For a long time, Shelley had wished to bring out to Italy his friends the Hunts, to whom their creditors and political enemies gave a hard life in England. He offered to pay the journey, but he would not be able, naturally, to support them and their seven children. He had talked so much about this to Byron that he had obtained from him a promise to found with Hunt a liberal newspaper to be published in Italy, and which would enjoy copyright of all Byron’s works, a privilege sufficient in itself to assure the success of the newspaper, and to make Hunt’s fortune. It was a very generous offer on Byron’s part, who had nothing to gain by the association with Hunt, but a good deal to lose. He did more, however; he would allow the Hunts to occupy the ground floor of the Palazzo Lanfranchi, which Shelley on his side undertook to furnish. Everything being thus settled, the whole Hunt tribe set out.

After incredible difficulties and delays they arrived at Leghorn by the end of June, 1822. Trelawny on the Bolivar was waiting for them in the harbour. Shelley and Williams arrived on the Ariel, scudding into port in fine style. Shelley was inexpressibly delighted to see Hunt, and set off with him and the tribe for Pisa. Williams remained at Leghorn to await the return of his friend when they would sail home together.

Unfortunately Hunt’s immediate contact with Byron was far from pleasant. Although Byron considered Hunt’s political ideas extreme, nevertheless he had a sort of protective affection for him, considering him an honest writer, a good father and husband, a decent sort of fellow. But he had never been able to endure Hunt’s wife, whom he considered a dowdy and disagreeable woman as impertinent as she was silly. Marianne Hunt was a type of the equalitarian who can never for a moment forget inequalities. To show that she was not impressed by Byron’s wealth and position, she treated him with an insolence that a chimney-sweep would not have tolerated. With the kind-hearted and charming Countess Guiccioli she put on the airs and graces of an outraged British matron.

Byron remained courteous, but became glacial. At the end of twenty-four hours he could endure no more. Seven disorderly children romped up and down the Palazzo, spoiling everything. “A Kraal of Hottentots, dirtier and more mischievous than Yahoos.” He looked with disgust on such human vermin, and put his big bull-dog to guard the staircase: “Don’t let any little cockneys pass our way!” he told him and patted his head.

Already he was sick of the newspaper.

Shelley, who should have left the same day, could not forsake Hunt without having settled the business. He got round Byron, lectured Marianne, consoled poor Hunt, and delayed his departure from day to day until everything was arranged. His tenacity always triumphed over Byron’s haughty lassitude.

He obtained the promise that the first number of the new paper should have the copyright of The Vision of Judgment which Byron had recently finished. This would give Hunt a first-rate send-off.

Williams, waiting at Leghorn, grew impatient and testy. Never before, he complained, had he been separated from his wife for so many days. Shelley sent him letter after letter to explain the delay.

The July heat was suffocating; “le soleil d’ltalie au rire impitoyable.” The peasants stopped working in the fields from ten to five. There was a water shortage, and processions of priests carried round miraculous statues and prayed for rain.

On the morning of the 8th, Trelawny and Shelley arrived from Pisa. They went to Shelley’s bank, made purchases for the housekeeping at Casa Magni, and then the two friends and Williams went down to the harbour. Trelawny wanted to accompany the Ariel on the Bolivar. The sky was clouding over, and a light wind blowing in the direction of Lerici. Captain Roberts predicted a storm. Williams, who was in a hurry to be off, declared that in seven hours they would be at home.

At midday Shelley, Williams, and Charles Vivian were on board the Ariel. Trelawny on the Bolivar was getting ready too. The guard-boat boarded them to overhaul their papers: “La barchetta Don Juan? Il capitano Percy Shelley? Va bene.”

Trelawny, who had not got his port-clearance, tried to brazen it out. The officer of the Health Office threatened him with fourteen days’ quarantine. He proposed to go instantly and obtain the clearance papers, but Williams, fretting and fuming, would not hear another word. There was no more time to be lost. It was two o’clock already, and there was so little wind they would have great difficulty in reaching home before night.

Between two and three o’clock the Ariel sailed out of harbour almost at the same moment with two feluccas. Trelawny re-anchored sullenly, furled his sails, and with the ship’s glass watched the progress of their friends. His Genovese mate said to him, “They should have sailed this morning at three or four a.m. instead of three p.m. She is standing too much in-shore; the current will fix her there.”

Trelawny replied, “She will soon have the land-breeze.”

“Maybe she will soon have too much breeze,” remarked the mate. “That gaff top-sail is foolish in a boat with no deck and no sailor on board. . . . Look at those black lines and the dirty rags hanging on them out of the sky, look at the smoke on the water! The Devil is brewing mischief.”

Standing on the end of the mole Captain Roberts also kept the boat in view. When he could see her no longer, he got leave to ascend the lighthouse-tower whence he could again discern her about ten miles out at sea. A storm was visibly coming from the Gulf, and he perceived that the Ariel was taking in her top-sail. Then the haze of the storm hid her completely.

In the harbour it was oppressively sultry. The heaviness of the atmosphere and an unwonted stillness benumbed the senses. Trelawny went to his cabin and fell asleep in spite of himself. He was aroused by noises overhead: the men were getting up a chain cable to let go another anchor. There was a general stir amongst the shipping, getting-down yards and masts, veering out cables, letting-go anchors. It was very dark. The sea looked as solid and smooth as a sheet of lead and was covered with an oily scum: gusts of wind swept over it without ruffling it, and big drops of rain fell on its surface rebounding as if they could not penetrate it. Fishing-craft under bare poles rushed by in shoals running foul of the ships in the harbour. But the din and hubbub made by men and their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced by the crashing voice of a thunder-squall that burst right overhead.

When twenty minutes later the horizon was in some degree cleared, Trelawny and Roberts looked anxiously seaward in the hopes of descrying Shelley’s boat amongst the many small craft scattered about. No trace of her was to be seen.

⁂

On the other side of the bay two women waited for news. Mary was uneasy and depressed. The excessive heat of the summer frightened her. It was during such a summer that little Willie had died, and she looked at the baby in her arms with terror. He seemed certainly in the best of health, nevertheless, standing on the terrace gazing on one of the most lovely views in the world, she was oppressed with wretchedness. Her eyes kept filling with tears she knew not why. “Yet,” thought she, “when he, when my Shelley returns, I shall be happy—he will comfort me; if my boy be ill, he will restore him and encourage me.”

On the Monday, Jane had a letter from her husband dated Saturday. He said that Shelley was still detained at Pisa, “but if he should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca, and you may expect me on Thursday evening at furthest.” This Monday was the fatal Monday, the day of the storm.

But Mary and Jane never imagined for a moment that the Ariel could have put to sea in such weather. On Tuesday it rained all day, and the sea was calm. On Wednesday the wind was fair from Leghorn, and several feluccas arrived thence. The skipper of one of these said that the Ariel had sailed on the Monday, but neither Jane nor Mary believed him. Thursday was another day of fair wind, and the two women kept continuous watch from the terrace. Every instant they hoped to see the tall sails of the little boat double the promontory. At midnight they were still watching and still without any sight of the boat, and they began to fear—not the truth—but that some illness, some disagreeable occurrence, had detained their husbands in Leghorn. As the hours went on, Jane became so miserable that she determined to hire a boat next day and go to Leghorn herself. But next day brought with it a heavy sea and a contrary wind. No boatman would venture out.

At midday came letters. There was one from Hunt for Shelley. Mary opened it trembling all over. Hunt said: “Pray write to tell us how you got home, for they say that you had bad weather after you sailed on Monday, and we are anxious.”

The letter fell from her hands. Jane picked it up, read it, and said, “Then it is all over!”

“No, my dear Jane, it is not all over, but this suspense is dreadful! Come with me—we will go to Leghorn. We will post to be swift and learn our fate.”

The road from Lerici to Leghorn passes by Pisa. They stopped at Lord Byron’s house to see if there was any news. They knocked at the door, and some one called out “Chi è?” for it was already late in the evening. It was the Guiccioli’s maid. Lord Byron was in bed, but the Countess, all smiles, came down to meet them. On seeing the terrifying aspect of Mary’s face, very white, looking like marble, she stopped astonished.

“Where is he? Sapete alcuna cosa di Shelley?” said Mary. Byron who followed his dama knew nothing more than that Shelley had left Pisa the preceding Sunday, and had sailed on Monday in bad weather.

It was now midnight, but refusing to rest the two women went on to Leghorn, which they reached at two o’clock in the morning. Their coachman took them to the wrong inn where they found neither Trelawny nor Captain Roberts. They threw themselves dressed on their beds and waited for daylight. At six o’clock they visited all the inns of the town one after the other, and at the Globe Roberts came down to them with a face which told them that the worst was true. They learned from him all that occurred during that agonizing week.

Yet hope was not entirely extinct. The Ariel might have been blown to Corsica, or Elba, or even farther. They sent a courier from tower to tower along the coast as far as Nice to know if anything had been seen or found, and at 9 a.m. they quitted Leghorn for Casa Magni. Trelawny went with them. At Via Reggio they were told that a punt, a water-keg, and some bottles had been cast up on the beach. Trelawny went to look at them and recognized the little skiff of the Ariel. But there was the possibility that, finding it cumbersome in bad weather, they had thrown it overboard.

When Jane and Mary reached home, the village was holding high festival. The noise of dancing, laughing and singing kept them awake the whole night through.

⁂

Five or six days later Trelawny, who had promised a reward to any of the coastguard who should send him news, was called to Via Reggio where a body had been washed up by the sea. It was a corpse terrible to look upon, for the face and hands and those parts of the body not protected by the clothes had been eaten away by the fish. But the tall slight figure, the jacket, the volume of Sophocles in one pocket and Keats’ poems in the other, doubled back as if the reader, in the act of reading, had hastily thrust it away, were all too familiar to Trelawny to leave a doubt on his mind that this mutilated body was any other than Shelley’s. Almost at the same time the corpse of Williams was found not far off, more mutilated still, and three weeks later a third body was found, that of Charles Vivian, the sailor boy, about four miles from the other two. It was a mere skeleton.

Trelawny had the remains buried temporarily in the sand to preserve them from the sea, and galloped off towards Casa Magni.

At the threshold of the house he stopped. There was no one to be seen . . . a lamp burned in the big room . . . perhaps the two widows were suggesting to one another new grounds for hope. . . . Trelawny thought of his last visit there. Then the two families had all been on the terrace overhanging a sea so calm and clear that every star was reflected in the waters. Williams had cried “Buona notte!” and Trelawny had rowed himself on board the Bolivar at anchor in the bay. From afar he had listened to Jane singing some merry tune to the accompaniment of her guitar. Shelley’s shrill laugh had pierced the quiet night, and Trelawny had looked back with regret on a set of human beings who had seemed to him the happiest and most united in the whole world.

His reverie was broken by a shriek from the nurse Caterina, as crossing the hall she saw him in the doorway. He went upstairs and unannounced entered the room where Mary and Jane sat waiting. He could not speak a word. Mary Shelley’s hazel eyes fixed themselves on his with a terrible intensity. She cried out: “Is there no hope?” Trelawny, without answering, left the room, and told the servant to take the children to the two poor mothers.

Mary wished to have Shelley buried near their little boy in the Roman cemetery which he had thought so beautiful, but the sanitary laws forbade that bodies once buried in quicklime on the sands, should be transferred elsewhere. Trelawny suggested, therefore, that the remains should be burned on the shore, according to the custom of the ancient Greeks. When the day was fixed for this ceremony, he sent word to Byron and Hunt, who wished to be present, and came himself on the Bolivar. The Tuscan authorities had provided a squad of soldiers armed with mattocks and spades.

The remains of Williams were dug out first. Standing round on the loose sand that scorched their feet his friends watched the soldiers at work and waited with curiosity and horror the first appearance of the body. A black silk handkerchief was pulled out, then some shreds of linen, a boot with the bone of the leg and the foot in it, then a shapeless mass of bones and flesh. The limbs separated from the trunk on being touched. The soldiers performed their work with long-handled tongs, nippers, poles, with iron hooks, spikes, and divers other tools all resembling implements of torture.

“Is that a human body?” exclaimed Byron. “Why, it’s more like the carcase of a sheep!”

He was greatly moved, and tried to hide his emotion, which he thought maudlin and unmanly, under an air of indifference. When they were lifting the skull, “Stop a moment, let me see the jaw,” he said. “I can recognize by the teeth anyone with whom I have talked. I always watch the mouth, it tells me what the eyes try to conceal.”

A funeral pyre had been prepared, Trelawny applied the fire, and the materials being dry and resinous the pine-wood flamed furiously, and the heat drove the spectators back. The body and skull, burning fiercely, gave the flames a silvery and wavy look of indescribable brightness and purity. When the heat was a little diminished Byron and Hunt threw on to the fire frankincense, salt and wine.

“Come,” said Byron suddenly, “let us try the strength of these waters that drowned our friends. . . . How far out do you think they were when their boat sunk?”

Perhaps mingled with his grief was the thought that he, who had swum the Hellespont, would not have let himself be drowned in this less dangerous sea.

He stripped, went into the water, and swam out. Trelawny and Hunt followed him. When they turned to look back at the pyre it seemed a mere little glittering patch upon the sand.

⁂

The ceremony was repeated next day for Shelley, who had been buried in the sand, nearer to Via Reggio, between the sea and a pine-wood.

The weather was glorious. In the strong sunlight, the yellow sands and the deep violet sea made a wonderful contrast. Above the trees, the snow-capped Appenines paved the sky with a cloudy and marmoreal background such as Shelley would have loved. All the children of the country-side were gathered round to witness so unusual a spectacle, but not a word was spoken among them. Byron himself was silent and thoughtful. “Ah, Will of iron! This then is all that remains of your splendid courage. . . . Like Prometheus you defied Jupiter, and behold . . .”

The soldiers dug for nearly an hour without finding the exact place. Suddenly a dull hollow sound following the blow of a mattock warned them that the iron had struck a skull. Byron shuddered. He thought of Shelley during the storm on Lake Leman, whose crossed arms, heroic yet impotent, had seemed to him at the time an accurate symbol of his life. “How brutally mistaken men have been about him! He was without exception the best and least selfish man I ever knew. And as perfect a gentleman as ever crossed a drawing-room.”

The body had been covered with lime, which had almost completely carbonized it. Once more incense, oil and salt were thrown upon the flames, and more wine was poured over Shelley’s dead body than he had ever consumed during life. The intense heat made the atmosphere tremulous and wavy. At the end of three hours the heart, which was unusually big, remained unconsumed. Trelawny snatched it from the fiery furnace, burning his hand severely in doing so. The frontal bone of the skull where it had been struck by the mattock fell off, and the brains literally seethed, bubbled and boiled as in a cauldron for a very long time.

Byron could not face this scene. As on the previous day he stripped and swam to the Bolivar, which was anchored in the bay. Trelawny gathered together the fragments of bone and human ashes, and placed them in an oaken casket lined with black velvet, which he had brought with him.

The village children, looking on with all their eyes, told each other that from these bones, once they reached England, the dead man would come to life.

⁂

Now to tell what became of the other actors in this story.

Sir Timothy Shelley lived to the age of ninety-one, dying in 1844. He made Mary a small allowance, but she had to promise not to publish her husband’s posthumous poems, nor any biography of him so long as the old baronet lived. At his death, Percy Florence came into the title and the fortune, Harriet’s son Charles having died in his eleventh year.

A common misfortune had united the two widows, Mary and Jane. For a long time they lived together in Italy, and afterwards in London. Shelley’s friends were so faithful to them that Trelawny asked the hand of Mary in marriage, and a little later Hogg, the sceptic, asked the hand of Jane. Mary refused, saying that she thought Mary Shelley so pretty a name she wished to have it on her tombstone. Jane accepted, but then had to confess she had never been married to Williams. She still had a husband somewhere in India. This did not trouble Hogg, and freed them both from any ceremony. They never left each other, and lived under decorous appearances. Although Hogg was accurate and a hard worker, he was considered mediocre at the Bar, where he pleaded without warmth or eloquence. Towards the end of his life he became a timorous, disillusioned old gentleman, reading Greek and Latin all day long to kill time and cheat his immense boredom.

Claire remained on the Continent, was a governess in Russia, and at the death of Sir Timothy inherited the twelve thousand pounds left her by Shelley, and was freed from poverty.

The older they grew the more these three women quarrelled amongst themselves. Jane declared to everyone that during the last months at Casa Magni Shelley had loved her alone. These assertions repeated to Mary exasperated her so much that she refused to see Jane again. Little by little Miranda became an old woman, a trifle deaf, but always charming. Her eyes would still sparkle when she spoke of the Poet.

During many years Claire occupied herself in writing a book in which she intended to point out, by the examples of Shelley, Byron and herself, how necessary it is to have only conventional ideas on the question of love. But, having had a mental illness, she was obliged to give up work during a long period. She passed the end of her life in Florence, where she became a Roman Catholic and occupied herself in charities.

One day in the spring of 1878 a young man searching for documents on Byron and Shelley came to ask her for reminiscences of them. When he pronounced these two names, there appeared beneath the old lady’s wrinkles one of those smiles, girlish yet full of promises, which had made her so fascinating at eighteen.

“Come,” she said, “I suppose you are as crass as most men, and think that I loved Byron?”

Then, as he looked at her with surprise:

“My young friend,” said she, “no doubt you will know a woman’s heart better some day. I was dazzled, but that does not mean love. It might perhaps have grown into love, but it never did.”

There was a silence. The visitor, hesitating a little, asked:

“Have you never loved, Madame?”

A delicate blush suffused the withered cheeks, and this time she made no reply, gazing on the ground.

“Shelley?” he murmured.

“With all my heart and soul,” she replied, without raising her eyes.

Then with a charming coquetry she gave him a tap on the cheek with her closed fan.

The End

Minor changes to spelling and punctuation have been made silently to achieve consistency.

[The end of Ariel (A Shelley Romance) by Maurois, André (Emile Salomon Wilhelm Herzog), and Ella D’Arcy (translator)]