572: A Bizarre Story.

John Stuart Mill had the worst personal life of any libertarian philosopher, a competitive category for bad personal lives. Marriage in particular has a record of making libertarian philosophers behave discreditably — that is, in a way that brings discredit not just on their character but on their ideas.

Bertrand Russell famously divorced the first of his four wives after a bicycle trip: “suddenly, as I was riding along a country road, realized that I no longer loved Alys.” Thus reasoned the most rational man in England. Ayn Rand forced her husband to endure loud and lofty protestations that forgoing an affair with Nathaniel Branden would be a sin against objectivism. William Godwin, England’s first anarcho-libertarian, wrecked two marriages on his individualism: first to Mary Wollstonecraft, whom he set up in a separate apartment and communicated with by letter, and then to a harridan of no redeeming qualities apart from her ability to keep house whom he, in his solipsism, permitted to torment Mary’s children.

Even in this company, John Stuart Mill is on another plane. Under the influence of his wife, Harriet Taylor, he drove his youngest brother George to suicide. His doting sisters were banished from his life over the flimsiest imagined slights to his wife’s honor. He gave up his former friends and became a recluse, retiring to a cottage in Blackheath Park where he entertained virtually no one while Mrs. Mill lived. After her death, he made himself a national laughingstock by declaring in his Autobiography that his wife had been more poetic than Shelley and a greater thinker than himself, and that he had “acquired more from her teaching than from all other sources taken together” — phrases written not when Mill was a grieving widower but during Harriet’s lifetime, in drafts which she read and approved for publication evidently without embarrassment.

And that’s only what she did to him after they wed. Their marriage was preceded by twenty years of brazen and self-righteous infidelity. When Mill met Harriet she was married to a good-natured pharmacist of enlightened political opinions, if no great intelligence, named John Taylor. After three years of growing mutual obsession, they bullied him into giving Harriet her own household, where she lived with their three children and entertained Mill on weekends. No one, not even his family, was permitted to mention Harriet’s name in Mill’s presence, much less to allude to the scandal their conduct had raised. His oldest friend, John Arthur Roebuck, was the only one who ever dared; Mill never spoke to him again. The couple withdrew into their private ménage, reassuring each other that it was only society’s “baby morality” (her phrase) that cast shame on their exalted passion. A bizarre story — and until the 1950s, an unknown one.

(Helen Andrews, “Romance and Socialism in J.S. Mill,” American Affairs, Vol. I, No. 2, Summer 2017).

572: A Bizarre Story.

356: A Idéia do Sr. Dickens.

Charles Dickens, numa nota que agora está à minha frente, aludindo a uma análise que fiz, certa vez, do mecanismo do “Barnaby Rudge”, diz: “De passagem, sabe que Godwin escreveu seu “Caleb Williams” de trás para diante? Envolveu primeiramente seu herói numa teia de dificuldades, que formava o segundo volume, e depois, para fazer o primeiro, ficou procurando um modo de explicar o que havia sido feito.”

Não posso pensar que esse seja o modo preciso de proceder de Godwin, e, de fato, o que ele próprio confessa não está completamente de acordo com a idéia do Sr. Dickens. Mas o autor de “Caleb Williams” era muito bom artista para deixar de perceber a vantagem procedente de um processo, pelo menos um tanto semelhante. Nada é mais claro do que deverem todas as intrigas, dignas desse nome, ser elaboradas em relação ao epílogo, antes que se tente qualquer coisa com a pena. Só tendo o epílogo, constantemente em vista, poderemos dar a um enredo seu aspecto indispensável de consequência, ou causalidade, fazendo com que os incidentes e, especialmente, o tom da obra tendam para o desenvolvimento de sua intenção.

(Edgar Allan Poe, “A Filosofia da Composição.” In: Poesia e Prosa. Rio de Janeiro: Editora Globo, 1960, p. 501).

356: A Idéia do Sr. Dickens.