted round the tomb or sat
beside it. Once, on awakening from a dream, which impressed her
deeply by the importunity and earnestness of her daughter s appeal,
she was forcibly impelled to consider it her duty to obey, and she
made a vow that on recovering from her illness, she would visit her
husbands grave.
Now while pondering on the humiliations and cheerless necessi-
ties which darkened her future, and rousing herself to form some kind
of resolution concerning them, this dream was repeated, and on
awakening, the memory of her forgotten vow renewed itself in her.
She dwelt on it with pleasure. Here was something to be done that
was not mere wretchedness and lonely wandering — something that,
connecting her with the past, took away the sense of desertion and
solitude, so hard to bear. In the morning, at breakfast, it so chanced
that she read in the Morning Herald a little paragraph announcing
that Viscount Maristow was entertaining a party of friends at Maris-
tow Castle, among whom were Mr. and Mrs.Villiers, and the Hon.
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry. This was a fortunate coincidence. The drag-
on ceased for a moment to watch the garden, and she might avail her-
self of its absence to visit its treasure unnoticed and unknown. She put
her project into immediate execution. She crossed the country, pass-
ing through London on her way to Longfield - she arrived. Without
delay she fulfilled her purpose. She entered the church and viewed
43 8 MARY SHELLEY
the tablet, inscribed simply with the name of Lodore, and the date of
his birth and death. The words were few and commonplace, but they
were eloquent to her. They told her that the cold decaying shape lay
beneath, which in the pride of life and love had clasped her in its arms
as its own for evermore. Short-lived had been the possession. She had
loosened the tie even while thought and feeling ruled the now insen-
tient brain - he had been scarcely less dead to her while inhabiting
the distant Illinois, than now that a stone placed above him, gave visi-
ble token of his material presence, and the eternal absence of his
immortal part. Cornelia had never before felt so sensibly that she had
been a wife neglecting her duties, despising a vow she had solemnly
pledged, estranging herself from him, who by religious ordinance, and
the laws of society, alone had privilege to protect and love her. Nor
had she before felt so intimately the change - that she was a widow;
that her lover, her husband, the father of her child, the forsaken, dead
Lodore, was indeed no part of the tissue of life, action, and feeling to
which she belonged.
Solitude and sickness had before awakened many thoughts in her
mind, and she recalled them as she sat beside her dead husband's
grave. She looked into her motives, tried to understand the deceits she
had practised on herself, and to purify her conscience. She meditated
on time, that law of the world, which is so mysterious, and so potent;
ruling us despotically, and yet wholly unappreciated till we think
upon it. Petrarch says, that he was never so young, but that he knew
that he was growing old. Lady Lodore had never thought of this till a
few months back; it seemed to her, that she had never known it until
now — that she felt that she was older — older than the vain and lovely
bride of Lodore - than the haughty high-spirited friend of Casimir
Lyzinski. And where was Casimir? She had never heard of him again,
she had scarcely ever thought of him; he had grown older too —
change, the effects of passsion
1
 or of destiny, must have visited him
also; - they were all embarked on one mighty stream - Lodore had
gained a haven; but the living were still at the mercy of the vast tor-
rent — whither would it hurry them?
There was a charm in these melancholy and speculative thoughts
LODOR E 439
i Misspelled in the first edition.
to the beautiful exile — for we may be indeed as easily exiled by a few
roods of ground, as by mountains and sea. A strong decree of fate ban-
ished Cornelia from the familiar past, into an unknown and strange
present. Still she clung to the recollection of bygone years, and for the
first time gave way to reflections full of scenes and persons to be seen
no more. The tomb beside which she lingered, was an outward sign of
these past events, and she did not like to lose sight of it so soon. She
heard that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was to remain away for a month —
so much time at least was hers. She inquired for lodgings, and was
directed to Dame Nixon's cottage. She was somewhat dismayed at
first by its penurious appearance, but "it would do for a few days;" and
she found that what would serve for a few days, might serve for
months.
"Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
1
Most true for solitary man. It is society that increases his desires. If
Lady Lodore had been visited in her humble dwelling by the least
regarded among her acquaintances, she would have felt keenly its
glaring deficiencies. But although used to luxury, Margaret's cuisine
sufficed for herself alone; the low-roofed rooms were high enough,
and the latticed windows which let in the light of heaven, fulfilled
their purpose as well as the plate-glass and lofty embrasures of a
palace.
Lady Lodore was obliged also to consider one other thing, which
forms so large a portion of our meditations in real life - her purse.
She found when settled in the cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, that her
stock of money was reduced to one hundred pounds. She could not
cross the country and establish herself at a distance from London with
this sum only. She had before looked forward to selling her jewels and
carriage as to a distant event, but now she felt that it was the next
thing she must do. She shrunk from it naturally: the very idea of revis-
iting London - of seeing its busy shops and streets - once so full of
44 0 MARY SHELLEY
i Oliver Goldsmith, "Edwin and Angelina" 31-32, but the lines are based on a quota-
tion from Young's Complaint, Night the Fourth (1743). The ballad was included in
Goldsmith's novel The Vicar ofWakefield (1766).
life and its purposes to her, and in which she would now wander an
alien, was inconceivably saddening; she was willing to put off the
necessity as long as possible, and thus continued to procrastinate her
departure from Essex.
Mrs. Fitzhenry returned; but she could neither know nor dream of
the vicinity of her sister-in-law. We are apt to think, when we know
nothing of any one, that no one knows any thing of us; experience
can scarcely teach us, that the reverse of this is often the truth. Seeing
only an old woman in her dotage — and a poor love-sick girl, who
knew nothing beyond the one event which had blasted all her happi-
ness - she never heard the inhabitants of Longfield mentioned, and
believed that she was equally unheard of by them. Then her indisposi-
tion protracted her stay, and now the mortal illness of the poor
woman. For she had become interested for Margaret and promised to
befriend her; and in case of her grandmothers death, to take her from
a spot where every association and appearance kept open the wounds
inflicted by her unfaithful lover.
Time had thus passed on: now sad, now cheerful, she tried to ban-
ish every thought of the future, and to make the occurrences of each
day fill and satisfy her mind. She lived obscurely and humbly, and per-
haps as wisely as mortal may in this mysterious world, where hope is
perpetually followed by disappointment, and action by repentance
and regret. The days succeeded to each other in one unvaried tenor.
The weather was cheerful, the breath of spring animating. She
watched the swelling of the buds - the peeping heads of the crocuses
— the opening of the anemones and wild wind-flowers, and at last, the
sweet odour of the new-born violets, with all the interest created by
novelty; not that she had not observed and watched these things
before, with transitory pleasure, but now the operations of nature
filled all her world; the earth was no longer merely the dwelling place
of her acquaintance, the stage on which the business of society was
carried on, but the mother of life - the temple of God - the beautiful
and varied store-house of bounteous nature.
Dwelling on these ideas, Cornelia often thought of Horatio Sav-
ille, whose conversations, now remembered, were the source whence
she drew the knowledge and poetry of her present reveries. As soli-
tude and nature grew lovely in her eyes, she yearned yet more fondly
LODOR E 441
for the one who could embellish all she saw.Yet while her mind need-
ed a companion so congenial to her present feelings, her heart was
fuller of Ethel; her affection for Saville was a calm though deep-root-
ed sentiment, resulting from the conviction, that she should find
entire happiness if united to him, and in an esteem or rather an
enthusiastic admiration of his talents and virtues, that led her to dwell
with complacency on the hope, that he still remembered and loved
her: but the human heart is jealous, and with difficulty admits two
emotions of equal force, and her love for her daughter was the master
passion. The instinct of nature spoke audibly within her; the atoms of
her frame seemed alive each one as she thought of her; often her tears
flowed, often her eyes brightened with gladness when alone, and the
beloved image of her beautiful daughter as she saw her last, smiling
amidst penury and indignity, was her dearest companion by day and
night. She alone made her present situation endurable, and yet separa-
tion from her was irksome beyond expression. Was she never to see or
hear of her more? It was very hard: she implored Providence to
change the harsh decree — she longed inexpressibly for one word that
had reference to her — one event, however slight, which should make
her existence palpable.
When Margaret announced Mrs. Fitzhenry, her heart bounded
with joy. She could ask concerning Ethel — hear of her; her counte-
nance was radiant with delight, and she really for a moment thought
her sister-in-law's visit was meant in kindness, since so much pleasure
was the result. The conviction had produced the very thing it antici-
pated. She had given poor Bessy no time to announce the actual
intention with which she came; she had borne away her sullen mood
by force of sweet smiles and sweeter words; and saw her depart with
gladdened spirits, whispering to herself the fresh hopes and fond
emotions which filled her bosom. She walked back to her little gar-
den and stooped to gather some fresh violets, and to prop a drooping
jonquil heavy with its burthen of sweet blooms. She inhaled the ver-
nal odours with rapture. "Yes," she thought, "nature is the refuge and
home for women: they have no public career — no aim nor end
beyond their domestic circle; but they can extend that, and make all
the creations of nature their own, to foster and do good to. We com-
44 2 MARY SHELLE Y
plain, when shut up in cities of the niggard rules of society, which
gives us only the drawing-room or ball-room in which to display our
talents, and which, for ever turning the sympathy of those around us
into envy on the part of women, or what is called love on that of
men, besets our path with dangers or sorrows. But throw aside all
vanity, no longer seek to surpass your own sex, nor to inspire the
other with feelings which are pregnant with disquiet or misery, and
which seldom end in mutual benevolence, turn your steps to the
habitation which God has given as befitting his creatures, contemplate
the lovely ornaments with which he has blessed the earth; — here is no
heart-burning nor calumny; it is better to love, to be of use to one of
these flowers, than to be the admired of the many — the mere puppet
of one's own vanity."
Lady Lodore entered the house; she asked concerning her poor
hostess, and learnt that she slept. For a short time she employed herself
with her embroidery; her thoughts "were all awake; and as her fingers
created likenesses of the flowers she loved, several times her eyes filled
with tears as she thought of Ethel, and how happy she could be if her
fate permitted her to cultivate her affection and enjoy her society.
"It is very sad," she thought; "only a few minutes ago my spirits
were buoyant, gladdened as they were by Bessy's visit; but they flag
again, when I think of my loneliness and the unreplying silence of this
place. What is to become of me? I shall remain here: yes; I shall not
banish myself to some inhospitable nook, where I should never hear
her name. But am I not to see her again? Am I to be nothing to her?
Is she satisfied with my absence - and are they all - all to whom I am
bound by ties of consanguinity or affection, indifferent to the knowl-
edge of whether I exist or not? Nothing gives token to them of my
life; it is as if the grave had closed abruptly over me - and had it
closed, thus I should have been mourned, in coldness and neglect."
Again her eyes were suffused; but as she wiped away the blinding
tears, she was recalled from her reflections by the bright rays of the
sun which entered her little room. She threw open the door, stepped
out into the garden - the sun was setting; the atmosphere was calm,
and lighted up by golden beams; the few clouds were dyed in the
same splendid hues, the birds sent forth a joyous song at intervals, and
LODOR E 443
a band of rooks passed above the little wood, cawing loudly. The air
was balmy, the indescribable freshness of spring was abroad, interpen-
etrating and cheerful. Cornelia's melancholy fled as she felt and gave
way to its influence. "God blesses all things," she thought, "and he will
also bless me. Much wrong have I done, but love pure and disinterest-
ed is in my heart, and I shall be repaid. My own sweet Ethel! I have
sacrificed every thing except my life for your sake, and I would add
my life to the gift, could it avail you. I ask but for you and your love.
The world has many blessings, and I have asked for them before, with
tears and anguish, but I give up all now, except you, my child. You are
all the world to me! Will you not come, even now, as I implore Heav-
en to give you to me?"
She raised her eyes in prayer, and it seemed as if her wishes were to
be accomplished - surely once in a life God will grant the earnest
entreaty of a loving heart. Cornelia believed that he would, that hap-
piness was near at hand, and life not all a blank. She heard a rustling
among the trees, a light step; — was it Margaret? She had scarcely asked
herself this question, when the dear object of her every thought and
hope was before her — in her arms; — Ethel had entered from the
wood, had seen her mother, had sprung forward and clasped her to
her heart.
"My dear, dear child!"
"Dearest mother!" repeated Ethel, as her eyes were filled with tears
of delight, "why did you go - why conceal yourself? You do not know
the anxiety we have suffered, and how very unhappy your absence has
made us. But I have found you - of all that have gone to seek you, I
have found you; I deserve this reward, for I love you most of all."
Lady Lodore returned her daughter's caresses - and her tears
flowed fast for very joy, and then she turned to Mrs. Fitzhenry, who
followed Ethel, but who had been outspeeded by her in her eager-
ness. The old lady's face was beaming with happiness. "Ah, Bessy, you
have betrayed me - traitress! I did not expect this - I do not deserve
such excessive happiness."
"You deserve all, and much more than we can any of us bestow,"
cried Ethel, "except that your dear generous heart will repay you
beyond any reward we can give, and you will be blest in the happiness
44 4 MARY SHELLE Y
we owe to you alone. Edward is gone far away into Wales in quest of
you."
"An Angelica run after by the Paladins,"
1
 said Lady Lodore, smiling
through her tears.
"Paladins, worthy the name!" replied Ethel. "Horatio is even now
on the salt seas for your sake — he is returning discomfited and hope-
less from his journey of discovery to the Pyrenees — his zeal almost
deserved the reward which I have found, yet who but she, for whom
you sacrificed so much, ought to be the first to thank you? And while
we all try to show you an inexpressible gratitude, ought not I to be
the first to see, first to kiss, first - always the first - to love you?"
Angelica, daughter of Galafron, king of Cathy, is the object of Orlando's love and
the cause of his madness in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso (1532). She escapes the custody
of the Paladins, the twelve peers of Charlemagne (of which Orlando is the chief)
who pursue her.
LODOR E 445
1
CONCLUSION .
None I trust,
Repines at these delights, they are free and harmless:
After distress at sea, the dangers o'er,
Safety and welcomes better taste ashore.
FORD.
1
THUS the tale of"Lodore"is ended.The person who bore that title
by right of descent, has long slept in peace in the church of his native
village. Neither his own passions, nor those of others, can renew the
pulsations of his heart. "The silver cord is loosed, and the pitcher bro-
ken at the fountain."
2
 His life had not been fruitless.The sedulous care
and admirable education he had bestowed on Ethel, would, had he
lived, have compensated to him for his many sufferings, and been a
source of pure and unfading joy to the end. He was not destined in
this world to reap the harvest of his virtues, though his errors had
been punished severely. Still his memory is the presiding genius of his
daughter's life, and the name of Lodore contains for her a spell that
dignifies the existence in her own eyes, and incites her to render all
her thoughts and actions such as her beloved father would have
approved. It was fated that the evil which he did should die with him
— but the good out-lived him long, and was a blessing to those whom
he loved far better than himself.
She who received the title on her marriage, henceforth continued
her existence under another; and the wife of Saville, who soon after
became Viscountess Maristow, loses her right to be chronicled in these
pages. So few years indeed are passed since the period to which the
last chapter brought us, that it may be safely announced that Cornelia
Santerre possesses that happiness, through her generosity and devoted
affection, which she had lost through pride and self-exaltation. She
wonders at her past self- and laments the many opportunities she lost
for benefiting others, and proving herself worthy of their attachment.
Her pride is gone, or rather, her pride is now placed in redeeming her
faults. She is humble, knowing how much she was deceived in herself
1 The Lady's Trial (1639) 5.2. The last lines of the play.
2 Ecclesiastes 12:6.
44 6 MARY SHELLEY
- she is forgiving, for she feels that she needs forgiveness. She looks
on the track of years she has passed over as wasted, as she wishes to
retrieve their loss. She respects, admires, in some sense it may be said,
that she adores her husband; but even while consenting to be his, and
thus securing her own happiness, she told him that her first duties
were towards Ethel — and that he took a divided heart, over the better
part of which reigned maternal love. Saville, the least egoistic of
human beings, smiled to hear her name that a defect, which was in his
eyes her crowning virtue.
Edward Villiers learnt to prize worldly prosperity at its true value,
and each day blesses the train of circumstances that led him to wed
Ethel, even though poverty and suffering had followed close behind.
Ethel herself might be said to have been always happy. She was inca-
pable of being impressed by any sorrow, that did not touch her for
another's sake: and while she exerted herself to alleviate the pain
endured by those she loved, she passed on unhurt. Heaven spared her
life's most cruel evils. Death had done its worst when she lost her
father. Now, surrounded by dear friends, and the object of her hus-
band's constant tenderness, she pursues a tranquil course: which for
any one to consider the most blissful allotted to mortals, they must
have a heart like her own — faithful, affectionate, and generous.
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, kind and gentle aunt Bessy, always felt
her heaven clouded when she indulged in her aversion to her sister-
in-law. She is happy now that she is reconciled to Cornelia; strange to
say, she loves her even more than she loves Ethel — she is more inti-
mately connected in her mind with the memory of Lodore. She often
visits her at Maristow Castle; in the neighbourhood of which Mar-
garet is settled, being happily married. Colonel Villiers still lives in
Paris. He is in a miserable state of poverty, difficulty, and ill-health. His
wife has deserted him: he neglected and outraged her, and she in a fit
of remorse left him, and returned to nurse her father during a linger-
ing illness, which is likely to continue to the end of his life, though he
shows no symptoms of immediate decay. He is eager to lavish all his
wealth on his child, if he can be sure that no portion of it is shared by
her husband. With infinite difficulty, and at the cost of many priva-
tions, she, with a true woman's feeling, contrives to send him remit-
tances now and then, though she receives in return neither thanks nor
LODOR E 447
kindness. He pursues a course of dissipation in its most degraded form
- a wretched hanger-on at resorts, misnamed of pleasure - gambling
while he has any money to lose - trying to ruin others as he has been
ruined.
Thus we have done our duty, in bringing under view, in a brief
summary, the little that there is to tell of the personages who formed
the drama of this tale. One only remains to be mentioned: but it is not
in a few tame lines that we can revert to the varied fate of Fanny Der-
ham. She continued for some time among her beloved friends, inno-
cent and calm as she was beautiful and wise; circumstances at last led
her away from them, and she has entered upon life. One who feels so
deeply for others, and yet is so stern a censor over herself— at once so
sensitive and so rigidly conscientious — so single-minded and upright,
and yet open as day to charity and affection, cannot hope to pass from
youth to age unharmed. Deceit, and selfishness, and the whole web of
human passion must envelope her, and occasion her many sorrows;
and the unworthiness of her fellow-creatures inflict infinite pain on
her noble heart: still she cannot be contaminated - she will turn nei-
ther to the right nor left, but pursue her way unflinching; and, in her
lofty idea of the dignity of her nature, in her love of truth and in her
integrity, she will find support and reward in her various fortunes.
What the events are, that have already diversified her existence, cannot
now be recounted; and it would require the gift of prophecy to fore-
tell the conclusion. In after times these may be told, and the life of
Fanny Derham be presented as a useful lesson, at once to teach what
goodness and genius can achieve in palliating the woes of life, and to
encourage those, who would in any way imitate her, by an example of
calumny refuted by patience, errors rectified by charity, and the pas-
sions of our nature purified and ennobled by an undeviating obser-
vance of those moral laws on which all human excellence is founded
- a love of truth in ourselves, and a sincere sympathy with our fellow-
creatures.
TH E END.
44 8 MARY SHELLE Y
Appendix A: Mary Shelley — Woman of Letters
[The short story, the reviews, and the brief excerpt of her writing for
the Cabinet Encyclopaedia included in this appendix convey a small
idea of Shelley's industry and the scope of her activities as a writer.
They are all relevant to the writing of Lodore: "The Bride of Modern
Italy," the first version of Clorinda's story, is a recasting of the life of
Emilia Viviani, whom Mary and Percy met in Pisa in 1821 and who
became the subject of Percy's love poem Epipsychidion (1821); the
review of Anna Jameson's Loves of the Poets (1829) presents a statement
about love that is echoed in the novel; the review of her father's novel
Cloudesley (1830) conveys her notion of fiction; the note from the life
of Ugo Foscolo contains a reference to one of Shelley's American
acquaintances. Interested readers might look to the bibliography in
Emily Sunstein's biography Mary Shelley: Romance and Reality (1989)
or to WH. Lyles' Mary Shelley: An Annotated Bibliography (1975).]
i. "The Bride of Modern Italy," London Magazine 9 (April
1824): 351-63.
My heart is fixt:
This is the sixt. — Elia.
1
On a serene winter morning two young ladies, Clorinda and Teresa,
walked up and down the garden of the convent of St. S , at
Rome. If my reader has never seen a convent, or if he has only seen
the better kind, let him dismiss from his mind all that he may have
heard or imagined of such abodes, or he can never transport himself
into the garden of St. S . He must figure it to himself as bounded
by a long, low, straggling, white-washed, weather-stained building,
with grated windows, the lower ones glassless. It is a kitchen garden,
but the refuse of the summer stock alone remained, except a few cab-
bages, which perfumed the air with their rank exhalations. The walks
were neglected, yet not overgrown, but strewed with broken earthen-
ware, ashes, cabbage-stalks, orange-peel, bones, and all that marks the
LODOR E 449
vicinity of a much frequented, but disorderly mansion. The beds were
intersected by these paths, and the whole was surrounded by a high
wall. This common scene was, however, unlike what it would have
been in this country. You saw the decayed and straggling boughs of
the passion-flower against the walls of the convent; here and there a
geranium, its luxuriant foliage starred by scarlet flowers, grew
unharmed by frost among the cabbages; the lemon plants had been
removed to shelter, but orange trees were nailed against the wall, the
golden fruit peeping out from amidst the dark leaves; the wall itself
was variegated by a thousand rich hues; and thick and pointed aloes
grew beneath it. Under the highest wall, opposite the back door of
the convent, a corner of ground was enclosed; this was the burial
place of the nuns; and in the path that led from the door to this enclo-
sure Clorinda and Teresa walked up and down.
"He will never come!" exclaimed Clorinda.
"I fear the dinner bell will ring and interrupt us, if he does come;"
observed Teresa.
"Some cruel obstacle doubtless prevents him," continued Clorin-
da, sighing — "and I have prayed to St. Giacomo, and vowed to give
him the best flowers and a candle a foot long next Easter."
Teresa smiled: "I remember," she said, "that at Christmas you ful-
filled such a vow to San Francesco, - was not that for the sake of
Cieco Magni? for you change your saint as your lover changes name;
- tell me, sweet Clorinda, how many saints have been benefited by
your piety?"
Clorinda looked angry, and then sorrowful; the large drops gath-
ered in her dark eyes: "You are unkind to taunt me thus,Teresina; —
when did I love truly until now? believe me, never; and if heaven
bestows Giacomo upon me — oh! that is his bell! — naught y Teresa,
you will cause me to meet him with tears in my eyes."
Away they ran to the parlour of the convent, and were joined there
by an old woman purblind and nearly deaf, who was to be present at
the visit of Giacomo de'Tolomei, the brother of Teresa. He kissed the
hands of the young ladies, and then they commenced a conversation,
which, by the lowness of their tones, and an occasional intermixture
of French, was quite incomprehensible to their Argus,
2
 who was busi-
ly employed in knitting a large green worsted shawl.
450 APPENDIX A
"Well?"— said Clorinda, in a tone of inquiry.
"Well, dear Clorinda, I have executed our design, though I hope
little from it. I have written a proposal of marriage; if you approve of
it, I will send it to your parents. Here it is."
"What is that paper?" cried the Argus.
Teresa bawled in her ear: "Only the history of the late miracle per-
formed at Asisa" (Italians, male or female, are not great patronizers of
truth),"look at it, dear Eusta." (Eusta could not read.) "I will read it to
you by and bye." Eusta went on with her knitting.
The two girls looking over one another, read the proposal of mar-
riage, which Giacomo de'Tolomei made to the parents of Clorinda
Saviani.The paper was divided into two columns, one headed: "The
Proposal," — the other "Observations to be made thereon" — and this
latter column was left blank. The proposal itself was divided into sev-
eral heads and numbered. It premised that a noble family of Sienna
wishing to ally themselves to the family of the Saviani of Rome, in
the persons of their eldest son and Clorinda, they presented the fol-
lowing considerations to the heads of that house first, that the young
man was well-made, good-looking, healthy, studiously inclined, and of
irreproachable morals. The circumstances of his fortune were then
detailed, and the claims of dowry: it concluded by saying, that if the
parents of Clorinda approved of the terms proposed, the young peo-
ple might be introduced to each other, and if mutually pleased at their
interview, the nuptials might be celebrated in the course of a few
months. When Clorinda had finished reading, the tears that had gath-
ered in her eyes fell drop after drop upon the paper. - "Wherefore do
you weep?" asked Giacomo, "why do you distress me thus?"
"This proposal will never be accepted. You have asked twelve
thousand crowns in dowry; my parents will not give more than six."
"And yet," replied Giacomo," I have named a sum to which I am
convinced my father will never agree; he will require twenty thou-
sand at least; even if your parents accede I shall have to win his con-
sent; but if prayers and tears can move him, I will not be chary of
either."
The bell rang for dinner, old Eusta arose, and Giacomo retired.
Dinner! — what dainty feast of convent-like confectionaries does the
reader picture? — Let him see, in truth, a long, brick-paved floor, with
LODOR E 451
long deal tables, and benches ditto; the tables covered with not white
cloths; cellars of black salt; bottles of sour wine, and small loaves of
bitter bread. Then came the minestra, consisting (for it was fast day) of
what we call macaroni, water, oil, and cheese; then a few vegetables
swimming in oil; a concluding dish of eggs fried with garlic, and the
repast of one of the most highborn and loveliest girls in Rome was
finished. Clorinda Saviani was indeed handsome, and all her fine fea-
tures expressed the bisogna d'amare* which ruled her heart. She was
just eighteen, and had been five years in this convent, waiting until
her father should find a husband of noble birth, who would be con-
tent with a slender dowry. During this time she had formed several
attachments for various youths, who, under different pretexts, had vis-
ited the convent. She had written letters, prayed and wept, and then
yielding to insurmountable difficulties she had changed her idol,
though she had never ceased to love. The fastidious English must not
be disgusted with this picture. It is, perhaps, only a coarse representa-
tion of what takes place at every ball-room with us. And if it went
beyond; - the nature of the Catholic religion, which crushes the
innate conscience by giving a false one in its room; the system of arti-
fice and heartlessness that subsists in a convent; the widely spread
maxim in Italy, that dishonour attaches itself to the discovered not the
concealed fault - all this forms the excuse why with a tender heart
and much native talent, there was neither constancy in Clorinda's
love, nor dignity in her conduct.
After their repast the friends retired to Clorinda's cell; a small,
though high room, floored with brick, miserably furnished, and neither
clean nor orderly. A prie-dieu was beside the little bed with a crucifix
over it, together with two or three prints (like our penny children's
prints) of saints, among them St. Giacomo appeared with the freshest
and cleanest face: beside these was a glass (resembling a bird's drinking
vessel) containing holy water, rather the worse for long standing; in a
closet, with the door a-jar, among tattered books and female apparel,
hung a glass-case enclosing a waxen Gesu Bambino, and some flowers,
gathered for this holy dedication and drooping for want of light, were
placed beneath him; some mignionette, basil, and heliotrope, weeds
o'ergrown, flowered in a wooden trough at the window; a broken
looking glass; a leaden ink stand - such was Clorinda's boudoir.
452 APPENDIX A
"I despair," she exclaimed - "I see no end to my evils - and bu
one road open — flight — " — "Which would ruin my brother." —
"How? - he is of another state." - "And your honour?" - "Honour in
this dungeon! - O, let me breathe the fresh air of heaven; let me no
longer see this prison room; these high walls and all the circumstances
of my convent life, and I care not for the rest." "But how? You may get
people into the convent - but to get out yourself is a different affair."
"I have many plans: — if this proposal of your brother fail, as it will, I
will disclose them to him."
A lay sister now came in to ask the young ladies if they would take
coffee with the Superior. They found her alone; a little, squat, snuff-
taking old woman; she was in high ill-humour: "Body of Bacchus!"
she began, "you introduce strange laws in St. S ! — This coffee is
detestable -Your brother, Teresina, is here every day - I detest coffee
without rum - Clorinda sees him, and it begins to be talked of-
when he comes to-morrow, you only must receive him, and request
him to discontinue his visits."
Clorinda's tears mingled with her coffee — "The old witch!" she
said, when they had retired, "she is fishing for a present." — "And must
have one; what shall Giacomo bring her?" — "Let him send some rum.
Did you not see the faces she made over her coffee? yet she is too
niggardly to buy it herself." A note was hastily dispatched to Giacomo
by Teresa, to inform him of the necessary oblation. He came the next
day well provided; for the waiter of a neighbouring inn accompanied
him bearing six bottles of what bore the name of Rom me. Teresa was
called and dispatched to solicit the presence of the Superior. She
came; Giacomo took off his hat: "Signora," said he, "it is winter time,
and I bring you a wintry gift. -Will you favour me by accepting this
rum?" — "Signor, you are too courteous." — "The courtesy is yours,
Signora, in honouring me by receiving my present. I hope that you
will find it good." - He uncorked a bottle; Teresa ran for a glass; Gia-
como filled it, and the Superior emptied it. Clorinda at the same
moment tripped into the room. She started with a natural air, and
after saluting Giacomo was going away, but he detained her, and they
all sat down together, until the Superior was called away to give out
bread for supper, and the three young people remained together.
The girls turned to Giacomo with inquiring looks: his were sor-
LODOR E 453
rowful."My proposal has not been received. Your parents replied that
they have proposed you to some one, and cannot break off the treaty."
- "And thus I am to be sacrificed!" cried Clorinda, casting up her
beautiful eyes. — "Will you consent?" said Giacomo reproachfully. 
"What means have I? I have talked of flight" (Giacomo s countenance
fell); "and that, although difficult, is not impossible." — "How?" 
"Why, my cell adjoins that of the Superior. She is fond of sweet
things; on the next holiday I will make some cakes for her, filled with
sugar and a little opium. I can then steal away the keys, make an
impression on wax (I have a large piece ready), and you can easily get
them counterfeited." - "You would engage my brother in a dangerous
enterprize," said Teresa. — "My dear, dear Clorinda, my sweet friend,"
said Giacomo, "you are ignorant of the worlds ways. I would sacrifice
my life for you; but you would thus lose your honour, I should be
imprisoned, and you would be sent to some dreary convent among
the mountains, till forced to marry some boor who would render you
miserable for life." — "What is to be done then?" asked Clorinda, dis-
contentedly. — "It requires thought. Something must, something shall,
be done; do you be faithful to me, and refuse your parents' offer, and I
do not despair. In the mean time I will set out for Sienna to-morrow
and see my father."
Giacomo had formed an intimacy with a young English artist
residing at Rome, and he left the cares of his love in the hands of this
gentleman, while he by short days'journeys, and with a heavy heart,
proceeded towards Sienna. The following day brought a letter of five
pages, in a nearly illegible hand, to be delivered to Clorinda. Our
Englishman had been a year in Rome, but he had never yet been
within a convent. As he passed the prison-like building of St. S ,
and measured with his eye the lofty walls of its garden, he had peo-
pled it with nuns of all ages, states, and dispositions;—the solemn and
demure, the ambitious, the bigoted, and those who, repenting of their
vows, wetted their pallet with their midnight tears, and then, prostrate
on the damp marble before the crucifix, prayed God to pardon them
for being human. And then he thought of the novices fearful as
brides, but not so hopeful; and of the boarders who dreamt of the
world outside, as we of Paradise beyond the grave. He pictured echo-
ing corridors, painted windows, the impenetrable grate, the religious
454 APPENDIX A
cloister, and the garden, that most immaculate of asylums, with grassy
walks, majestic trees, and veiled forms flitting under their shade. Well,
thought he, I am now in for it; and if I do not lose my heart, I shall at
least gain some excellent hints for my picture of the Profession of
Eloisa.
He crossed the outer hall, rang at the bell, and the old tottering
portress came towards the door. He asked for "the Signora Teresa de'
Tolomei." He was shown into the parlour — a vaulted room, the floor
bricked, the furniture mean, without fire or chimney, though the cold
east wind covered the ground with hoar frost. In a few minutes the
two friends tript into the room, followed by Eusta, who, instead of her
knitting, carried a fire-pot filled with wood ashes, over which she
held her withered hands and her blue nose, frost bitten. The girls were
somewhat startled on seeing the stranger, who advanced, and
announcing himself as Signor Marcott Alleyn, a friend of the brother
of Teresa, delivered a little packet, together with a note which bade his
sister confide implicitly in the Englishman.
The conversation became animated. No bashfulness intruded to
prevent Clorinda from discoursing eloquently of her passion, espe-
cially when she observed the deep interest which her account excit-
ed. Alleyn was a man of infinitely pleasing manners; he had a soft tone
of voice and eyes full of expression. Italian ladies are not accustomed
to the English system of gallantry; since in that country either down-
right love is made, or the most distant coldness preserved between the
sexes. Alleyn s compassion was excited in various ways. He heard that
Clorinda had been imprisoned in that convent for five years; he saw
the desolate garden, he felt the bitter cold, which was unalleviated by
any thing except fire-pots; he had a glance at the blank corridors and
squalid cells, and he saw in the victim an elegance of manners and a
delicate sensitiveness that ill accorded with such dreary privations.
Several visits ensued, and Alleyn became a favourite in the convent.
He was only seventeen; his spirits were high; he diverted the friends,
brought presents of rum and confectionary to the nuns, kissed some
of the least ugly, made covert game of the Superior, and established
himself with greater freedom in this seclusion in a week than Giaco-
mo had done in a year. At first he sympathised with Clorinda, now he
did more — he amused her. If she wept for the absence of Giacomo, he
LODOR E 455
made her laugh at some story told apropos, which diverted her. If she
complained of the petty tyranny of the nuns, he laid some plot of
droll revenge, which she executed. He introduced a system of English
jokes and hoaxes, at which the poor Italians were perfectly aghast, and
to which no experience prevented their becoming victims; so utterly
unable were they to comprehend the meaning of such machinations;
and then, when their loud voices pealed through the arched passages
in wonder and anger, they were appeased by soft words and well-
timed gifts.
But this sunshine could not last for ever. Clorinda was at first more
happy and gay than she had ever been. She in vain endeavoured to
lament the absence of her lover. Alleyn prevented every emotion
except gaiety from finding a place in her heart. She looked forward
with delight for the hour of his visit, and the merriment that he excit-
ed left its traces on the rest of the day. Her step was light; and the cold
of her cheerless cell was unfelt, since it had been adorned with carica-
tures of the Superior and nuns; their tyranny was either laid asleep or
revenged, and Giacomo was, alas! forgotten. Her love-breathing letters
lost their fire, and the writing them became an irksome task; her sighs
were changed into smiles — but suddenly these again vanished, and
Clorinda became more pensive and sad than ever. She avoided Teresa,
and passed most of her time in lonely walks up and down the straight
paths of the garden. She was fretful if Alleyn did not come; when he
was announced, she would blush, sit silent in his presence, and, if any
of his sallies provoked her laughter, it was quickly quenched by her
tears. Her devotions even lost their accustomed warmth; Alleyn had
no tutelar saint; no Marcott had ever been honoured with canoniza-
tion, nor had any of the bones found in the catacombs been baptized
with that transalpine name. "Marry, this is miching Malecho; it means
mischief,"
4
 - the brief mischief of inconstancy, new love, and all the
evils attendant on such a change. Alleyn did not suspect this turn in
the tide, till, left tete-a-tete one morning, some slight attentions on his
part painted her cheeks with blushes; the confession was not far
behind, he heard with mingled surprise and delight, and one kiss
sealed their infidelity to the absent Giacomo just as Teresa and Eusta
entered.
Alleyn was only seventeen. At that age men look on women as liv-
456 APPENDIX A
ing Edens which they dare not imagine they can ever enjoy; they
love, and dream not of being loved; they seek, and their wildest fancies
do not picture themselves as sought: so it was small wonder that the
heart of Alleyn beat with exultation, that his step was light and his
eyes sparkling as he left the convent on that day. His visits were now
more frequent;Teresa was confined to her room by illness, and the
lovers (though that sacred name is prophaned by such an application)
were left together unwatched. Clorinda's thoughts turned wholly
upon escape, and Alleyn heedlessly fostered such thoughts, until one
day she said: "If I quit the convent this night, will you be under the
walls to receive me?" —"M y sweet Clorinda, are you serious?" —"Alas!
no, I cannot. But in a few nights I trust that I shall be able to execute
my project. Look, here is wax with an impression of the keys of the
convent; you must get others made from it. The sisters shall sleep well
that night, and before morning we will be far on our journey towards
your happy country. Fear not; my disguise is ready — all will go well."
"The devil it will!" thought Alleyn, as he quitted St. S. , and
carefully placing the waxen impression he had received against a
sunny wall, he paced up the Corso, — "and the devil take me if ever I
go within those walls again! I have sown a pretty crop, but I am not
mad enough to reap it; and, as the fates will have it, here is Tolomei
returned to tax me with my false proceedings. I wish all convents and
women ".
Tolomei now accosted him. They walked together towards the
Coliseum, talking of indifferent things. They climbed to the highest
part of the ruin, and then, seated amid leafy shrubs and fragrant violets
and wall flowers, looking over the desert lanes and violated Forum of
Rome, Giacomo asked — "What news of Clorinda?" Alleyn wished
himself hanged, and, with a look that almost indicated that his wish
was about to be fulfilled, replied briefly to his friend's questions, and
then began a string himself, that he might escape his keen, lover-like
looks - more painful than his words. Giacomo's hopes were nearly
dead. His father was inexorable; and he had learnt, besides, that the
person selected by her parents as a husband for Clorinda had arrived
in Rome, and this accomplished his misery. He shed abundance of
tears as he related this, and ended by declaring that if he still found
Clorinda faithful and affectionate, the contrariety of his destiny would
LODOR E 457
urge him to some desperate measure. They separated at length, having
appointed to go together to St. S on the following day.
Alleyn broke this appointment. He sent an excuse to Giacomo,
who accordingly went alone. In the evening he received a note from
Clorinda. She lamented his absence; declared her utter aversion for
Giacomo; bewailed her hard fate, and having acquainted him that she
was to spend the following day with her parents, entreated him to call
on the succeeding one. Alleyn passed the intermediate time at Tivoli,
that he might avoid his injured friend, and at the appointed hour
went to the convent. Teresa and Clorinda were together; they both
looked disturbed and angry; when Alleyn appeared, Teresa arose, and
casting a disdainful look on the conscious pair, left the parlour.
Clorinda burst into tears. "Oh, my beloved friend," she cried, "I have
gone through heart-breaking scenes since I last saw you. This cruel
Teresa is continually upbraiding me, and Giacomo's silent looks of
grief are a still greater reproach. Yet I am innocent. This heart has
escaped from my control; its overwhelming sensations defy all the
efforts of my reason, and I passionately love without hope, almost
without a return — nor is this all." She then related, that during her
visit of the day before, she had been introduced to the person on
whom her parents had resolved to bestow her. "At first," she contin-
ued,"! was ignorant of the design on foot, and saw him with indiffer-
ence. Presently my mother took me aside; she began with a torrent of
reproaches; told me that all my artifices were discovered, and then
showed me a letter of mine to Giacomo which had been intercepted
by that artful monster the Superior, and concluded by telling me that
I must agree instantly to marry the personage to whom I had been
introduced. 'Not that you shall be forced,' she said; 'beware therefore
of spreading that report; but your conduct necessitates the strongest
measures. If you refuse this match, which is in every way suitable to
you, you must prepare to be sent to a convent of Carthusian Nuns at
Benevento, where if you do not take the veil, you will be strictly
guarded, and your plots, letters, and lovers, will be of no avail.'With-
out permitting me to reply, this cruel mother led me back to the
drawing room; this personage, whose name is Romani, came near me,
and presently took an opportunity of asking whether I agreed to the
arrangement of my parents. What could I say? I gave an ungracious
458 APPENDIX A
assent, and they consider the matter settled. His estate is near Spoleto,
and he is gone to prepare for my reception. The writings are drawing
up; the time will soon arrive when I shall change my cage and be
miserable for life. You alone, Alleyn, you, generous and brave English-
man, can aid me; take me hence; bear me away to freedom and love,
and let me not be sacrificed to this unknown bridegroom, whose per-
son I hardly know, and the idea of whom fills my heart with despair."
Alleyn replied as he best might, with expressions of real sorrow, but of
small consolation, and the inexorable dinner-bell rang and separated
them just as he concluded his reply.
The same evening Alleyn received a note from her. "My horror of
this marriage," she wrote, "increases in proportion as the period of its
accomplishment approaches. I hear to-day that my parents have
already given my corrado
5
 to Romani, which he is to expend in jewels
and dresses for me, and thus my fate is nearly sealed. I shall be ban-
ished from Rome and my friends; I shall live with a stranger - I must
be miserable. Giacomo is better than this. But as an union with him is
impossible, and you refuse to aid me, and to liberate one whom you
say you love, listen to a plan I have formed; some years ago I was
addressed by one, who at that time gained my heart, and whom I still
regard with tenderness. The smallness of my dowry caused his father
to break off the treaty; this father is now dead. Go to this gentleman —
find out whether he still loves me. Married to him, I should be united
to one whose merits I know - I should live at Rome, and there
would be some alleviation to my cruel fate. At least come to-morrow
to the convent, and endeavour to console your miserable friend."
Alleyn, as may easily be supposed, did not pay the required visit to
the quondam lover of Clorinda. Perhaps she expected this; for the
same night she wrote to him herself. Her letter was long and elo-
quent. Its expressions seemed to proceed from the over-flowings of a
passionate and loving heart. She referred to Alleyn as a common
friend, and urged expedition in every measure that was to be pursued.
This letter was intercepted and carried to her parents. On the follow-
ing day Alleyn received a despairing note, entreating him not to
attempt to come to the convent. "Alas!" she wrote, "how truly miser-
able I am! What a fate! I suffer, and am the cause of a thousand griefs
to others. Oh heaven! I were better dead; then I should cease to
LODOR E 459
lament, or at least to occasion wretchedness to others. Now I am
hated by others, and even by myself- Oh, my incomparable friend!
Angel of my heart! Can I be the cause of misery even to you? See
Giacomo, my beloved friend; tell him how deeply I pity him, but
counsel him in my name to desist from all further pursuit. He must
permit me to obey my parents, and they will never consent. My sole
aim now is to escape from this prison."
Another and another letter came; and she most earnestly begged
him not to come to the convent. Thus nearly a month passed, when
one morning early Alleyn was surprised by a visit from the Superior
of the convent of St. S . The old lady seemed very full of matter.
She drank the rosoglio
6
 presented to her, took snuff, and opened her
budget. She talked of the trouble she had ever had with poor Clorin-
da; inveighed against Giacomo; during her long discourse she praised
her own sagacity, the tender affection of Clorinda s parents, and relat-
ed how she had always opposed the entrance of young men into the
convent and their free communication with Clorinda, except his
own; but that his politeness and known integrity had in this particular
caused her to relax her discipline; and she concluded by inviting him
to visit the convent whenever it should be agreeable to him. She then
took her leave.
Alleyn was much disturbed. He wished not to go to St. S ; he
knew that he ought not to see Clorinda again. He resolved not to go
out at all, and sat thinking of her beauty, love, and unaffected manners
until he resolved to walk that he might get rid of such thoughts. He
hurried down the Corso, and before he was aware found himself
before the door of the convent of St. S . He paused, again he
moved, and entered the outer hall - his hand was on the bell, when
the door opened and Giacomo came out. Seeing Alleyn, he threw
himself into his arms, shedding a torrent of tears. This exordium star-
tled our Englishman; the conclusion was soon told: Clorinda had
married Romani the day before, and on the same evening had quitted
Rome for Spoleto.
This news sobered Alleyn at once[;]
7
 he shuddered almost to think
of the folly he had been about to commit, feeling as one who is stayed
by a friendly hand when about to place his foot beyond the brink of a
high precipice. They turned from the convent door. "And yet," said
460 APPENDIX A
Alleyn as he walked on, "are you secure of the truth of your account?
The Superior called on me yesterday and invited me to visit
St. S .Why should she do this if Clorinda were gone? I have half
a mind to go and fathom this mystery."
"Ay, go by all means," replied Giacomo bitterly, "you will be wel-
come; fill your pockets with sugar plums; dose the old lady with
rosoglio, and kiss the gentle nuns, the youngest of whom bears the
weight of sixty years under the fillet on her brow. They miss your
good cheer, and who knows, Clorinda gone, what other nets they
may weave to secure so valuable a prize. True, you are an Englishman
and a heretic; words which, interpreted into pure Tuscan, mean an
untired prodigal, and one, pardon me, whose conscience will no more
stickle at violating yon sanctuary than at eating flesh on Fridays. Go
by all means, and make the best of your good fortune among these
Houris."
"Rather say, take post horse for Spoleto, friend Giacomo. And yet
neither — it is all vanity and vexation of spirit. I will go paint my Pro-
fession of Eloisa."
8
2. From review by Mary Shelley, of The Loves of the Poets. By
the Author of the "Diary of an Ennuyee." [Anna Jameson] 2
vols. London: Henry Colburn (1829). Westminster Review u
(Oct. 1829): 472-77.
The Loves of the Poets! that we may understand why the conjunction
of ideas represented by these words, presents the most resplendent
image of beauty, grace, and happiness, that the human mind can well
conceive, let us analyze them, and learn what Love, and what a Poet
is.
There is much in the world afforded by nature and contrived by
man, to yield satisfaction and enjoyment to our senses and our physi-
cal wants. In this northern clime the rich engross much of these. Car-
riages, horses, palaces with all their appendages, costly dress, and
luxurious tables. The poor (i.e. the unopulent, not the absolutely
poor, those shut out from natures table, the starving and miserable),
have a counterbalance in a keener sense of the delights of leisure—
LODOR E 461
they bring appetite instead of fastidious taste to season their plain
viands; repose after labour, instead of downy beds, and silken hang-
ings. With the omission of the necessitous and sick, our physical
nature is replete with agreeable sensations; and yet how many minis-
tered to, even to superfluity, are unhappy.
The mind requires more contribution than even our corporeal
frame; ennui is the offspring of plenty and comfort; and while we
contrive to shut out the evil elements, listlessness and weariness per-
vade the soul and pall every enjoyment. If the poor suffer less from
this annoyance, it is not because they receive more pleasure; but
because care, anxiety, or labour, occupy them; the rich also invent
employments; books, operas, concerts, hunting, shooting, balls, pic-
ture-dealing, building, planting, travelling, fanciful changes of dress,
and gambling.Yet these suffice not, nor professions, trades, nor ambi-
tion, to afford pleasure, though they waste the time; even the pursuits
of wisdom, and the discoveries of science, engrossing as they are, and
often delightful, are inefficient to take the sting from life, changing its
burthen to gladness: this miracle is left for the affections; and the best
form of affection, from the excess of its sympathy, is Love.
Who can feel satiety or sorrow when he loves? — "Love," Plato
says, "showers benignity upon the world; before his presence, all harsh
passions flee and perish. He is the author of all soft affections, the
destroyer of all ungentle thoughts, possessed by the fortunate, and
desired by the unhappy, therefore unhappy, because they possess him
not; he is the father of grace and delicacy, and gentleness and delight
and persuasion, and desire; the cherisher of all that is good, the abol-
isher of all that is evil, our most excellent pilot, defence, saviour and
guardian, in labour and in fear, in desire and in reason; the ornament
and governor of all things human and divine; the best, the loveliest."*
9
"Love," Shelley writes, "is that powerful attraction towards all we
conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our
own thoughts the chasm of an inefficient void, and seek to awaken in
all things that are, a community with what we experience within our-
selves. The meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimat-
ing our own, an imagination which should enter into, and seize upon
the subtle and delicate peculiarities we have delighted to cherish and
unfold in secret, with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two
462 APPENDIX A
exquisite lyres strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice,
vibrate with the vibrations of our own; this is the unattainable point
to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of
man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of
which there is no rest or respite to the heart over which it rules.""
1
"
10
If so imperious, intense and pervading, be the spirit of Love, most
powerful in the best and most delicate natures, how earnestly must
women, whose being is formed for tenderness and sympathy, desire to
know among whom in the harder, harsher sex this feeling exists in its
greatest purity and force. And is not a poet an incarnation of the very
essence of Love?
What is a Poet? Is he not that which wakens melody in the silent
chords of the human heart? A light which arrays in splendor things
and thoughts which else were dim in the shadow of their own
insignificance. His soul is like one of the pools in the Ilex woods of
the Maremma, it reflects the surrounding universe, but it beautifies,
groupes, and mellows their tints, making a little world within itself,
the copy of the outer one; but more entire, more faultless.
11
 But above
all, a poet's soul is Love; the desire of sympathy is the breath that
inspires his lay, while he lavishes on the sentiment and its object, his
whole treasure-house of resplendent imagery, burning emotion, and
ardent enthusiasm. He is the mirror of nature, reflecting her back ten
thousand times more lovely; what then must not his power be, when
he adds beauty to the most perfect thing in nature — even Love.
Lady Morgan who writes many things, not because they are true,
but because they come into her head, has devoted some pages of the
"Book of the Boudoir" to the villifying a poet's love.
12
 Another scrap
in the same volume may serve as a comment. The few lines she has
written on "Sentiment" sufficiently show why she depreciates the
breathing sentiment of love, which is a poet's treasure and his gift.
Let us instead of refuting an opinion which this lady may already
have discarded as false, turn to the pages of the book before us, which
propose to give us the history of the Loves of the Poets, of modern
poets that is, for with many declarations of ignorance, yet with no lit-
tle presumption, the fair authoress sweeps out of her list the loves of
the classic authors; she shall have her way, however, and with her we
will confine ourselves to the poets of modern Europe.
LODOR E 463
This work is the production of the authoress of the "Diary of an
Ennuyee,"
13
 a book we have heard described as the offspring of a sin-
gular union of a light head and a heavy heart - whose defect is to
have made reality and fiction, who are brother and sister, and who
may not therefore too closely unite, marry, and produce an offspring
which is neither true nor false. Yet notwithstanding this defect, which
disturbs and confuses the reader throughout, it is an interesting, clever,
and graceful work....
Perhaps the most interesting portion of these volumes, is that ded-
icated to the commemoration of conjugal poetry - the poets being
for the most part women. The soft sweetness of Clotilde de Surville,
the impassioned grace ofVittoria Colonna, bear the palm.
14
 Com-
plaint here is superseded by tender regret; solicitation by acknowl-
edged sympathy; jealousy and suspense by gratitude and joy. The
authoress is not pleased that while women mourn till death the loss of
their companion, men usually change the elegiac strain composed for
their first love, for epithalamiums on a marriage with a second. It is
probably one among the many superstitions which rather injure than
exalt the characters of women, which makes us, in spite of ourselves,
set so high a price on their constancy even to the dead. Human
beings in every stage of life need companions; woman protectors; and
except that, for the highminded and delicate, there are few worthy
companions and protectors, and that if once a woman find one man
on whom she may bestow without sorrow her tenderness, it is very
unlikely that, losing him, she find a second, we know no cause in rea-
son and morality, and hardly in good taste, which should condemn
the lovely, bereaved, and ardent heart to perpetual widowhood.
A woman's love is tenderness, and may wed itself to the lost and
dead. A man's is passion, and must expend itself on the living. A
woman's domesticity is of her own making, and her home may be
replete with elegance though she be alone. An unmarried man has no
home. A solitary woman is the world's victim, and there is heroism in
her consecration. A man whose fate is not allied to a female, from
whatever cause, is divested of every poetical attribute - there is some-
thing rugged, harsh, and unnatural in the very idea. After all, the wor-
thiness of the beloved object must always stand as an excuse for
inconstancy; or, with a poet, the fervency and truth of his passion:
464 APPENDIX A
since, through the force of his imagination, he may dress in jewels
richer than those that adorned the doll at Loretto, a black-visaged
Madonna;
15
 nor be aware that the beauty of the object resides in his
eyes instead of in her mind or form. . . .
3. From Review of Cloudesley;A Tale. By the author of Caleb
Williams. [William Godwin] 3 vols. London: Henry Colburn
and Richard Bentley (1830). Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 27
(May 1830): 711-716.
In his able preface to this work, Mr Godwin sets the writer of fiction
in a very high place. He compares him with the historian and the
dramatist, and gives him the preference. He says - and his late occupa-
tion of the History of the Commonwealth has informed him of the
truth of the assertion — that "individual history and biography are
mere guesses in the dark." "The writer collects his information of
what the great men on the theatre of the world are reported to have
said and done, and then endeavours with his best sagacity to find out
the explanation; to hit on that thread, woven through the whole con-
texture of the piece, which, being discovered, we are told
"No prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain."
16
But man is a more complex machine than is dreamed of in our phi-
losophy, and it is probable that the skill of no moral anatomist has yet
been consummate enough fully to solve the obscurities of any one of
the great worthies of ancient or modern times." While the writer of
fiction, Mr Godwin goes on to say, "when he introduces his ideal per-
sonage to the public, enters upon the task with a preconception of the
qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions and its
concomitants. He has thus two advantages: in the first place, his
express office is to draw just conclusions from assigned premises, a
task of no extraordinary difficulty; and, secondly, while he endeavours
to aid those conclusions by consulting the oracle in his bosom, the
suggestions of his own heart, instructed as he is besides by a converse
with the world, and a careful survey of the encounters that present
LODOR E 465
themselves to his observation, he is much less liable to be cribbed and
cabined in by those unlooked-for phenomena, which in the history
of an individual seem to have a malicious pleasure in thrusting them-
selves forward to subvert the best digested theories. In this sense, then,
it is infallibly true that fictitious history, when it is the work of a com-
petent hand, is more to be depended upon, and comprises more of
the science of man, than whatever can be exhibited by the historian."
The writer of fiction, Mr Godwin asserts, has besides many advan-
tages over the dramatist; "he has leisure to ripen his materials; to draw
out his results one by one, even as they grow up and unfold them-
selves in the 'seven ages' of man.
17
 He is not confined, like the drama-
tist, to put down the words that his characters shall utter. He
accompanies the language made use of by them with his comments,
and explains the inmost thoughts that pass in the bosom of the
upright man and the perverse."
Such, indeed, have been the characteristics of Mr Godwins novels.
While other writers represent manners rather than passions, or pas-
sions at once vague and incomplete, he conceives, in its entireness, the
living picture of an event with all its adjuncts; he sets it down in its
vivid reality: no part is dim, no part is tame. We have the clear and dis-
tinct representation of his conception, and are made to feel that his
portraiture is endowed with the very essence and spirit of our nature.
Mr Bulwer has, in his delightful novel of "Pelham," described his idea
of a work of fiction.
18
 Story, he renders, the subordinate. The almost
common events of life are his groundwork; or where he mingles the
romantic, it is made rather an episode than an intrinsic part of his
machinery. Mr Bulwer does not take the materials of the world
around, first separating, and then, by aid of the inventive faculty,
moulding them into a new form, whose exact appearance depends on
a preconceived notion of what must be, to fulfil his idea; but he gives
us rather himself, his experience, his opinions, his emotions. The
high-wrought and noble tone of his mind spreads a sacred and even
mysterious grandeur over his pages. His wit enlivens them, his acute
observations and peculiar and beautiful power of poetically linking
the apparently dissimilar by their real similitudes, are the value and
charm of his works.
But though Mr Bulwer's exceeding talent exalts this species of
466 APPENDIX A
composition, it is not in itself of so high a grade as the other, which in
fact almost infringes on the ideality of the drama by a sort of unity,
wanting, in what we may call in comparison with this the "narrative,"
the "didactic novel."The temple which presents to our eyes the pro-
portions and harmonious accords of architecture, is a finer production
than a rambling palace, though the apartments of the latter may be
more glittering, lustrous, and delightful. There seems in our human
nature a necessity of self-restraint, before we can reach the highest
kind of excellence. If simplicity is the best,- if those,
"Who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth,
Glad hearts without reproach or blot,
Who do thy work and know it not,"—
I9
and if the works which are the type of this artless celestial nature hold
the first rank, yet both characters and productions of this kind are too
rare and too individual to form a class:*
20
 an example they cannot be,
for their characteristic is, that they are genuine and untaught. Putting,
therefore, these out of the question, I repeat, that a certain degree of
obedience to rule and law is necessary for the completion and eleva-
tion of our nature and its productions. Of all writers, Shakspeare,
whom the ignorant have deemed irregular, is the closest follower of
these laws, for he has always a scope and an aim, which, beyond every
other writer, he fulfils. The merely copying from our own hearts will
no more form a first-rate work of art, than will the most exquisite
representation of mountains, water, wood, and glorious clouds, form a
good painting, if none of the rules of grouping or colouring are fol-
lowed. Sir Walter Scott has not attained this master art; his wonderful
genius developes itself in individual characters and scenes, unsur-
passed, except by Shakspeare, for energy and truth; but his wholes
want keeping — often even due connexion.
Of all modern writers, Mr Godwin has arrived most sedulously,
and most successfully, at the highest species of perfection his depart-
ment of art affords. He sketches in his own mind, with a comprehen-
sive and bold imagination, the plan of his work; he digs at the
LODOR E 467
foundations, and learns all the due bearings of his position; he exam-
ines his materials, and sees exactly to what purpose each is best fitted;
he makes an incident; he unerringly divines the results, both of the
event and passion, which this incident will bring forth. By dint of the
mastery of thought, he transfuses himself into the very souls of his
personages; he dives into their secret hearts, and lays bare, even to
their anatomy, their workings; not a pulsation escapes him, — while yet
all is blended into one whole, which forms the pervading impulse of
the individual he brings before us. Who, remembering Falkland, but
feels as if he had stood by that noble ruin, and watched its downfall!
Who but writhes under the self-dejection of Mandeville, and feels the
while his own heart whisper fearful oracles of the tameless and sad
incongruities of our souls! Who but exulted madly with St Leon,
when he obtained his specious gifts!
21
 We pass with their creator into
the very form and frame of his creatures: our hearts swell responsive
to every emotion he delineates. When we heard of another tale by the
same author, we wondered what new magic circle was traced, within
which we were to stand side by side with the enchanter, seeing the
spirits that rise to his call, enthralled by the spell he casts over us
Mr Godwin quotes three lines from the Iliad, applicable to himself, as
Homer made them applicable to Nestor. "Two generations of speech-
gifted men had passed away, with whom he had dwelt in green Pylos:
he now lived among the third."*
22
 Well may Mr Godwin be proud of
emulating
"Experienced Nestor, in persuasion skilTd,"
who
"Words sweet as honey from his lips distill'd."
23
It is a proud distinction thus to retain the power of creative thought,
at a time when the grave is all too near, and our material frames are
burdened with tokens of affinity to the clod beneath. To see mind tri-
umph over mortality, the flame burning brighter, and yet more gently,
in the decay of our animal powers, is in itself a tale to ponder over
468 APPENDIX A
with a glad and thankful spirit. This last emanation of the master-
mind of Godwin bears in it a soothing mildness, that reminds us of
Wordsworth s exquisite description of
"An old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night."
24
Here is nothing harsh and crabbed, nothing morbid and disheart-
ening: every page displays freshness and vigour, each one containing
some lesson to teach us confidence, love, and hope. This philosophy, as
emanating from experience, is a precious boon, such as, since the days
of the philosophers of old, has seldom been bequeathed to us. Let the
reader turn to the last page of the third volume, and learn thence, that
a glory still remains to the earth, an attribute to our mortal natures,
that must elevate and bless us while man remains; and let our hearts
exult, when one of the wisest men of this or any age tells us, that "the
true key of the universe is love."
4. From "Ugo Foscolo," Lives of the Most Eminent Literary and
Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal. Volume 3. London:
Longman, Rees, Orme, Brown, Green & Longman (1837),
volume 3, p. 387, note.
It was an account of one of these Graces that Foscolo believed himself
obliged to challenge one Graham, an American. When they met in
the field, the poet received, but did not return, his adversary's fire, and
the affair terminated without a reconciliation. Graham was at that
time a reporter to a newspaper, and had served Foscolo as translator of
his works. He afterwards got into difficulties, committed a forgery, and
was obliged to leave this country. Soon after, he fell in a duel in Amer-
ica.
25
Notes
1 Elia is Charles Lamb (1775-1834). The epigraph makes clear
Shelley's attitude towards the Clorinda of her story.
2 A mythical giant with 100 eyes; hence, a watchful guardian.
LODOR E 469
3 Need for love.
4 Hamlet 3.2.147-148.
5 Corredo, or dowry.
6 Rosolio is a cordial flavoured with rose petals, cloves, and cin-
namon.
7 Punctuation missing in London Magazine version.
8 A final ironic comment not only about Clorinda, but about
Emilia Viviani. Eloisa, the lover of Abelard (1079-1142), was
committed to a convent where she remained constant to his
love.
9 ^Plato's Symposium. (Shelley's note).
10 "'"Essay on Love by Shelley, published in the Keepsake for 1829.
(Shelley's note.)
11 Ilex is a holly, a maremma is a marshy region near the seashore;
these particular woods are in Tuscany Percy Shelley uses a simi-
lar image in his poem "To Jane: The Recollection," first pub-
lished in the Posthumous Poems (1824).
12 The Book of the Boudoir. London: Henry Colburn (1829).
13 Shelley reviewed the book in an essay, "The English in Italy,"
Westminster Review 6 (October 1826): 325-341.
14 Two fifteenth-century poets known for their love poetry.
15 A statue of Lebanon cedar in the Chiesa della Casa Santa at
Loreto, Italy.
16 Alexander Pope, "To Richard Temple, Viscount Cobham. Of
the Knowledge and Characters of Men" (1734) 208-209.
17 Shakespeare, AsYou Like It 2.7.139-166.
18 Pelham; or, the Adventures of a Gentleman, second edition (1828).
19 Wordsworth, "Ode to Duty" (1807) 10-14.
20 *The beautiful tale of Rosamond Gray, by Charles Lamb, occurs
to us as the most perfect specimen of the species of writing to
which we allude. (Shelley's note.)
21 Characters in The Adventures of Caleb Williams (1794), Mandeville
(1817), and St. Leon (1799).
22 Thus paraphrased by Pope, and so changed by him as to be
inadmissible by the author: "Two generations now had pass'd
away, Wise by his rules, and happy by his sway;Two ages o'er his
native realm he reign'd, And now the example of the third
remain'd." (Shelley's note.) The Iliad of Homer 1.333-336.
470 APPENDIX A
2 3 The Iliad of Homer 1.331-332.
24 "To a Young Lady, who had been reproached for taking long
Walks in the Country" (1807) 16-17.
25 William Grenville Graham (1793-1827) left his native America
for London when he forged a cheque. He eventually became
the translator for Ugo Foscolo.The men fought a duel over one
of Foscolo's servants, with whom both were having an affair.
Graham next became an editor, and Betty Bennett suggests he
was involved in the curious story of Isabella Robinson and
Mary Diana Dods. See Betty T. Bennett, Mary Diana Dods,A
Gentleman and a Scholar (New York: Morrow, 1991) 90, 252-256,
259.
LODOR E 471
Appendix B: Selected Literary Sources
I. From George Gordon, Lord Byron, Lara, canto i (1814).
[A number of readers have pointed to Lord Byron as a source for
Lodore, much as he seems to have inspired the figure of Raymond in
The Last Man.The reviewer in Tlie Sun suggests that the novel "intro-
duces us to the hero, Lord Lodore, in something of the same abrupt
and startling manner that imparts such a charm to Byron's Lara." It is
significant that the hero of Byron's poem (the disguised Conrad of
The Corsair) is involved in a feud in which he is killed. (See Appendix
E.]
XVII .
In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd
Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd;
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot:
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate —
They guess'd - they gazed - they fain would know his fate.
What had he been? what was he, thus unknown,
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known?
A hater of his kind? yet some would say,
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay;
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near,
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer;
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by,
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye:
Yet there was softness too in his regard,
At times, a heart as not by nature hard,
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride,
And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem;
472 APPENDIX B
In self-inflicted penance of a breast
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest;
In vigilance of grief that would compel
The soul to hate for having loved too well.
XVIII .
There was in him a vital scorn of all:
As if the worst has falTn which could befall,
He stood a stranger in this breathing world,
An erring spirit from another hurl'd;
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped
By choice the perils he by chance escaped;
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet
His mind would half exult and half regret:
With more capacity for love than earth
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth,
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth,
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth;
With thought of years in phantom chase mispent,
And wasted powers for better purpose lent;
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath
In hurried desolation o'er his path,
And left the better feelings all at strife
In wild reflection o'er his stormy life;
His mind abhorring this had fix'd her throne
Far from the world, in regions of her own:
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below,
His blood in temperate seeming now would flow:
Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd,
But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd!
'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd,
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd,
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,
LODOR E 473
His madness was not of the head, but heart;
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view.
XIX.
With all that chilling mystery of mien,
And seeming gladness to remain unseen,
He had (if'twere not nature s boon) an art
Of fixing memory on another's heart:
It was not love perchance - nor hate - nor aught
That words can image to express the thought;
But they who saw him did not see in vain,
And once beheld, would ask of him again:
And those to whom he spake remember'd well,
And on the words, however light, would dwell:
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind;
There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate,
If greeted once; however brief the date
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew,
Still there within the inmost thought he grew.
You could not penetrate his soul, but found,
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound;
His presence haunted still; and from the breast
He forced an all unwilling interest:
Vain was the struggle in that mental net,
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget!
2. The Tempest and Mary Wollstonecraft, from "Preface," The
Female Reader (1797).
[Mary Shelley compares Ethel with Shakespeare's Miranda in Volume
I of Lodore. While a reading of Miranda's character with respect to
nineteenth-century notions of the female can be found in Appendix
D, one other relevant context is Wolls to nee raft's The Female Reader,
which contains five excerpts from The Tempest in Book IV, "Dia-
474 APPENDIX B
logues, Conversations, and Fables."
1
 Modelled on William Enfield's
The Speaker (i774),Wollstonecraft's reader extends the conduct book
tradition. Miranda's speeches are meant to serve as a model for
middle-class culture, which is also incorporated in the portraits of
Fanny and Ethel in Lodore.]
Exterior accomplishments are not to be obtained by imitation, they
must result from the mind, or the deception is soon detected, and
admiration gives place to contempt. If you wish to be loved by your
relations and friends, prove that you can love them by governing your
temper; good humour and cheerful gaiety will then enliven every fea-
ture and dimple your cheeks - but this my young friends is not the
work of a day. An attention to truth gives dignity to the manners: and
a dependence on Providence banishes those fears which render many
girls very ridiculous, and make them appear as insignificant as they are
helpless; if they do not endeavour to conquer them they will forfeit
the esteem of those whose protection they most want - the good and
the wise
As we are created accountable creatures we must run the race our-
selves, and by our own exertions acquire virtue: the utmost our
friends can do is to point out the right road, and clear away some of
the loose rubbish which might at first retard our progress. - If, con-
quering indolence and a desire of present enjoyment, we push for-
ward, not only the tranquil joy of an approving conscience will cheer
us here, but we shall anticipate in some degree, while we advance to
it, that happiness of which we can form no conception in our present
state, except when we have some faint glimpse from the pleasures
arising from benevolence, and the hope of attaining more perfect
knowledge. - We are indeed all children educated by a beneficent
Father for his kingdom - some are nearer the awful close than others,
to their advice the young should listen - for respectable is the hoary
head when found in the path of virtue.
LODOR E 475
3. From Thomas Campbell, Gertrude ofWyoming (1809).
[The reviewer in The Sun, drawing on the allusion Shelley makes in
Volume I, points out: "The cursory sketches of the scenery of the Illi-
nois, and more especially the highly-finished descriptions of the
occupations of the father and daughter - of the soul-absorbing affec-
tion of the one, and the filial love and reverence of the other, will
remind the reader of the opening stanzas in Campbell's 'Gertrude of
Wyoming'" (see Appendix E). Campbell's poem, consisting of eighty-
seven Spenserian stanzas, is based upon the massacre of the settlement
ofWyoming, Pennsylvania, in 1778, but draws on a number of literary
sources, including The Tempest. The poem created controversy for its
inaccurate portrayal of Captain Joseph Brandt, but this did not pre-
vent the work from being a much read and much commented poem
in Britain and the United States during the first part of the nine-
teenth century. Comparisons have also been drawn between his poem
"The Last Man" (1823) and Shelley's novel of the same name. Camp-
bell was one of the mourners at Godwins funeral in 1836.]
FROM PART I
X.
The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude s cheek -
What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire
A Briton s independence taught to seek
Far western worlds; and there his household fire
The light of social love did long inspire,
And many a halcyon day he lived to see
Unbroken but by one misfortune dire,
When fate had reft his mutual heart - but she
Was gone - and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's knee.
XI.
A loved bequest, - and I may half impart -
476 APPENDIX B
To them that feel the strong paternal tie,
How like a new existence to his heart
That living flower uprose beneath his eye,
Dear as she was from cherub infancy,
From hours when she would round his garden play,
To time when as the ripening years went by,
Her lovely mind could culture well repay,
And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day
XII.
I may not paint those thousand infant charms;
(Unconscious fascination, undesigned!)
The orison repeated in his arms,
For God to bless her sire and all mankind;
The book, the bosom on his knee reclined,
Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con,
(The playmate ere the teacher of her mind:)
All uncompanioned else her heart had gone
Till now, in Gertrude s eyes, their ninth blue summer shone.
FROM PART II
I.
A valley from the river shore withdrawn
Was Albert's home, two quiet woods between,
Whose lofty verdure overlooked his lawn;
And waters to their resting place serene
Came freshening, and reflecting all the scene:
(A mirror in the depth of flowery shelves;)
So sweet a spot of earth, you might (I ween)
Have guessed some congregation of the elves,
To sport by summer moons, had shaped it for themselves.
LODOR E 477
IV.
It seemed as if those scenes sweet influence had
On Gertrude's soul, and kindness like their own
Inspired those eyes affectionate and glad,
That seemed to love whate'er they looked upon;
Whether with Hebe's mirth her features shone,
Or if a shade more pleasing them o'ercast,
(As if for heavenly musing meant alone;)
Yet so becomingly th'expression past,
That each succeeding look was lovelier than the last.
V.
Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,
And fields that were a luxury to roam,
Lost on the soul that looked from such a face!
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace
Had bound thy lovely waist with woman s zone,
The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace
To hills with high magnolia overgrown,
And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.
VI.
The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,
That thus apostrophised its viewless scene:
"Land of my fathers love, my mother's birth!
The home of kindred I have never seen!
We know not other - oceans are between:
Yet say, far friendly hearts! from whence we came,
Of us does oft remembrance intervene?
My mother sure - my sire a thought may claim; -
But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.
478 APPENDIX B
VII .
And yet, loved England! when thy name I trace
In many a pilgrim s tale and poet's song,
How can I choose but wish for one embrace
Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong
My mother s looks, - perhaps her likeness strong?
Oh, parent! with what reverential awe,
From features of thine own related throng,
An image of thy face my soul could draw!
And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw!'
VIII .
Yet deem not Gertrude sighed for foreign joy;
To soothe a father's couch her only care,
And keep his reverend head from all annoy:
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatmen carol'd to the fresh-blown air,
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,
And early fox appeared in momentary view.
IX.
Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,
Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore;
Tradition had not named its lonely spot;
But here (methinks) might India's sons explore
Their fathers' dust, or lift, perchance of yore,
Their voice to the great Spirit: - rocks sublime
To human art a sportive semblance bore,
And yellow lichens coloured all the clime,
Like moonlight battlements, and towers decayed by time.
LODOR E 479
X.
But high in amphitheatre above,
Gay tinted woods their massy foliage threw:
Breathed but an air of heaven, and all the grove
As if instinct with living spirit grew,
Rolling its verdant gulfs of every hue;
And now suspended was the pleasing din,
Now from a murmur faint it swelled anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within
Cathedral aisles, - ere yet its symphony begin.
XI.
It was in this lone valley she would charm
The lingering noon, where flowers a couch had strown;
Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm
On hillock by the pine-tree half o'ergrown:
And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,
Which every heart of human mould endears;
With Shakspeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.
4. From Edward John Trelawny, Adventures of a Younger Son
[Mary Shelley edited and played a key role in negotiating the publica-
tion of Trelawny s much embroidered memoirs. The reviewer for Fras-
er's Magazine suggests that the story of Ethel and Villiers is "as
fervently and as beautifully told as that of the sunny existence of
unfailing love led by Trelawny 's hero and his Arab bride" (see Appen-
dix E). But Trelawny himself may have in part inspired the portrait of
Lodore. In her journal for 1832 Shelley describes him as "Endued
with genius — great force of character & power of feeling — but
destroyed by being nothing - destroyed by envy & internal disatisfac-
480 APPENDIX B
(1831)
tion — " (Journals 526-7). The Byronic hero of her final novel Falkner
(1837) has also been described as resemblingTrelawny.]
FRO M VOLUME 2, CHAPTER X
How then could I love her? I had never felt, or seen, or dreamt of the
strange power of love. Indeed I know not when, or why, or where, or
how he found entrance even in my thoughts. It appeared to me I was
only fulfilling a duty, sacred from its having been laid on me by the
impressive energy of a dying parent, consigning to me, with his last
breath, his friendless child. In the crystal purity of youth, this was the
first impressive scene, in which I had been the principal actor, in which
the emphatic appeal was made to the good feelings of my heart, a
sealed fountain, then broken; and pity, and sorrow, and now love were
flowing from it like a swollen torrent, which bears down all before it.
The poor little captive bird was building her nest in my bosom's cove,
whilst I thought her quietly caged in my cabin below. My visits grew
longer and more frequent. I retained her passive hand in mine, till I felt
its warmth restored, and fancied it glowing with mine. The very air
about her seemed to grow heavy with fragrant odour. Even the touch
of her insensible hair, more graceful than the willow's pendent boughs,
as it kissed my cheek, filled my soul with passion. All my senses seemed
exquisitely refined, and a world of new thoughts and delicate fancies
to have birth within me. As I at last caught the full radiant brightness of
her large dark eye, my limbs shook, my voice trembled, and my heart
beat convulsively, and fast. Holding her hand, I gazed in speechless
ecstacy. Whether she observed, I know not; but she removed her hand,
and veiled the brightness of her eyes. It was enough; they had thrilled
through me, and the fire was inextinguishable. She had murmured
some words in a broken voice, which buzzed in my ears like a honied
bee's, or like the warbling of the humming-bird, that lives in the cinna-
mon groves, and her breath was sweeter than the trees on which it
lives. My senses ached with the intensity of the new world of delight
which opened to me.
And love was thus ignited in my breast, pure, ardent, deep, and
imperishable. Zela, from that day, was the star I was destined to wor-
ship; the deity at whose altar I was to offer up all the fragrant incense
LODOR E 481
of my first virgin affections, feelings, and passions. Nor did ever saint-
ly votary dedicate himself to his god with intenser devotion than I
consecrated my heart to Zela.When dull mortality returns to dust,
when the spirit bursts its charnel-vault, and wings its way, like a dove,
it will find no resting-place, or olive branch of peace, till re-united
with Zela's; then will they blend, two sun-beams together, shining
onward to eternity.
FROM VOLUME 2, CHAPTER XXII
Zela, though young, was familiar with death, and as grief for her lost
parent faded, her affections were re-awakened by me, their only
claimant, and mine were all dedicated to her. I taught her my lan-
guage, and learnt more of hers, - it was all she knew. Our breath min-
gled as I bent over her, our lips met, and our hearts beat together. She
was an apt scholar, though her only punishment for idleness or
neglect was the infliction of kisses, which were so long and ardent,
that our lips seemed to grow together. She became the companion of
my rambles, and, with a light hunting spear, followed me through the
woods, and up the mountains. Her fairy form was endued with won-
derful strength and agility. If stopped by a torrent, or a rugged ravine,
I bore her in my arms; and, in the jungles, cleared the path before her.
Our happiness could admit of no augmentation; it was perfect. In
these our halcyon days, we thought no more of what others were
about in the world, than of what was doing in the moon or stars.
Those who dwelt with us occupied the small portion of our thoughts
and affections, which could be spared from our deep and overwhelm-
ing devotion to each other; and Aston always, and afterwards De
Ruyter, sympathised with our feelings, and glowed with admiration at
witnessing such strange and matchless love.
Note
TheTempest 1.2.1-186; 1.2.390-504; 3.1.1-90;4.1.148-158; 5.1.1-
57,172-204.
482 APPENDIX B
I
Appendix C: Illinois and Duelling
[Illinois and duelling were both subjects of debate in the early nine-
teenth century. Shelley's familiarity with the writings of Morris Birk-
beck, William Cobbett, and Frances Wright is evidenced in the novel's
descriptions of Illinois. Duels were outlawed in England in 1819, but
continued in the military until an act of 1844. Jeremy Bentham first
pointed out the legal ramifications of duelling in 1789, a subject con-
sidered important enough by Godwin to be included in his Enquiry
Concerning Political Justice. The excerpt from Cooper is included to
provide information about a subject that was a standard trope of
romance; a duel played a prominent part in Glenarvon (1816), Lady
Caroline Lamb's heavily fictionalized retelling of her affair with
Byron. Shelley disrupts this convention by portraying the duel as an
act of folly]
I. Morris Birkbeck, from Letters from Illinois (1818).
From Letter VIII, Jan. 17,1818.
My Dear Sir,
1
I wrote to you early in September, since which I hope you have
received a copy of my journal.
2
 Thus having made you of our party
on the journey, and introduced you to some acquaintance with our
Princeton affairs,
3
 I am now going to take you to the prairies, to shew
you the very beginning of our settlement. Having fixed on the north-
western portion of our prairie for our future residence and farm, the
first act was building a cabin, about two hundred yards from the spot
where the house is to stand. This cabin is built of round straight logs,
about a foot in diameter, lying upon each other, and notched in at the
corners, forming a room eighteen feet long by sixteen; the intervals
between the logs "chuncked," that is, filled in with slips of wood; and
"mudded," that is, daubed with a plaister of mud: a spacious chimney,
built also of logs, stands like a bastion at one end: the roof is well cov-
ered with four hundred "clap boards" of cleft oak, very much like the
pales used in England for fencing parks. A hole is cut through the side,
LODOR E 483
called, very properly, the "door, (the through,)" for which there is a
"shutter," made also of cleft oak, and hung on wooden hinges. All this
has been executed by contract, and well executed, for twenty dollars. I
have since added ten dollars to the cost, for the luxury of a floor and
ceiling of sawn boards, and it is now a comfortable habitation.
To this cabin you must accompany me, a young English friend, and
my boy Gillard, whom you may recollect at Wanborough.
4
 We arrived
in the evening, our horses heavily laden with our guns, and provi-
sions, and cooking utensils, and blankets, not forgetting the all-impor-
tant axe. This was immediately put in requisition, and we soon
kindled a famous fire, before which we spread our pallets, and, after a
hearty supper, soon forgot that besides ourselves, our horses and our
dogs, the wild animals of the forest were the only inhabitants of our
wide domain. Our cabin stands at the edge of the prairie, just within
the wood, so as to be concealed from the view until you are at the
very door. Thirty paces to the east the prospect opens from a com-
manding eminence over the prairie, which extends four miles to the
south and south-east, and over the woods beyond to a great distance;
whilst the high timber behind, and on each side, to the west, north,
and east, forms a sheltered cove about five hundred yards in width. It
is about the middle of this cove, two hundred and fifty yards from the
wood each way, but open to the south, that we propose building our
house.
Well, having thus established myself as a resident proprietor, in the
morning my boy and I (our friend having left us) sallied forth in quest
of neighbours, having heard of two new settlements at no great dis-
tance. Our first visit was to Mr. Emberson, who had just established
himself in a cabin similar to our own, at the edge of a small prairie
two miles north-west of us. We found him a respectable young man,
more farmer than hunter, surrounded by a numerous family, and
making the most of a rainy day by mending the shoes of his house-
hold. We then proceeded to Mr. Woodland's, about the same distance
south-west: he is an inhabitant of longer standing, for he arrived in
April, Mr. E. in August. He has since built for us a second cabin, con-
nected with the first by a covered roof or porch, which is very conve-
nient, forming together a commodious dwelling.
In our walk we saw no game but partridges, and a squirrel. We
484 APPENDIX C
found plenty of grapes, which I thought delicious. The soil seemed to
improve in fertility on closer inspection, and the country appeared
more pleasant: in fact, my mind was at ease, and this spreads a charm
over external objects. Our township is a square of six miles each side,
or thirty-six square miles; and what may properly be called our neigh-
bourhood, extends about six miles round this township in every
direction. Six miles to the north is the boundary of surveyed lands.
Six miles to the east is the Bonpas, a stream which joins the Big
Wabash about six miles south of us, where the latter river makes a
bold bend to the west, approaching within six miles of the Little
Wabash: this river forms our western boundary, at about the same dis-
tance up to the northern line of survey above-mentioned. The centre
of this tract is our prairie, containing about 4,000 acres.
There are many other prairies, or natural meadows, of various
dimensions and qualities, scattered over this surface, which consists of
about two hundred square miles, containing perhaps twelve human
habitations, all erected, I believe, within one year of our first visit —
most of them within three months. At or near the mouth of the Bon-
pas, where it falls into the Big Wabash, we project a shipping port: a
ridge of high land, without any intervening creek, will afford an easy
communication with the river at that place.
5
The Wabash, as you know, is a noble stream, navigable several hun-
dred miles from its junction with the Ohio, and receiving other navi-
gable rivers in its course: White River in particular, opening a
communication with the most fertile region of Indiana, will at a
future day hold a distinguished rank among rivers.The country above,
both on the Wabash and White River, is peopling rapidly; and there is,
through the Ohio, a great natural channel of intercourse between this
vast country and the ocean. Steam-boats already navigate the Wabash:
a vessel of that description has this winter made its way up from New
Orleans to within a few miles of our settlement. They are about
building one at Harmony,
6
 twenty miles below, as a regular trader, to
carry off the surplus produce, and bring back coffee, sugar, and other
groceries, as well as European manufactures.
There are no very good mill-seats on the streams in our neigh-
bourhood, but our prairie affords a most eligible site for a windmill;
we are therefore going to erect one immediately: the materials are in
LODOR E 485
great forwardness, and we hope to have it in order to grind the fruits
of the ensuing harvest.
From Letter XX, March 23,1818.
Our English friends are gathering round us; and so far from being
solitary, and doleful, and desolate in this remote region, you must
reverse all this to form any notion of our condition.
The toil and the difficulty, and even the dangers, attending the
removal of a family from the hills of Surrey to the prairies of Illinois
are considerable: and the responsibility is felt at every step, a load upon
the spirits of a father, for which his honest intentions are not at all
times a sufficient counterpoise. To have passed through all this harm-
less, and even triumphantly, to have secured a retreat for ourselves, and
then, turning our backs upon care and anxiety, to be employed in
smoothing the way, and preparing a happy resting place for other
weary pilgrims, is an enjoyment which I did not calculate upon when
we quitted our old home.
"A lodge in some vast wilderness" was the exchange we contem-
plated; fortifying our minds against the privations we were to experi-
ence, by a comparison with the evils we hoped to retire from: and
now, instead of burying ourselves in a boundless forest, among wild
animals, human and brute, we are taking possession of a cheerful
abode, to be surrounded by well informed and prosperous neigh-
bours. How sincerely do I wish you and yours could be among them,
without the pain of moving and the perils of the journey! Foolish as
it is, to wish for what we know cannot be accomplished.
From Letter XXI, March 26,1818.
It is extremely enlivening to perceive from our remote station, seclud-
ed as we seem from the busy theatre of life, that we have as good a
view of what is passing, and are as warmly interested in the perfor-
mance, as when we were seated in a side box at the very edge of the
stage. In this wild spot I see my table strewed with newspapers, and
registers,