Below, a lengthy letter from Mary Shelley to Jane Williams detailing, among other things, feelings of isolation while living in Italy after the death of two of her children, a miscarriage that nearly killed her, and the death of her husband, poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. In July of the previous year, Shelley’s husband and his friend Edward Williams (husband of the letter’s addressee, Jane Williams), had drowned in a sudden storm while sailing.
TO JANE WILLIAMS
January 14, 1823, Italy
A letter from you, dearest Jane, although a melancholy one, is the source of great delight to me. I live in a state of such complete isolation that the voice of affection comes to me like the sounds of remembered music. I am indeed alone. You, my best girl, have some two or three, I hope many more, who love you; who sympathize in your sorrows & to whom you can speak of them. I have none; and the feeling of alienation which seems to possess the very few human beings I see, causes a kind of humiliating depression that weighs like a fog about me. Yet I ought not to complain. God knows that except yourself & now & then Trelawny I wish to see none but those I do see. And those are three. LB [Lord Byron], is all kindness—but there is more of manner than heart, or to speak more truly, I am satisfied with the little he bestows—It is much & it is nothing. It is much in the way of what is called essential service, in a way it is every thing I can desire—It is nothing for my heart, but then that restless piner seeks nothing from him. Marianne is very good. She does all she can to make me comfortable—but her heart is not an universe—it has received within itself her husband & children & the gates are closed. Is Hunt then the object of my complaint. This is too bad; but he does not like me—I feel & know this; he has never forgiven my resistance to his intolerable claims at Pisa—He avoids walking with { }, nor does he refrain at times from saying bitter things. I am a coward—I hate contention & disdain the victory—I wish only to fly—I am enthrawled & feel my chains & bolts.
Yet this after all is nothing. Sometimes he stirs my torpid blood, & when I am very miserable, will cause my tears to flow—Yet now when at night all is quiet and my thoughts resume their usual train—it seems nothing. For in truth I live little in this world—I live on the past & future and the present, day by day, fades like the figures on a lantern. I dare not look on it; I hate every thing about me, all my feelings—the air—the light; I desire death & it comes not; I look on my poor boy, & for worlds I would not die to leave him; every sentiment I have contends one with the other—& I have no refuge. The cup is very deep from which I drink, and all its ingredients are bitter.
So, my own Jane, we two poor creatures compare notes of misery. And like you, I also hate the place of my abode. We have had dreadful weather, snow & a biz (it is worse than any biz) that has endured uninterruptedly for two months. Even in fine weather this place is odious to me. All the walks are between two stone walls so high that you see only the sky above them. I do not wonder at this. In England hedges are enough to protect the fields, but all being here on a declivity the floods & winds would swiftly sweep the whole soil into the waters did not they build walls which resemble in height length & thickness the Great Wall of China—they say, I think this Great Wall is divided & you can walk between it—& such is Albara. And if you see any opening it is but to behold that murderous element, which girts me as a hissing and howling serpent, so that I would that the walls were endless—Oh! how very miserable that wretched sight makes me—I long to enclose myself with the solid rock—& again I would run to it & bid it swallow its prey—but I pause & tremble—I have never seen it nearer than from our windows—& I seldom approach them that I may not see it; the gorgeous sunsets, and rosy tinged Mountains of the West are lost to me, I feel its presence for ever—& desire annihilation to be rid of it.
You see how selfish I am and that I talk only of myself. Yet I think of you & my heart is with you in your ruined sanctum. Your children must employ you somewhat, & I hope you read, for in books we live in a peaceful world; & save that to which the imagination carries us to among the dead, the best the earth affords. If you can get it pray read Sir Philip Sydney’s “Arcadia”—It is a beautiful book; its exquisite sentiments and descriptions would have delighted you in happier days, perhaps they will now. It is pleasant to me to think that we both turn our eyes to the same spot for our place of rest. Come to Florence, my dear Jane, & let us see if mutual affection will not stand us in some stead in our calamities—Our fate is one, so ought our interests here to be; we can talk eternally to each other of our lost ones, and surely they would be best pleased to find us together. I will deserve your love—if love can buy its like; and with me—perhaps you may attain the peaceful state you desire—I might ease you of some of your cares—& your affection to me would be a treasure. These may be dreams. You are in England, I imprisoned at Albara—Sir R.S. [Timothy Shelley] seems resolved that I shall not be independent through his means—& even if this difficulty were overcome I must remain for the present near Marianne. Her state is now critical, for she is pregnant—& the fear of a miscarriage haunts us all—she hopes for the best, & she is not worse as to her complaint that when you saw her, which considering the season she has encountered can only be attributed to her situation. Her time is in June, and I shall continue near her until then.
Claire’s situation appears precarious. I will however confide to you a secret about her, which remember I do in the perfect confidence that you will mention it to no one, & above all not to her. Mrs Mason seeing the extremities to which this exile might reduce her applied to LB. calling on him for an allowance such as she thought was justly due to poor C— LB. has complied with her request—he has not yet I believe made up his mind as to the amount, but by this means she will be put out of the fea[r of] want. As Mrs M. has begun the affair she of course will arrange the m[anner] in which C— will receive it—I entreat you not to tell her—or to suffer compassion or any other feeling to cause you to reveal it to her Mother.—C— & T—y [Trelawny] have been scratching by letter, as he told me; so hasty & ill formed a junction could not end well. I have not heard from him since he left us a month ago. He went he said to Leghorn. His affair with G.W. [Gabrielle Wright] was ended by W’s [Wright’s] return—who behaved very well—& she very ill, as she shewed & still shews herself ready to sacrifice all—even her lover’s safety, to her willful desires.
As I said before do not think of my commissions until I send you money. They say that the Banker has 8 pounds. Could this be applied to my use? Not that I wish you to get any thing else except the picture, & that My father should without expense to himself send me Mrs Barbauld’s lessons for children, My mother’s early lessons—a spelling book—& other books of the same kind for my little fellow—who now knows his letters & will read as soon as he has learned English which he is picking up by slow degrees among the Hunts. The youngest is his favourite.—I shall be delighted to have dear, dear Edwards picture—& also a copy of his play & poems—& if I be not indiscreet, a copy of one or two of his best letters to you. As to Medwin—I shall not ask for my crowns in any case. Though if he pleases you may gain some—since I am sure they would be glad to insert in the Liberal a good translation of the Mss. he read to us at Pisa—All will be as you wish about the Mss. you mention, which, altered by Hunt will appear in the next No. 11
LB. was much pleased by your message to him. He said—I love Janey very much—Not that I should have been in love with her—but I should like her as a sister—rather an unlucky phrase for me—but I mean a quiet love—I will send her a letter to Murray, & write her a nice sentimental one myself. The G. [Guicciolici] & he are as ill together as may be.
I intend to publish my Shelley’s Mss. in the Liberal. First—being out of England & Ollier behaving so ill it is almost impossible to do it in any other way.—I think also that they will do good to the work & that would best please him—Then when I am rich enough I will make an edition of all he has written—& his works thus appearing at intervals will keep him alive in the minds of his admirers. The Witch of Atlaswill appear in the next number.
—Last night, dear Jane I dreamt of them. He was looking well & happy & I was transported to see him—I asked Ned if the men in the fishing boat could not have saved them—he replied no—for though they appeared near the high waves rendered it impossible for them to approach—Had you not a dream, where the same answer was given. Would that I could dream of them thus every night & I would sleep for ever
Kiss your Children for me, & teach my little God-daughter that there is one in Italy who loves her.
Your very Affectionate
Mary W. Shelley
Among the books I have mentioned that I wish my father to send for Percy I wish books with pictures of animals to be included. If my box with the papers be gone—if he send a parcel to Mr John Hunt of the Examiner Office begging him to forward it to me it will be sent—As you see the Godwins occasionally would you mention it.
You know, do you not that LB. wrote slightingly to Murray of Hunt—& H. has heart of this—he never can or will forgive LB. & is very sore at any praise of him you will have Mrs Mason’s book—Is not the end of mind wondrous—the fate—the shore—how miserably foretold—it is very strange