It’s always risky to look at a
writer’s work in search of autobiographical shadows haunting it. Most
biographers say something like this—then go right ahead and speculate anyway.
Which is what I’m going to do right now.
I’ve written earlier—at some
length—about Mary’s deep girlhood affection, even adoration, of her father,
William Godwin. Their relationship seemed impossible to fracture. But, as we’ve
seen, it was far more fragile than either of them had thought. When she ran off
with the already married Bysshe Shelley in July 1814 (she was only seventeen
years old), Godwin was horrified. And when the impecunious couple returned not
even two months later, he refused all direct contact with Mary—a situation that
would endure until near the very end of 1816 when, now a widower, Bysshe
married Mary. Now Godwin was all smiles—and eager to drink from the faucet of
Bysshe’s (potential) fortune.
But, as we’ve also seen,
Bysshe’s own father, Sir Timothy, was likewise horrified by the behavior of a
child—his eldest son, who, under English law, would inherit the lion’s
share—and wanted as little as possible to do with Bysshe and Mary. The money
spigot from the Shelley fortune merely dribbled to Bysshe, who, although he’d
promised to share generously with Godwin, was unable to do so.
But Godwin didn’t care. Bysshe
had promised him money (and Godwin
was a horrible home economist—continuously in debt), and he wanted—no, demanded—it. In fact, one of the reason
that Bysshe and Mary fled to Italy so eagerly was to avoid Godwin’s endless
pleas for funds, pleas that didn’t stop when they were far, far away but continued
to compose much of the content of the letters he sent them. It got annoying, to
say the least.
Anyway—this did take a bit of explaining, didn’t it—Mary, since the beginning
of her elopement, had deeply felt the estrangement from her father. She had
thought—based on his liberal writings about personal relationships, based on
his own experiences with Mary Wollstonecraft (they had lived together before they were married), that he would be …
understanding.
Not.
Funny how our philosophies alter
when our own children are involved.
So, to me, it’s not at all surprising
that in Maurice she would write about
the emotional, rich reunion of a child and father, a father who had long
searched for the son he loved, a son who had been stolen.
Sound familiar?
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