one is only going to run over now and then in a disconnected way to
respond like a tremulous instrument to every breath of passion or of
sentiment and rub up one’s Italian poetry a little.
The young wife was not invited, perhaps. If she was, she most certainly
did not come, or she would have straightened the room up; the most
ignorant of us knows that a wife would not endure a room in the condition
in which Hogg found this one when he occupied it one night. Shelley was
away–why, nobody can divine. Clothes were scattered about, there were
books on every side: “Wherever a book could be laid was an open book
turned down on its face to keep its place.” It seems plain that the wife
was not invited. No, not that; I think she was invited, but said to
herself that she could not bear to go there and see another young woman
touching heads with her husband over an Italian book and making thrilling
hand-contacts with him accidentally.
As remarked, he was a frequent visitor there, “where he found an easeful
resting-place in the house of Mrs. Boinville–the white-haired Maimuna–
and of her daughter, Mrs. Turner.” The aged Zonoras was deceased, but
the white-haired Maimuna was still on deck, as we see. “Three charming
ladies entertained the mocker (Hogg) with cups of tea, late hours,
Wieland’s Agathon, sighs and smiles, and the celestial manna of refined
sentiment.”
“Such,” says Hogg, “were the delights of Shelley’s paradise in
Bracknell.”
The white-haired Maimuna presently writes to Hogg:
“I will not have you despise home-spun pleasures. Shelley is
making a trial of them with us–”
A trial of them. It may be called that. It was March 11, and he had
been in the house a month. She continues:
Shelley “likes then so well that he is resolved to leave off
rambling–”
But he has already left it off. He has been there a month.
“And begin a course of them himself.”
But he has already begun it. He has been at it a month. He likes it so
well that he has forgotten all about his wife, as a letter of his
reveals.
“Seriously, I think his mind and body want rest.”
Yet he has been resting both for a month, with Italian, and tea, and
manna of sentiment, and late hours, and every restful thing a young
husband could need for the refreshment of weary limbs and a sore
conscience, and a nagging sense of shabbiness and treachery.
“His journeys after what he has never found have racked his
purse and his tranquillity. He is resolved to take a little
care of the former, in pity to the latter, which I applaud, and
shall second with all, my might.”
But she does not say whether the young wife, a stranger and lonely
yonder, wants another woman and her daughter Cornelia to be lavishing so
much inflamed interest on her husband or not. That young wife is always
silent–we are never allowed to hear from her. She must have opinions
about such things, she cannot be indifferent, she must be approving or
disapproving, surely she would speak if she were allowed–even to-day and
from her grave she would, if she could, I think–but we get only the
other side, they keep her silent always.
“He has deeply interested us. In the course of your intimacy
he must have made you feel what we now feel for him. He is
seeking a house close to us–”
Ah! he is not close enough yet, it seems–
“and if he succeeds we shall have an additional motive to
induce you to come among us in the summer.”
The reader would puzzle a long time and not guess the biographer’s
comment upon the above letter. It is this:
“These sound like words of s considerate and judicious friend.”
That is what he thinks. That is, it is what he thinks he thinks. No,
that is not quite it: it is what he thinks he can stupefy a particularly
and unspeakably dull reader into thinking it is what he thinks. He makes
that comment with the knowledge that Shelley is in love with this woman’s