Vindicated Read online

  I’ve read though that this ideal world, this new heaven on earth, quickly became a literal hell. Mobs roamed the streets executing priests, aristocrats, and dissenters. They killed thousands, either by guillotine or hanging them from churches, colleges, and town halls. They tried them by mob rule, not in the court of law. Saints and sinners died alike.

  Godwin describes a moment that was truly horrifying. My mother returned to Paris from visiting a friend in Provins and she witnessed this mob rule; dissenters against such barbarity, whom she knew, including the leader of the Girondists, Jean-Pierre Brissot, who opposed the Jacobins and Robespierre, were executed in front of her; blood saturated the road as the mob shouted, “Hang them! Off with their heads!” When my mother cried out trying to save her friends, a female bystander, one of the sans-culottes, shouted her down and warned her to remain silent or she would be next. Oh, the horror and dismay she must have felt to have seen the great promise of the revolution and the rights of man turned into Dante’s hell, where passion and barbarism prevailed!

  The next year Louis and his wife were guillotined. I’ve not been to Versailles but I have heard of its great opulence, its galleries and ballrooms filled with gold and crystal chandeliers. And I am cognizant of Marie Antoinette’s contempt for the hungry and poor, of her order, “Let them eat cake!” when she learned that there was no bread to be had. She lacked a soul in failing to recognize her obligation to other humans. Of course, here in England in 1649, the Parliamentarians executed Charles I in a similar way and tried to abolish the monarchy, but to no avail. The same situation has now occurred in France, because the once heroic Napoleon declared himself emperor and he still prevails in France, destroying the true sense of the original “rights of man.” In some ways, I am glad that my mother did not witness the travesty that has occurred whereby one “king” supplanted another, all with the hope of creating true “equality.”

  1813

  18 January 1813

  I’ve now come to the portion of my mother’s story about which it is exceedingly difficult to write; it is part of the forbidden knowledge, which my father wished to withhold from me. My father was honest in his memoir of her life, perhaps too honest, in revealing much of what transpired in Mother’s life in 1795. The critic Robert Southey condemned this portion of the narrative and even wrote that, in blatantly revealing all aspects of my mother’s life including her temporary despair, Father “had [figuratively] stripped his dead wife naked.” I know that I’ve said that one should not care what the world thinks. Certainly my mother did not and yet I hesitate to speak frankly about my mother’s love and lust for the despicable American, Gilbert Imlay, who impregnated and then betrayed her.

  Because I am young, I have not known love between woman and man, but I have heard that love makes us blind. That the god Eros aims his arrow straight for the heart and that because of our love wound, we no longer think with our heads and use our reason but succumb to irrationality and passion. That must have been what my mother experienced. She was struck by that wicked arrow and lost her ability to reason! Her sense gave way to passion and obsession. She thought with her heart. I hope that this does not happen to me. I refuse to let passion dictate my life.

  Perhaps in the beginning Imlay was good to her. Perhaps she thought that he was a fair substitute for her earlier, unrequited love; she had been attracted to a married man, Mr. Fuseli, the Swiss painter, and had written him many fervent love letters, letters that he refused to return to my mother and later refused to share with my father, (although he allowed him a quick glimpse of the letters and then abruptly shut the drawer), when Father asked to read them to prepare to pen Mother’s memoir. I do not know her truest feelings about these men, because I do not have her words to tell me about her relationships with Mr. Fuseli and Mr. Imlay.

  I know from my father that she claimed to be Imlay’s wife at the American Embassy in Paris because, at the time, British people were in grave danger. 400 British citizens, including Helen Maria Williams and the American Thomas Paine, were imprisoned because the British and their allies took up arms against the French. At least Imlay cared for her to the extent that he was willing to pretend that she was his wife, in order to save her from incarceration and perhaps death. Indeed, she hoped to escape to America with Imlay and become his wife. They were engaged. Then she became pregnant and gave birth to Fanny. That seemed to end the fledgling romance between her and the cad Imlay. He left my mother in Paris, traveled, didn’t write to her, and eventually moved to London. My mother traipsed after him, refusing to realize that her ardor for him far exceeded his interest in her. When she arrived, she found that he had moved on and had taken another lover, an actress. Father says that Mother groveled in front of Imlay, begging him to love her as he once had. He did not consent to a sole relationship with her however. Instead, he suggested an arrangement, a ménage a trois. Apparently, she thought it over briefly but then did not consent, because she did not want to share Imlay with another woman and she had no desire to have intimate relations with an actress. So, as a consequence, he secured Mother a house in which to live. She continued to try to win Imlay’s affection again. As I said, I’ve never been in love but I would hope that I would never grovel, when the one that I loved did not feel the same passion that I felt.

  I try to empathize with my mother but her despair at the loss of Imlay was so deep that she tried twice to end her life. The second time she threw herself off Putney Bridge into the filthy Thames! How I wish that I never learned of her despair, the way that she felt unloved and rejected. It troubles my heart to learn that she wanted to end her own life because a man did not love her. It angers me to realize that the woman who a few years earlier boldly wrote about women’s rights and sexual equality gave into such despondence. And all because of a man, an unworthy one at that.

  I cannot comprehend her grief but am grateful that goodness prevailed and some kind soul fished her up out of that murky water so that she could live and restore herself to reason.

  It seems that it took some time for her to finally see Imlay for the scoundrel that he, no doubt, is. At first he tried to reassure her that he cared for her but then she gave him an ultimatum. Ultimately, he told her that he did not want anything to do with her or his daughter Fanny and that he did not love either of them. She must have felt crushed. Yet she pulled herself out of her despondency and finally saw that he was not her equal in intellect, compassion, or generosity of heart. She broke with him in 1796 and, in that same year, renewed her acquaintance over tea with William Godwin. Thus, their love affair began.

  Knowing her story, I too hope for a world where there is “neither marriage nor the giving in marriage,” unless, of course, you have the chance to marry your equal, a fellow philosopher or artist with whom you share intellectual and physical passion.

  1814

  15 May 1814

  Dwelling on my mother’s attempted suicide was exceedingly painful. I now understand why my father viewed this as forbidden knowledge. I kept imagining her despair, her near death, and I dreamt of it at night. Sometimes, I even saw myself as a desperate soul jumping from Putney Bridge. I decided to bury this journal in my armoire until I no longer envisioned her despair. Now that it is spring and the daffodils are in bloom, I am no longer troubled by wild imaginings. I decided to revive my journal and begin again. Besides Percy Shelley has joined our “circle of friends” once more and his lively and brilliant presence, his passionate search for truth, inspire me.

  Lately, Mr. Shelley dines with us almost every day. He remains captivated and aroused by my father’s political writing and genius and aims to follow his anarchist philosophy. He has become one of Godwin’s disciples. It seems to me, however, that Shelley has his own philosophy that guides him. He is considered notorious and his father reprimanded him because he was expelled from University College, Oxford, for refusing to deny that he and a fellow student, Thomas Jefferson Hogg, wrote a pamphlet e
ntitled, “The Necessity of Atheism.” Father says that Shelley and his friend based their conviction that “Every reflecting mind must allow that there is no proof of the existence of a Deity” on logical reasoning rather than the fallacy of an appeal to tradition or emotion. As Descartes attests, one only knows truth through one’s senses and since no physical sense has seen or perceives a deity, it is logical, according to Shelley, that atheism is a necessity. I’ve not read the pamphlet but it must have taken substantial courage and independent thought to pen such writing, particularly since Oxford educates the clergy and has long been aligned with the Church of England. I only know this because my father explained these details to me about education at Oxford and Cambridge, places where someone like my mother (and myself) could have benefitted from an equal education. Alas, we are not men and thus do not have the privilege of an Oxbridge education. Perhaps one day soon this will change and women and girls will be allowed to enter the revered halls of these institutions. Perhaps one day we will outnumber the men who study there.

  Even though Shelley has not admitted that he and Hogg wrote the pamphlet, their refusal to deny their authorship speaks volumes. If we can, at some time, speak privately, I will ask him directly about this pamphlet. He is five years older than me and his wisdom exceeds mine, although Father says that Shelley is prone to impetuosity and occasional moodiness. Such is the melancholic and mercurial temper of young genius. He’s infected with the English malady! One expects this from such prodigious talent.

  25 May 1814

  I continue to read my mother’s writings at her grave and, of late, have met Shelley there because he too wants to learn from my mother, not just Godwin. Fanny thinks that I am morbid and refuses to go with us but Jane accompanies us so that my reputation is not sullied. We often send her on a walk so that we can talk privately without her needless, inane interruptions.

  Shelley thinks my mother brave that she advocated for free love and was perhaps willing to live with Imlay and his actress mistress in a ménage a trois. I did correct his misunderstanding. Nevertheless, Shelley thinks my mother bold, just like my father, and sees the same undercurrent of freethinking and breaking with tradition in my father’s political writings. He also admires her advocacy of the poor Irish Catholics, something with which he has aligned himself. He favors Catholic Emancipation and, if he ever follows his father into parliament, he will be the Irish Catholics’ champion. I greatly admire his ideals. He is so like my own father that he seems a younger version. Shelley is far more comely than my father though, whose receding hairline and sagging jaw mar his former good looks.

  Shelley has recently confessed to me that he is separated from his wife Harriet. He has been disappointed in her mind, even though she attempts to improve it. I told him that I was surprised since he had dedicated “Queen Mab” to Harriet, where he seemingly professed his great admiration of her. He told me that this was merely wishful thinking. He had saved Harriet from her father and had hoped to cultivate Harriet’s mind. Like Pygmalion and his Galatea, Shelley hoped to make Harriet conform to his vision of his ideal mate, a woman of intelligence, grace, good character, and beauty. Alas, he says that she does not possess those lofty attributes. He related, “Mary, she often reads banal writers. I had to beg her to read silently Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels; I cannot bear to hear such rubbish.” I was too embarrassed to confess to him that I have read and enjoyed The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Italian. Perhaps I will also write in the manner of Ann Radcliffe, what is being called Gothic fiction, which reveals much of what we fear that lies below the surface of our intellect.

  It is unclear to me how anyone could possess every attribute that one would want in a mate. Despite his disdain for “Gothic” fiction, for which I can forgive him, I see in Shelley all that I would ever hope for. He may be capricious but his passion and brilliance excite me so that I sometimes cannot sleep for thinking of the possibility that I could be his ideal mate. I have not told him this for fear that I am not worthy of his affection. I think about him every minute of the day and dream of him at night. I think that I have suffered love’s wound and that Shelley has taken possession of me.

  Shelley and I have plans to continue to meet secretly and privately in Old Pancras Churchyard. I intend to sneak away at night when Jane is fast asleep. I don’t want Jane as my shadow and chaperone and I fear that Father would not understand my meetings with Shelley, even though he greatly respects Shelley’s poetry and his unconventional rhetoric and lifestyle. For now, all is innocent. Shelley is my ideal, but I fear that I am not his.

  15 June 1814

  Tonight, I spent a good deal of time thinking about my love for Shelley, considering what my mother would say, if I could tell her that I am enthralled with him, that I too am in love with a married man, just as she was. My ghostly mother sat near her grave, unwinding her shroud, and listening patiently and carefully to my confession. She did not speak for the longest time, but then, pronounced that I have the right to make my own decisions and that I should, however, exercise caution with all affairs of the heart. “Do not let Eros blind you, love. Are you certain that the young man reciprocates your deep affection?”

  I said that I didn’t know, but that he kissed me gently on the cheek and gazed into my eyes; he called me his child of light.

  She removed the binding from her hand and reached for mine. She entwined her fingers in mine. “That is a beautiful sentiment but you must be certain that he is a worthy mate for you, dear girl, and that he doesn’t think of you as a mere child. You are a young woman with your own mind. Naturally, he is attractive to you because of his great soul but do not let passion drive your decisions. Know that your head must rule your heart in all things. I do not want you to suffer as I did, when I aligned myself with someone who was not my soul mate. But, if you truly love him with your head and your heart, then you should surely confess your longing for him.”

  I was grateful for her guidance and wished her a good sleep. She wished me the same and wound her shroud around herself again and returned to her grave. Even so, when I arrived home and climbed in my bed, I spent a sleepless night. I sat up all night gazing out the window looking for the stars but finding only darkness. Just before dawn, I heard a lark sing and realized that I must try to sleep. I laid my head down on my pillow but continued to worry that I would make the wrong decision and fretted that if I did confess my love, he would find me a foolish child, not his equal, that he would tell me that he does not feel the same longing. And, that, like my mother, I would be rejected in love.

  27 June 1814

  Today a new world was born for me. Last evening, I wrote to Shelley and asked him to meet me at my mother’s grave today—that I had something important to tell him. But before I could blurt out my love, he confessed his love for me and then I wept as I told him that I love him too. I love him with my head and my heart.

  I have informed Shelley that today, June 27th, is his birthday. It is his birthday because today is the day that we made tender love on my mother’s grave. Shelley was gentle with me and instructed me in the art of love. I know that this sounds blasphemous, but I can’t help but think that my mother would be happy with my choice. Perhaps she even heard our mutual love cries and she felt happy about our union.

  I feel ecstatic that I have found my ideal mate and that he finds me to be as pleasing as his highest ideal. I am his child of light and I feel that together we can be a formidable force for the good. We can inspire one another; we can continue my mother’s and father’s work and perhaps surpass what Wollstonecraft and Godwin accomplished. Our work can combine politics and beauty, can help humanity aspire to perfection, can breakdown old traditions and lead to a new, just world. One thing is certain. I will never let go of Shelley; he is mine; I am his. We are one. This is a true marriage of hearts, souls, and minds. I hope that my mother is pleased and that my father will find this a perfect union, similar to his union with my mother.

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nbsp; 28 June 1814

  My heart breaks; Godwin does not approve of my liaison with Shelley. Father learned (probably from Jane snitching on me to her mother) of our clandestine meetings and he forbids me from seeing my love. I told him that I consulted with my mother and that I will not give up Shelley, my natural mate, just as Mother was Father’s ideal and perfect mate. Father told me that I am being absurd. He told me that I am too young to know genuine love; that I am still a child, and he insisted, “You cannot consult with your mother. She sleeps in her grave. Besides, you must realize that Shelley is a bit mad. And he’s acting immorally. He has a wife and a young daughter or have you forgotten?”

  I do not understand how Godwin, who sides with revolutionary thinking and who professes to believe in free love, does not understand my great affinity with Shelley. Harriet is not Shelley’s ideal; she has failed to live up to what Shelley expected of her. Shelley even suspects that she has been unfaithful to him. I will not be unfaithful and I will live up to Shelley’s expectations for me and have told father so. Surely, like Milton, Father believes in the right to annulment or even divorce when the two parties find that they are not suited for each other. I feel for Harriet and the child but Shelley does not love them as he loves me. Harriet is not his child of light.