28) Romance, Schmomance

Yay you get to follow me down a rabbit hole

In the Sunday New York Times crossword there was a clue that mentioned “the land of Ozymandias.” The answer was “Egypt.” Ozymandias is the Greek name for Egyptian Pharoah Ramesses II. The last time I’d heard it was when “Breaking Bad” used it as a title in one of the 5^th season episodes. I filled in the answer and took a crossword break to re-visit the poem that inspired the clue and Breaking Bad.

Ozymandias is one of the most well-known poems from English poet/writer/philosopher/radical thinker Percy Bysshe Shelley. It’s a lyrical and beautiful version of “how the mighty have fallen,” using the remains of a Ramesses statue as metaphor for fleeting power. “I am King of Kings” is inscribed on the great likeness—the boast made ironic considering the monolithically useless, broken parts that were found in the desert. You can read the poem here.

As an aside: In the 90’s I went, alone, to Egypt, after dreaming about it for years. I don’t know if I can say it was life-changing, but it was me-changing for sure. Is that one and the same? Something to be explored in another story maybe.

Anyway, I read the poem, a few others, and reacquainted myself with Shelley’s bio.

Then, since I always wonder about the women who were in the lives of famous male figures of history, I went down a rabbit hole of Percy Shelley’s women. The miracle of the internet and access to its vast accumulation of knowledge is a temptation I fall to daily.

I knew about Shelley’s wife Mary who of course is most known, even to lesser scholars such as myself, for writing “Frankenstein.” I didn’t know about her other remarkable books or her mother: the feminist philosopher and writer Mary Wollstonecraft. The mother Mary died soon after having daughter Mary, but she’d amassed a notorious reputation by insisting on the notion that women were equal, not inferior, to men—in 1792. Mary Wollstonecraft is worthy of her own rabbit hole one day. Her husband and dad to Mary, philosopher William Godwin, was no slouch either.

Basically, Mary Shelley had a genetic lineage of influential intellectuals and was a great match for Percy. The problem was, when Shelley fell for Mary, he was already married to Harriet Westbrook—who he’d whisked away from her family when she was only 16 years old. After two years and two babies Percy dumped her for Mary. Just to be fair, he did invite her to come join him and his new love—an offer poor Harriet declined—and he did send her an annual stipend.

I don’t know if they used the phrase “free love” back then, but people who write about Shelley all say he believed in it. Today he could be Polyamorous Percy.

It gets dark and sometimes a little weird from here on. Harriet was miserable and humiliated, moved home, got pregnant again and committed suicide—her very pregnant 19-year-old corpse showing up in Hyde Park’s Serpentine River.

When Percy eloped with Mary, they also took her half sister Clair Clairmont with them, and it’s believed there was quite a bit of hanky panky going on with her as well, until Lord Byron came to visit and Clair decided she wanted her very own romantic poet. Byron proceeded to impregnate and then dump Clair. Clair gives the kid to Byron because she’s an unwed disgrace and he’s, well, Lord Byron. He proceeds to abandon the little girl to a convent where she dies at the age of 5.

All this makes one think the label “romantic poets” is a bit of a misnomer. I sometimes think I might be dying to go back to school and get a masters in women’s studies. I get outraged thinking about how many intellectual, enlightened men treated women. I blame the Greeks, who I think started the patriarchy and even misogyny—but that’s just a barely informed hunch, can’t back it up. One day I’ll have to see if there’s any credence to my half-baked theory.

In a modern twist to this story, a portion of a scathing memoir written by Clair Clairmont was found by a woman writing a book about this whole gang. She found it while researching a book at New York Public Library, tucked into some archived letters. Guardian article here.

But wait there’s more, it’s gruesomely sweet. Then I’ll be done, I promise.

Percy Bysshe Shelley died at the age of 29 when he was out on his boat and got caught in a storm. When the body finally washed up on shore—this was in Italy—maybe Sardinia, a cremation took place, right there on the beach. It’s shown in the painting below.

Apparently, Shelley’s heart didn’t burn up with the rest of him and his pal, the very handsome and dashing adventurer (yes, my crush) Edward John Trelawny reached into the coals and picked out the heart—burning his hand in the process. Trelawny promptly turned Shelley’s free lovin’ heart over to 24-year-old widowed Mary. She put it in her desk drawer, and there it stayed as she continued to work, write and edit until she died nearly 30 years later. That’s some deep love.

The Funeral of Shelley, by Louis Edouard Fournier 1889. The 3 dudes watching are his mates Trelawney, Leigh Hunt and Lord Byron

I ordered this book to go further and drag myself away from the computer, it’s written by the scholar who found the Clair memoir at NYPL! Can’t wait.

Book on the way! Percy Bysshe Shelley in the middle. And the one I fancy, Trelawney.

There’s no shortage of writing about these crazy poets and this era—and I’m sure many of you know way more than I’ve learned about this. I appreciate you indulging my wandering curiosity.

I’m adding some extra anecdotes in a more personal dispatch fashion for my paid subscribers because it seems fair to do that on occasion…because of that, the comments are limited. And, as always, thank you so much for your time and interest in my Direction of Motion writings.