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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/34413-8.txt b/34413-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..895f574 --- /dev/null +++ b/34413-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4505 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to +Gilbert Imlay, by Mary Wollstonecraft and Roger Ingpen + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft + Roger Ingpen + +Release Date: November 23, 2010 [EBook #34413] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + + + + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + The Love Letters + OF + Mary Wollstonecraft + TO GILBERT IMLAY + + WITH A PREFATORY MEMOIR + By Roger Ingpen + + _ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS_ + + Philadelphia + J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY + London: HUTCHINSON & CO. + 1908 + + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S LETTERS + + + + +EDITED BY ROGER INGPEN + +LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. A. CONSTABLE & +CO. + +ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: A Collection of Verse Old and New. +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +FORSTER'S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.) +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.) +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. +PITMAN. + + + + +[Illustration: Mary Wollstonecraft + +_From an engraving, after the painting by John Opie, R.A._] + + + + +PREFACE + + +I + +Of Mary Wollstonecraft's ancestors little is known, except that they were +of Irish descent. Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraft, was the son of a +prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of Irish birth, from whom he +inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds. He married towards the middle of +the eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in +good position, of Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: Edward, Mary, +Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. Mary, the eldest daughter and second +child, was born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of Burns and Schiller, +and the last year of George II.'s reign. She passed her childhood, until +she was five years old, in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, but it is +doubtful whether she was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstonecraft +followed no profession in particular, although from time to time he +dabbled in a variety of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money. +He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an +ungovernable temper and a restless spirit that urged him to perpetual +changes of residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered most of his +fortune, he wandered to Essex, and then, among other places, in 1768 to +Beverley, in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at Laugharne in +Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired of this experiment and returned +once more to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality and +selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently compelled to defend her +mother from his acts of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting herself +bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. Wollstonecraft herself was far +from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant and a stern but incompetent +ruler of her household, she treated Mary as the scapegoat of the family. +Mary's early years therefore were far from being happy; what little +schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father's migratory habits. + +In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts were once more in London, +Mary formed a friendship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her own age, +which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. There was +a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for Fanny contrived by +her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as her +father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow. + +Mary's new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. She loved music, +sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting +letters. It was by comparing Fanny Blood's letters with her own, that Mary +first recognised how defective her education had been. She applied herself +therefore to the task of increasing her slender stock of +knowledge--hoping ultimately to become a governess. At length, at the age +of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old +lady, a Mrs. Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London tradesman. In spite of +many difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years, +leaving it only to attend the deathbed of her mother. + +Mrs. Wollstonecraft's death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the +home. Mary went to live temporarily with the Bloods at Walham Green, and +assisted Mrs. Blood, who took in needle-work; Everina became for a short +time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a solicitor; and Eliza married a +Mr. Bishop. + +Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that "all the Wollstonecraft sisters were +enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, +sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied +insults. All had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the +nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution." +Mrs. Bishop's married life from the first was one of utter misery; they +were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently +exasperated her husband's worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the +scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were +afterwards described with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, "The +Wrongs of Women." It was plainly impossible for Mrs. Bishop to continue +to live with such a man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill, +Mary, with her characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon +after assisted her in her flight from her husband. + +In the following year (1783) Mary set up a school at Islington with Fanny +Blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, Mrs. +Bishop and Everina. The school was afterwards moved to Newington Green, +where Mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day scholars. After +a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house; but +unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to +her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet. + +While Mary was living at Newington Green, she was introduced to Dr. +Johnson, who, Godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and +attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. He desired her to +repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last +illness and death. + +In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired her health by overwork, and signs +of consumption were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who was engaged in +business at Lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long admired +Fanny, and wanted to marry her. It was thought that the climate of +Portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more +on that account than on any other, to become his wife. She left England +in February 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. Mary's anxiety +for her friend's welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition, +she at once went off to Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only +in time to comfort Fanny in her dying moments. Mary was almost +broken-hearted at the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon +as short as possible, remaining only as long as was necessary for Mrs. +Skeys's funeral. + +She returned to England to find that the school had greatly suffered by +neglect during her absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys's brother, George +Blood, she says: "The loss of Fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud +over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when I am bereft of +every other comfort? I have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and +where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?" + +She thus realised that to continue her school was useless. But her +experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. She had +observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and +her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, "Thoughts on the +Education of Daughters," (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, +a sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who +were desirous of going over to Ireland. + +She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the October of 1787 she became +governess to the daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaelstown, with a +salary of forty pounds a year. Lady Kingsborough in Mary's opinion was "a +shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... She rouges, and in short is a fine +lady without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by +dogs...." Lady Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her +chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. She pampered her dogs, much to +the disgust of Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. What views +she had on education were narrow. She had been accustomed to submission +from her governess, but she learnt before long that Mary was not of a +tractable disposition. The children, at first unruly and defiant, +"literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing," soon +gave Mary their confidence, and before long their affection. One of her +pupils, Margaret King, afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the +warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady Mountcashel continued her +acquaintance with William Godwin after Mary's death, and later came across +Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won from the children the affection +that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 1788, +when she had been with Lady Kingsborough for about a year, she received +her dismissal. She had completed by this time the novel to which she gave +the name of "Mary," which is a tribute to the memory of her friend Fanny +Blood. + + +II + +And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary Wollstonecraft had concluded her +career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to +literature. Her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had +written nothing to encourage her for such a venture. It was her fortune, +however, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, the humanitarian +publisher and bookseller of St. Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of +Priestley, Horne Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and other men of advanced +thought, and she met at his table many of the authors for whom he +published, and such eminent men of the day as William Blake, Fuseli, and +Tom Paine. Mr. Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends, +encouraged her in her literary plans. He was the publisher of her +"Thoughts on the Education of Daughters," and had recognised in that +little book so much promise, that when she sought his advice, he at once +offered to assist her with employment. + +Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a house in George Street, +Blackfriars. She had brought to London the manuscript of her novel "Mary," +and she set to work on a book for children entitled "Original Stories from +Real Life." Both of these books appeared before the year was out, the +latter with quaint plates by William Blake. Mary also occupied some of her +time with translations from the French, German, and even Dutch, one of +which was an abridged edition of Saltzmann's "Elements of Morality," for +which Blake also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, Johnson +engaged Mary as his literary adviser or "reader," and secured her services +in connexion with _The Analytical Review_, a periodical that he had +recently founded. + +While she was at George Street she also wrote her "Vindication of the +Rights of Man" in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief satisfaction in +keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters +could always come when out of employment. She was never weary of assisting +them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them +situations. One of her first acts when she settled in London was to send +Everina Wollstonecraft to Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. Johnson, +who wrote a short account of Mary's life in London at this time, says she +often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his +advice, or unburden her troubles to him. Among the many duties she imposed +on herself was the charge of her father's affairs, which must indeed have +been a profitless undertaking. + +The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft's labours while she was living +at Blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with +her name, "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman." This volume--now much +better known by its title than its contents--was dedicated to the astute +M. Talleyrand de Périgord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on account of +his authorship of a pamphlet on National Education. It is unnecessary to +attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal +book--modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both +of Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say that it is +really a plea for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not +only her own sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many of her +suggestions have long since been put to practical use, such as that of a +system of free national education, with equal advantages for boys and +girls. The book contains too much theory and is therefore to a great +extent obsolete. Mary Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that +recognises woman as the plaything of man; she pleads rather for a friendly +footing of equality between the sexes, besides claiming a new order of +things for women, in terms which are unusually frank. Such a book could +not fail to create a sensation, and it speedily made her notorious, not +only in this country, but on the Continent, where it was translated into +French. It was of course the outcome of the French Revolution; the whole +work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of that movement, but whereas +the French patriots demanded rights for men, she made the same demands +also for women. + +It is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in France +had made a deep impression on Mary's mind--its influence is stamped on +every page of her book, and it was her desire to visit France with Mr. +Johnson and Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so +she went alone in the December of 1792, chiefly with the object of +perfecting her French. Godwin states, though apparently in error, that +Fuseli was the cause of her going to France, the acquaintance with the +painter having grown into something warmer than mere friendship. Fuseli, +however, had a wife and was happily married, so Mary "prudently resolved +to retire into another country, far remote from the object who had +unintentionally excited the tender passion in her breast." + +She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on December +24 to her sister Everina: "The day after to-morrow I expect to see the +King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost afraid +to anticipate." On the day in question, the 26th, Louis XVI. appeared in +the Hall of the Convention to plead his cause through his advocate, +Desize, and on the same day she wrote that letter to Mr. Johnson which has +so often been quoted: "About nine o'clock this morning," she says, "the +King passed by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a +few strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through +empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round +the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants flocked to +their windows, but the casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor +did I see anything like an insulting gesture. For the first time since I +entered France I bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected the +propriety of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can +scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow +insensibly from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than +I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, +where so many of his race had triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis +XIV. before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his +victories so flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of +prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery...." + +Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame Filiettaz, the daughter of +Madame Bregantz, in whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and Everina +Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary was now something of a +celebrity--"Authorship," she writes, "is a heavy weight for female +shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity"--and she carried with +her letters of introduction to several influential people in Paris. She +renewed her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate with Helen Maria +Williams (who is said to have once lived with Imlay), and visited, among +others, the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her intention to go to +Switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she +settled at Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. "Her +habitation here," says Godwin, "was a solitary house in the midst of a +garden, with no other habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man +who performed for her many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes +contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great +veneration for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some +grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the +greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had any person with her as a +visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed, +her historical and moral view of the French Revolution, into which she +incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her letters, +and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in +which they had been commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to +refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her host in +vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies +and murders that had been committed there." + + +[Illustration: From an engraving by Ridley, dated 1796, after a painting +by John Opie, R.A. + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. + +This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale of the +late Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that it represents Mary +Wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the _Monthly +Mirror_ (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was +made. Mrs. Merritt made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul's +edition of the "Letters to Imlay." + +_To face p. xvi_] + + +It is probable that in March 1793 Mary Wollstonecraft first saw Gilbert +Imlay. The meeting occurred at Mr. Christie's house, and her immediate +impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided +him. However, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and +later into love. Gilbert Imlay was born in New Jersey about 1755. He +served as a captain in the American army during the Revolutionary war, and +was the author of "A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of +North America," 1792, and a novel entitled "The Emigrants," 1793. In the +latter work, as an American, he proposes to "place a mirror to the view of +Englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were +once so lovely," and further "to prevent the sacrilege which the present +practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce." It is not known +whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of, +his connexion with Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in +business, probably in the timber trade with Sweden and Norway. + +In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary sought no advice and took no +one into her confidence. She was evidently deeply in love with him, and +felt that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness +to their union. Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay episode, +states that "the origin of the connexion was about the middle of April +1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for about three months." +Imlay had no property whatever, and Mary had objected to marry him, +because she would not burden him with her own debts, or "involve him in +certain family embarrassments," for which she believed herself +responsible. She looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, "as of the +most inviolable nature." Then the French Government passed a decree that +all British subjects resident in France should go to prison until a +general declaration of peace. It therefore became expedient, not that a +marriage should take place, for that would necessitate Mary declaring her +nationality, but that she should take the name of Imlay, "which," says +Godwin, "from the nature of their connexion (formed on her part at least, +with no capricious or fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to +do, and obtain a certificate from the American Ambassador, as the wife of +a native of that country. Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought +proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to +Paris." + +In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her sister Everina, dated from +Havre, March 10, 1794, she describes the climate of France as "uncommonly +fine," and praises the common people for their manners; but she is also +saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that "death and +misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... If any of +the many letters I have written have come to your hands or Eliza's, you +know that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most worthy +man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of feeling, a +soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met +with. Having been brought up in the interior parts of America, he is a +most natural, unaffected creature." + +Mary has expressed in the "Rights of Woman" her ideal of the relations +between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic +happiness as she had cherished for some time. She had known much +unhappiness in the past. Godwin says: "She brought in the present +instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a +chosen friend. Let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart, +querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character +seemed to change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of +her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the +vivacity of a youthful mind. She was playful, full of confidence, +kindness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new +colour and smoothness. Her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing +with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day +to day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well +recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost +every one that beheld it." She had now met the man to whom she earnestly +believed she could surrender herself with entire devotion. Naturally of an +affectionate nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive +Irish spirit, as Godwin says, "she gave way to all the sensibilities of +her nature." + +The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. Mary had +taken her step without much forethought. She attributed to Imlay +"uncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not detect his instability of +character. He certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both +before and after his attachment to Mary. He was not the man to be +satisfied with one woman as his life-companion. A typical American, he was +deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much +of his time as he represented. In the September after he set up house with +Mary, that is in '93, the year of the Terror, he left her in Paris while +he went to Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to +Havre Marat. It is awful to think what must have been the life of this +lonely stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain +hardly a reference to the events of the Revolution. + +Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to Paris, and sickened with the +"growing cruelties of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 1794, +and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory +of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence +throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. +In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus +of little Fanny: + +"I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to +fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She +does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and +though I am sure she has her father's quick temper and feelings, her good +humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing." + +In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had +subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of +their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing. +The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in +which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris. +Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she +expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of +business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had +cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay +put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an +end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest +forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress +belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at +first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second +consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished +house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when +she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take +her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt +of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was +at this time engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy +representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that +the journey would restore Mary's health and spirits. She therefore +consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a +document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and +describing her as "Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife," and concluding: +"Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved +friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely +and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and +affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay." + +The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were +issued in 1796, as "Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her most +readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by +Godwin in his wife's posthumous works, and are given in the present +volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay +had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and +to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her +suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely +neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the +discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought +Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference +resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She +first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and +therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived +there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until +her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She +was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life +was saved. + +Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last +sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when "he alighted +from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter +passed," she assured Godwin, "without producing in her any oppressive +emotion." Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from +Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to +be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor +interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not +known. + +Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and +publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her +literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more +seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was +William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced +republicans of the time, the author of "Political Justice" and the novel +"Caleb Williams." They had met before, for the first time in November +1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the +naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although +they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became +friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him +extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of +the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, +Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his +family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he +appears to the worst advantage--a kind of early Pecksniff--in his later +correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this +correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine +side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait +Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and +eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by +Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so +pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of +Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face +portrait of the philosopher--"he has large noble eyes, and a _nose_--oh, +most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the +effect of its downward elongation." + +Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as "friendship melting into +love." They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty +doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his +theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family +happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, +generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at +his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a +walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate +with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints +some of these; such as Godwin's: + +"I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you +four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How +do you do?" + +And Mary's: "Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I +wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I +shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie's; but should I not +find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give +Fanny butter with her pudding." This note is dated April 20, 1797, and +probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie. + +On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional +clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed +bachelor habits. + +Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at +Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being +witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered +diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a +mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent +to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly +for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. +Reveley, two of Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announcement of +his marriage that they shed tears. + +An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey's +letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, "Of all the +lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's countenance is the +best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat +similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display--an expression +indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but +still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of +one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I +ever saw." + +Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life +was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to +Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband +and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most delightful +reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were. + + +[Illustration: From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie +(probably painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery. + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. + +This picture passed from Godwin's hands on his death to his grandson, Sir +Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his +widow, Lady Shelley. It was engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin's +memoir of his wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the _Lady's +Magazine_, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a +mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1802. Mrs. Merritt also made an +etching of the picture for Mr. Paul's edition of the "Letters to Imlay." + +_To face p. xxvi_] + + +On August 30, Mary's child was born, not the William so much desired by +them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well +with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The +best medical advice was obtained, but after a week's illness, on Sunday +morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During +her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave +Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, "Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." But, +as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that moment Godwin declined to be +entrapped into the admission that heaven existed," and his instant reply +was: "You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat +easier." Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband's religious +doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one. + +Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately +after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the "Memoirs" testify. +Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in +the presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was +laid beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is +said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin's daughter. In 1851, when +the Metropolitan and Midland Railways were constructed at St. Pancras, +the graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of Mary and William Godwin +were removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, to Bournemouth, where +they now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley. + +In the year following Mary's death (1798) Godwin edited his wife's +"Posthumous Works," in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to +Imlay, and her incomplete novel "The Wrongs of Woman." His tribute to Mary +Godwin's memory was also published in 1798, under the title of "Memoirs of +the Author of _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_." Godwin's novel, +"St. Leon" came out in 1799; his tragedy "Antonio" was produced only to +fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by Mrs. Clairmont, a +widow. The Godwin household was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it +did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. Godwin's two children, Charles and +Claire Clairmont, and also of William, the only child born of her marriage +with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began a correspondence with Godwin, which +ultimately led to Mary Godwin's elopement with the poet. Poor Fanny Imlay, +or Godwin, as she was called after her mother's death, died at the age of +nineteen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life had been far from +happy in this strange household. She had grown to love Shelley, but his +choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her secret to +herself. One day she suddenly left home and travelled to Swansea, where +she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn where +she had taken a room, "her long brown hair about her face; a bottle of +laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: 'I have long +determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the +existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only +been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in +endeavouring to promote her welfare.' She had with her the little Genevan +watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley: and in her purse were a few +shillings."[1] + +Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with Fanny in London, +wrote this stanza: + + "Her voice did quiver as we parted; + Yet knew I not that heart was broken + From whence it came, and I departed + Heeding not the words then spoken. + Misery--O Misery, + This world is all too wide for thee!" + + +III + +The vicissitudes to which Mary Wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during +her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. In her own day +recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in +terms not less ungentle than Horace Walpole's epithets, "a hyena in +petticoats" or "a philosophising serpent," posterity has proved hardly +more lenient to her. But the vigorous work of this "female patriot" has +saved her name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of +many men and women more talented than Mary Wollstonecraft. Reputed chiefly +as an unsexed being, who had written "A Vindication of the Rights of +Women," she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of +her sex; but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction +of the public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. Whether +right or wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing +forbidden subjects. It is true that she detected many social evils, and +suggested some excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was +not ripe for her book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer. +Moreover, her memoir by William Godwin, beautiful as it is in many +respects, exercised a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her +memory. The very fact that she became the wife of so notorious a man, was +sufficient reason to condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen. + +For two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to +remove the stigma from her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan Paul, a +man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain +something like justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book on William +Godwin, published in 1876, the true story of Mary's life was told for the +first time. It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history +of an unhappy but brave and loyal woman, whose faults proceeded from +excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. Mary +Wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her +outlook on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her +imagination. She saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre +shadows--it was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce +some of her best writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the +defects of her worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul's memoir, Mary +Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an entirely different aspect, and many +there are who have come under the spell of her fascinating personality. It +is not, however, her message alone that now interests us, but the woman +herself, her desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her love. +Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint mists of the past, a +woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her books are no longer +read. But it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in this volume +are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other writers +have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love, but Mary +Wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the man +whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. It is +true that she was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had probably +assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but +something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had any +motive in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with Imlay. +She was far too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it +was only by a mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion. + +_December 1907._ + + + + +PORTRAITS + + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (Photogravure) _Frontispiece_ + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, by Opie. From an engraving + by Ridley _facing p._ xvi + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, from the picture by Opie _facing p._ xxvi + + + + +LETTERS TO GILBERT IMLAY + + + + +LETTER I + +_Two o'Clock [Paris, June 1793]._ + + +My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I +have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early +hour, with the Miss ----s, the _only_ day they intend to pass here. I +shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my +fire-side when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor +Joan?--whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately +of her. + + Yours, truly, + MARY. + +I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer. + + + + +LETTER II + + + _Past Twelve o'Clock, Monday Night + [Paris, Aug. 1793]._ + + +I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my +love, good-night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can +to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ----'s eye. You +can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we are +to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how many +plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart +has found peace in your bosom.--Cherish me with that dignified tenderness, +which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep +under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you pain.--Yes, I +will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, I +cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen +almost too heavy to be borne. + +But, good-night!--God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss--yet +I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude +to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, because it +signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether we +have mind enough to keep our hearts warm. + + MARY. + +I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow.[2]--Yours-- + + + + +LETTER III + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Aug. 1793]._ + +You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you +know how very attentive I have been to the ---- ever since I came to +Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I +like to see your eyes praise me; and Milton insinuates, that, during such +recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the +honey that drops from the lips is not merely words. + +Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me +to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY--you _must_ +be glad to see me--because you are glad--or I will make love to the +_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was +talking with Madame ----, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have +sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so +highly respect principle.---- + +Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles--Far from it--and, +if I had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the +vanity of my heart, have _imagined_ that _I_ could have made something of +his----it was composed of such materials--Hush! here they come--and love +flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing +on my pale cheeks. + +I hope to see Dr. ---- this morning; I am going to Mr. ----'s to meet him. +----, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I +am to spend the day with ----. + +I shall probably not be able to return to ---- to-morrow; but it is no +matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I +immediately want, to take with me.--On Friday then I shall expect you to +dine with me--and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since +I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER IV[3] + + +_Friday Morning [Paris, Sept. 1793]._ + +A man, whom a letter from Mr. ---- previously announced, called here +yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at +not finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ----. I have since seen him, +and he tells me that he has settled the business. + +So much for business!--May I venture to talk a little longer about less +weighty affairs?--How are you?--I have been following you all along the +road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love, my +imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by +their presence--I was going to say caresses--and why should I not? I have +found out that I have more mind than you, in one respect; because I can, +without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same +object, much longer than you can.--The way to my senses is through my +heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours. + +With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is +necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable; and, +beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by +fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my +whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their +pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the +few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life. + +I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought +produced it--that these continual separations were necessary to warm your +affection.--Of late, we are always separating.--Crack!--crack!--and away +you go.--This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began +to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my +eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers +that you are one of the best creatures in the world.--Pardon then the +vagaries of a mind, that has been almost "crazed by care," as well as +"crossed in hapless love," and bear with me a _little_ longer!--When we +are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and +my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion +that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours, +with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands. + +Take care of yourself--and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear, +if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of +it, by becoming happier. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER V + + +_Sunday Night [Paris, 1793]._ + +I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed +tranquilly without saying a few words in reply--merely to tell you, that +my mind is serene and my heart affectionate. + +Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle +twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature +who will soon be sensible of my care.--This thought has not only produced +an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm my +mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we are to +have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday--do not smile!--finding that +I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I sat +down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again. + +Are you very busy? + + * * * * * + +So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come +home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe +you will.-- + +Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be +patient--kindly--and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the +time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.--Tell me also over and over +again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely +connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes +of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you +have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you! Take care of +yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate + + MARY. + +I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.--This is the +kindest good-night I can utter. + + + + +LETTER VI + + +_Friday Morning [Paris, Dec. 1793]._ + +I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as +myself--for be it known to thee, that I answered thy _first_ letter, the +very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it +before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.--There is +a full, true, and particular account.-- + +Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of +stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the +same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.--There +is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions +always give grace to the actions. + +Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy +money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the +exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have +expected from thy character.--No; I have thy honest countenance before +me--Pop--relaxed by tenderness; a little--little wounded by my whims; and +thy eyes glistening with sympathy.--Thy lips then feel softer than +soft--and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.--I have not +left the hue of love out of the picture--the rosy glow; and fancy has +spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a +delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a +grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus +alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it +divides--I must pause a moment. + +Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?--I do not know why, +but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than present; +nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let +me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and +have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish. + + Yours sincerely, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER VII. + + +_Sunday Morning [Paris, Dec. 29, 1793]._ + +You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. Pray sir! when do you think +of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit +you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that you will +make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence. + + * * * * * + +Well! but, my love, to the old story--am I to see you this week, or this +month?--I do not know what you are about--for, as you did not tell me, I +would not ask Mr. ----, who is generally pretty communicative. + +I long to see Mrs. ----; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself +airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ----. And I am half angry with you for +not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.--On this +score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from +my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will +only suffer an exclamation--"The creature!" or a kind look to escape me, +when I pass the slippers--which I could not remove from my _falle_ door, +though they are not the handsomest of their kind. + +_Be not too anxious to get money!--for nothing worth having is to be +purchased._ God bless you. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER VIII + + +_Monday Night [Paris, Dec. 30, 1793]._ + +My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, +depressed by the letters I received by ----, for he brought me several, +and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ---- was for me. Mr. ----'s letter +was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own +affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me. + +A melancholy letter from my sister ---- has also harrassed my mind--that +from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for + + * * * * * + +There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and +you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.--I think +that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when +your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of +playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, +and a desire to please the----where shall I find a word to express the +relationship which subsists between us?--Shall I ask the little +twitcher?--But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you how +much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I have been +fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to write, and my +heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to you. + +I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, +for the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me--and I +wanted one. + +Mr. ---- tells me that he has written again and again.--Love him a +little!--It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I +love. + +There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, +if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very +dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares. + + Yours affectionately. + MARY. + + + + +LETTER IX + + +_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Dec. 31, 1793]._ + +Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain ---- offers to take +one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because +trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my +spirits:--and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of his +same sensibility.--Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to +master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of +affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to +dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to +days browned by care! + +The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not look +into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my +stockings. + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER X + + +_Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794]._ + +As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to +complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I +am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not +feel? + +I hate commerce. How differently must ----'s head and heart be organized +from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of +them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and +clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. "I am +fallen," as Milton said, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe +will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. Life is +but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; +for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, +down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew! + +Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head +aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," +where "things rank and vile" flourish best. + +If you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of +it--I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--nobody knows +where. + + MARY. + +Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ----s, +simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ----, and ----, nay, +all the world, may know it for aught I care!--Yet I wish to avoid ----'s +coarse jokes. + +Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it +comes into the world, it seems to me, by a _natural right_, to belong to +her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, +excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!--Are these the +privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps +the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for +man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.--A man is a +tyrant! + +You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing +away with some honest fellows in London. The casual exercise of social +sympathy would not be sufficient for me--I should not think such an +heartless life worth preserving.--It is necessary to be in good-humour +with you, to be pleased with the world. + + +_Thursday Morning [Paris, Jan. 2, 1794]._ + +I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful +temper, which makes absence easy to you.--And, why should I mince the +matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it--I do not want to be +loved like a goddess but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you![4] + + + + +LETTER XI + + +_Monday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my +face, glowing with shame for my folly.--I would hide it in your bosom, if +you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my +fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes +overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I entreat you.--Do +not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very +wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had +no confidence in me---- + +It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices +of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much +indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or +perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and +tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully +disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; +still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter. + +Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask +as many questions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue +to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my +tears--You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into +playfulness. + +Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not +an angry word--I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a +scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come +back--and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you +the next. + +---- did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre. +Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it +was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so. + +God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of +tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my +support.--Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did +writing it, and you will make happy your + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XII + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to +encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my +love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not +half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as +seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little +pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days +past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be +glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me, +and that I want to be soothed to peace. + +One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness +which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to +me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would +be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a +duty to stifle them, when I imagine _that I am treated with coldness_. + +I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of +your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there +is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly +depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look +forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth +affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look +at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, +yet most affectionate + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XIII + + +_Thursday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I +knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand--and this afternoon, +when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your +poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to +receive another cold one.--Burn it also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget +that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect, +that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me +again to your heart. + +I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, +because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading +continually the fatal consequence of my folly.--But, should you think it +right to remain at Havre, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of +a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be +strong again.--Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took +such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind. +The girl is come to warm my bed--so I will tenderly say, good-night! and +write a line or two in the morning. + + +_Morning._ + +I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence +shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was +so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing. + +I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether +this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, +before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, +and gave a turn to my whole system. + + Yours truly + MARY IMLAY. + + + + +LETTER XIV + + +_Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, +will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your +motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what +seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.--I thought +also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at Havre, I might as +well have been with you.--Well! well, what signifies what I brooded +over--Let us now be friends! + +I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon--and +I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, +till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire +when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to +your Mary, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your +journey. + +What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy +was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my +eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your +knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six--if you +have not set your heart on this round number. + +I am going to dine with Mrs. ----. I have not been to visit her since the +first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as +I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has +been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am +quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not +much.--The two Mrs. ----s have been very anxious and tender. + + Yours truly + MARY. + +I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine. + + + + +LETTER XV + + +_Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is +still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I +am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, +after having talked of illness and apprehensions. + +I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire +phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood +into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go badly with +me_.--And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am +urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born +tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart. + +I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater +part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the +fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have +promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, +will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could +not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.--I am afraid to +read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye. + +I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by +impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional +uneasiness.--If you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, I do +not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will +struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of +poverty. + +Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for +I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into +them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVI + + +_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday +with Mr. ----, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall +be to see you. I have just got my passport, for I do not foresee any +impediment to my reaching Havre, to bid you good-night next Friday in my +new apartment--where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile +me to sleep--for I have not caught much rest since we parted. + +You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully +round my heart, than I supposed possible.--Let me indulge the thought, +that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish +to be supported.--This is talking a new language for me!--But, knowing +that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of +affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more in +the same house with you. God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVII + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you, +that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you +receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more +properly speaking, cheerful.--What is the reason that my spirits are not +as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your +temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own +forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time--I am afraid +to say never. + +Farewell for a moment!--Do not forget that I am driving towards you in +person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has +never left you. + +I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too +fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.--With my face turned to +Havre my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my +body to do whatever I wished. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVIII + + +_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._ + +We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was +sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when I knew that you were to stay +such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not +sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of +the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; +but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, +though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am, wishing you a +finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of +your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over +your relaxing features. + +But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So God bless you! Take +care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XIX + + +_[Havre, March, 1794]._ + +Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I +was to inclose.--This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter +of business.--You know, you say, they will not chime together.--I had got +you by the fire-side, with the _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your +poor bare ribs--and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper +up, that was directly under my eyes! What had I got in them to render me +so blind?--I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; +for I am, + + Yours most affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XX + + +_[Havre] Sunday, August 17 [1794]._ + + * * * * * + +I have promised ---- to go with him to his country-house, where he is now +permitted to dine--I, and the little darling, to be sure[6]--whom I cannot +help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall enjoy +the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my +imagination. + +I have called on Mrs. ----. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a +dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_.--But +_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the +mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the +foreground of the picture. + +The H----s are very ugly, without doubt--and the house smelt of commerce +from top to toe--so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only +proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a +room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_--A +nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed +Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.--Ah! +kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the +loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the +_sombre_ day of life--whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see +things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running +stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to +tantalize us. + +But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me +let the square-headed money-getters alone.--Peace to them! though none of +the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who +sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain +my pen. + +I have been writing on, expecting poor ---- to come; for, when I began, I +merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally +associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other. + +Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a +_gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to +cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments +in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the +senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the +father,[7] when they produce the suffusion I admire.--In spite of icy age, +I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, +and be stupidly useful to the stupid-- + + Yours, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXI + + +_Havre, August 19 [1794] Tuesday._ + +I received both your letters to-day--I had reckoned on hearing from you +yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to +the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that +you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ---- came in, and some +other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated--yet, +leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is +sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my +place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary +your affection is to my happiness.--Still I do not think it false +delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness +should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish +passion, as reason--that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by seeking +your own.--For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your +generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the +very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which +demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly +mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of +cherishing a tenderness for your person. + +I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long +time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all +my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though +they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment--This for our little +girl was at first very reasonable--more the effect of reason, a sense of +duty, than feeling--now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and +when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me. + +You too have somehow clung round my heart--I found I could not eat my +dinner in the great room--and, when I took up the large knife to carve for +myself, tears rushed into my eyes.--Do not however suppose that I am +melancholy--for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find +fault with you--but how I can doubt your affection. + +I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation) +with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the +friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXII + + +_Havre, August 20 [1794]._ + +I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ----. Knavery always +rouses my indignation--I should be gratified to hear that the law had +chastised ---- severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the +business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly +know how you would express your contempt. + +Pray ask some questions about Tallien--I am still pleased with the dignity +of his conduct.--The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of +a degree of address, which I admire--and mean to point out to you, as one +of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the +man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, +which is the true basis of both public and private friendship. + +Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, +of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning +woman, and you almost look for cunning--Nay, in _managing_ my happiness, +you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest +sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart, +which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and +cherished.--You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that +overflowing (_épanchement de coeur_), which becoming almost childish, +appears a weakness only to the weak. + +But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as +a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a +_number_ of mistresses.--Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather +flattered his vanity than his senses. + +Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to +close it without mentioning the little damsel--who has been almost +springing out of my arm--she certainly looks very like you--but I do not +love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIII[8] + + +_[Paris] September 22 [1794]._ + +I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and +which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely +write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had +left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me +why you did not write a longer--and you will want to be told, over and +over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered. + +Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her--to +ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud +music--yesterday, at the _fęte_, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to +honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever +had round her--and why not?--for I have always been half in love with him. + +Well, this you will say is trifling--shall I talk about alum or soap? +There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then +rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you +coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.--With what pleasure do I +recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window, +regarding the waving corn! + +Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the +imagination--I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of +sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the +passions--animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more +exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, +appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if +you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the +imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold +creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to +rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of +leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords. + +If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which +would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are +embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life--Bring me then back +your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; +and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be +dear to me; for I am yours truly, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIV + + +_[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794]._ + +I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I +cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my +bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do not +admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, +and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and +wife being one--for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the +beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited. + +Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present--the rest is +all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain +of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days +past. + + +_[Paris, 1794] Morning._ + +Yesterday B---- sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me +before; and I like him better than I did--that is, I have the same opinion +of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and +real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be +met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of +mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him +to see her. + +I have been interrupted. Mr. ---- I suppose will write about business. +Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now +with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow +the Jacobins, I plainly perceive. + +I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at +night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am +alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into +reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me. + +This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, +I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and +---- is waiting to carry this to Mr. ----'s. I will then kiss the girl +for you, and bid you adieu. + +I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your +barrier-face--or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know +that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, +intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could +wish for. + +I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; +but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing +sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ----. I want you to bring +---- with you. Madame S---- is by me, reading a German translation of your +letters--she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you +say of the negroes. + + Yours most affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXV + + +_Paris, Sept. 28 [1794]._ + +I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have +prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward +them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B----; yet, finding that he +will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your +return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ----, as Mr. +---- is detained, to whom I also gave a letter. + +I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you +with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar +circumstances.--I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost +lamented that I left Havre. ----, who is at best a most helpless creature, +is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that +I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.--She indeed rewards +me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother's +fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent +smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of +sensibility and observation. The other day by B----'s child, a fine one, +she looked like a little sprite.--She is all life and motion, and her eyes +are not the eyes of a fool--I will swear. + +I slept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in +which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.--I did not forget to +fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be +alluded to. + +Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of +your child, and the comfort of her mother. + +I have received, for you, letters from ----. I want to hear how that +affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his +folly or knavery. + + Your own + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXVI + + +_[Paris] October 1 [1794]._ + +It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will +ever reach you.--I have given two to ----, who has been a-going, a-going, +every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a +low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to +forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. _Tant mieux!_ you +will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents +of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the +sight of it would afford--judging of your feelings by my own. I just now +stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last +absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague +you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, +ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into +your eyes. + +After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in +business, as during the last three or four months past--for even money, +taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be +gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the +mind.--These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, +than at present--for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy +traces they left on my mind--and every emotion is on the same side as my +reason, which always was on yours.--Separated, it would be almost impious +to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.--I feel that I +love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where +else. + +My little darling grows every day more dear to me--and she often has a +kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my +heart. + +I have been interrupted--and must send off my letter. The liberty of the +press will produce a great effect here--the _cry of blood will not be +vain_!--Some more monsters will perish--and the Jacobins are +conquered.--Yet I almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast. + +I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which I shall not +now trouble you with a detail of.--I am sending ---- back; her pregnancy +rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is +better for the child. + +I long to hear from you.--Bring a copy of ---- and ---- with you. + +---- is still here: he is a lost man.--He really loves his wife, and is +anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social +feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his +health, as well as renders his person disgusting.--If his wife had more +sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save +him. + + Yours most truly and affectionately + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXVII + + +_[Paris] October 26 [1794]._ + +My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the +sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged +to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and +this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little +creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do +not find quite so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before +she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not +deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile +upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or +after a short absence. She has now the advantage of having two good +nurses, and I am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without +being the slave of it. + +I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ----, and +am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also +made some new acquaintance. I have almost _charmed_ a judge of the +tribunal, R----, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has +humanity, if not _beaucoup d'esprit_. But let me tell you, if you do not +make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the +_Marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and +plays sweetly on the violin. + +What do you say to this threat?--why, _entre nous_, I like to give way to +a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with +you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially said to be "in a good humour, +when he is pleased." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back +quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the +new-comer best. + + * * * * * + +My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks +happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come +back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not +be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make exertions which +injure your constitution. + + Yours most truly and tenderly, + MARY. + +P.S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ----, and pray +call for an answer.--It is for a person uncomfortably situated. + + + + +LETTER XXVIII + + +_[Paris] Dec. 26 [1794]._ + +I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not +allow to assume a form--I had been expecting you daily--and I heard that +many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.--Well, I now +see your letter--and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that +your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing. + + * * * * * + +Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, +which ---- has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are +safe--and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling +that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading +that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, +husband, father of my child!--All these fond ties glow at my heart at this +moment, and dim my eyes.--With you an independence is desirable; and it is +always within our reach, if affluence escapes us--without you the world +again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy +thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted +my dreams. + +My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not +here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of "dalliance;" but +certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to +me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most +despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness--yes; I love her +more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have +embraced her as my only comfort--when pleased with you, for looking and +laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I +am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these +details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately + + Yours, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIX + + +_[Paris] December 28 [1794]._ + + * * * * * + +I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your +disappointments.--Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with +affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that +you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me. + +----, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new +projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather +an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who +are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we +meet, we will discuss this subject--You will listen to reason, and it has +probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue +some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to +arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing +to live. + +Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as +to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your +departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment +necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the +expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be +considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment +and affection out of the heart? + +I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to +forward it with ----'s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what +he has doubtless recommended most warmly. + +Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.--I will give you no +tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the +settling the _present_ objects permit.--_I do not consent_ to your taking +any other journey--or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows +where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may +add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes +---- so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of +action), I will not importune you.--I will only tell you, that I long to +see you--and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made +angry, by delays.--Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if +I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all +a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because +remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture. + +My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs--She wants you to +bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing +her, and yet she is not satisfied--she wants you to thank her mother for +taking such care of her, as you only can. + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXX + + +_[Paris] December 29 [1794]._ + +Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as ---- has just +informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I +take advantage of it to inclose you + + * * * * * + +How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which +obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be +content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this +wearisome labyrinth?--I know very well that you have imperceptibly been +drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give +place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?--I am +contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from +wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my +project also--and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will +take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness--your +distant civilities--no; not we. + +This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which +---- manifests to have you remain where you are.--Yet why do I talk to +you?--If he can persuade you--let him!--for, if you are not happier with +me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal +projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as +affection seems to offer them--if our affection be mutual, they will occur +to you--and you will act accordingly. + +Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have +heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, +about the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but +contriving to live--earning their daily bread--yet, though they are but +just above poverty, I envy them.--She is a tender, affectionate +mother--fatigued even by her attention.--However she has an affectionate +husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure. + +I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I +grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to +observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes +attached!--These appear to me to be true pleasures--and still you suffer +them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.--It is your own +maxim to "live in the present moment."--_If you do_--stay, for God's sake; +but tell me the truth--if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and +let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart. + +Adieu! I am a little hurt.--I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort +me. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXI + + +_[Paris] December 30 [1794]._ + +Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have +written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife +you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my +epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ----'s +opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your +staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual +inquietude--and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn some money +here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the +world to get a fortune, it is for yourself--for the little girl and I will +live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I may be termed +proud--Be it so--but I will never abandon certain principles of action. + +The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they +debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a +gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they +maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, +whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been +polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence. + +I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former +is necessary, to give life to the other--and such a degree of respect do I +think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its +place, brings you back, never return!--for, if a wandering of the heart, +or even a caprice of the imagination detains you--there is an end of all +my hopes of happiness--I could not forgive it, if I would. + +I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of +men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it +is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient +delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my +little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.--I am sorry to have a +tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns. + +You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the +strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. ---- has +taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it +has inconceivably depressed my spirits--You have always known my +opinion--I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, +ought not to be long separated.--If certain things are more necessary to +you than me--search for them--Say but one word, and you shall never hear +of me more.--If not--for God's sake, let us struggle with poverty--with +any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been +told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more +distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to +forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain, +and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no +conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence. + + MARY.[9] + + + + +LETTER XXXII + + +_[Paris] January 9 [1795]._ + +I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely +occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to +write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and +schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb +your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine. + +Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain +independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which +I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from +passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life +were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I +have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed +some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous +enjoyment can give.--Why have you so soon dissolved the charm. + +I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ----'s +never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness--but you +are mistaken--I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of +action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to +my feelings, appears to me unnecessary--and therefore I have not firmness +to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and +still wish, to retire with you to a farm--My God! any thing, but these +continual anxieties--any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and +roots out affection from the heart. + +I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences----yet I will +simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the +arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the +necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose +only, is indispensible--The want of wood, has made me catch the most +violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual +coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to +recollect myself.--This however is one of the common evils which must be +borne with----bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the +spirits. + +Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have +determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.--It is too +soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!--And as one has well said, +"despair is a freeman," we will go and seek our fortune together. + +This is not a caprice of the moment--for your absence has given new +weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you +left me.--I do not chuse to be a secondary object.--If your feelings were +in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary +prospects of future advantage. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIII + + +_[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]._ + +I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which +would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is +pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated +the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely +conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After +longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have +seen a superscription written by you.--Promising myself pleasure, and +feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, +left the room--when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen +hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul. + +Well, now for business-- + + * * * * * + +My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing +the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and +now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. +You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will +guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for +some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey--nothing can +equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect +her. Adieu! do not forget to love us--and come soon to tell us that you +do. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIV + + +_[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795]._ + +From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will +scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you +have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it +pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground +again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, +it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it +for ever; yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers +by your absence. + + * * * * * + +For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make +money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore +was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest I +should have uttered unseasonable truths. + +My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.--I +have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to +mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The secondary pleasures of life," +you say, "are very necessary to my comfort:" it may be so; but I have ever +considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the +resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life; I should +answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would +avoid them, cost what it would---- + +Adieu! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXV + + +_[Paris] February 9 [1795]._ + +The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we +were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ----, +convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other +letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got, +were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight +of the superscriptions excited. + +I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for +utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find +it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence. + +You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the +most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I +recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during +the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I never before +experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at +the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.--God preserve +this poor child, and render her happier than her mother! + +But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I +think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is +come to this.--I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to +you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to +reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better +fate. My soul is weary--I am sick at heart; and, but for this little +darling, I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of +every charm. + +You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to tell +you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated +by honour.--Indeed, I scarcely understand you.--You request me to come, +and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to +this place. + +When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.--I +would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of +trouble on which you are entering.--I have certain principles of action: I +know what I look for to found my happiness on.--It is not money.--With you +I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life--as it is, less +will do.--I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for +my child, and she does not want more at present.--I have two or three +plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, +neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to +you!--No; I would sooner submit to menial service.--I wanted the support +of your affection--that gone, all is over!--I did not think, when I +complained of ----'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he +would have dragged you into his schemes. + +I cannot write.--I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your +departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was +written.--You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more +determined, moment.--Do not insult me by saying, that "our being together +is paramount to every other consideration!" Were it, you would not be +running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind. + +Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXVI + + +_[Paris] Feb. 10 [1795]._ + +You talk of "permanent views and future comfort"--not for me, for I am +dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the +business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. +I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I +feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly +devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure +you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady +you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they +may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write +more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present +lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, +which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ----, and I +shall take one more, to pay my servant's wages, &c. and then I shall +endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall entirely +give up the acquaintance of the Americans. + +---- and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very +unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had +provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have +dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining +where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter +cup to care about trifles. + +When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the +gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in +America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did +not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary +to you than you imagined--more necessary than an uncorrupted heart--For a +year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, +drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be +remembered with regret--I was going to say with remorse, but checked my +pen. + +As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your +reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content +with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of +hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative +to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice +could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, +and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you +are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them--I +shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu! + + MARY. + +This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to +complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of +the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers +who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in +life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I +am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could +forget my misery--so that my head or heart would be still.---- + + + + +LETTER XXXVII + + +_[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]._ + +When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an +indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now +calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the +quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. +Society fatigues me inexpressibly--So much so, that finding fault with +every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in +myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take +any pains to recover my health. + +As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a +repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. +Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, +after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the +necessity of keeping the mind tranquil--and, my God! how has mine be +harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind +of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," I have not found a +guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my +bosom. + +What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!--But I +will not go over this ground--I want to tell you that I do not understand +you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning +here--and I know that it will be necessary--nay, is. I cannot explain +myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my +meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am +I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, +but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to +be left there a prey to it! + +Why is it so necessary that I should return?--brought up here, my girl +would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans +of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness. + +In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am +left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has +rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or +affectionate emotions.--With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help +displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of +the effect it is visible it has had on me. + +Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to +avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.--Do not +mistake me, I have never been refused.--Yet I have gone half a dozen times +to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking--you must guess +why--Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which +you have sacrificed my peace--not remembering--but I will be silent for +ever.---- + + + + +LETTER XXXVIII + + +_[Havre] April 7 [1795]._ + +Here I am at Havre, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell +you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I +shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my +heart--You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of +delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride--Still I cannot +indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without +trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual. + +I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea--and tears rush into my eyes, +when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.--I have indeed +been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh +hopes, as to regain tranquillity.--Enough of this--lie still, foolish +heart!--But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease +to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment. + +Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I +weaned her, about ten days ago.--I am however glad I conquered my +repugnance.--It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish +to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off +till we met.--It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to +throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw +over my shoulder.--I wished to endure it alone, in short--Yet, after +sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot +think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom! + +I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity +for your coming to me.--Pray inform Mr. ----, that I have his little +friend with me.--My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some +inconvenience----and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have +not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, +as you. God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIX + + +_Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795]._ + +Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I +can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.--I shall drive to ----'s +hotel, where ---- tells me you have been--and, if you have left it, I hope +you will take care to be there to receive us. + +I have brought with me Mr. ----'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to +take care of our little darling--not on the way, for that fell to my +share.--But why do I write about trifles?--or any thing?--Are we not to +meet soon?--What does your heart say? + + Yours truly + MARY. + +I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread. + + + + +LETTER XL + + + _[26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place] + London, Friday, May 22 [1795]._ + +I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think +that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, +when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be +necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose +it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which +made ---- request to see me to-day, to _converse about a matter of great +importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my +spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as +distressing, as the two former had been. + +I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me--Still I find that +tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so +different from the resignation of despair!--I am however no longer angry +with you--nor will I ever utter another complaint--there are arguments +which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.--We have +had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future +prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to +affection.--Let the subject never be revived! + +It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of +being happy.--Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.--My soul has been +shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.--I have gone out--and sought for +dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my +irritable nerves---- + +My friend--my dear friend--examine yourself well--I am out of the +question; for, alas! I am nothing--and discover what you wish to do--what +will render you most comfortable--or, to be more explicit--whether you +desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, +tell me frankly, I conjure you!--for, believe me, I have very +involuntarily interrupted your peace. + +I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a +cheerful face to greet you--at any rate I will avoid conversations, which +only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately +yours, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLI + + +_[May 27, 1795] Wednesday._ + +I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am +tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning--not because I am +angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.--I shall +make every effort to calm my mind--yet a strong conviction seems to whirl +round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, +emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart. + +God bless you! + + Yours sincerely, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLII + + + _[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Clock + [May 27, 1795]._ + +We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the +child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the +night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a +tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have +finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes +out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn. + +I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the +struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.--It is even now too full to +allow me to write with composure.--Imlay,--dear Imlay,--am I always to be +tossed about thus?--shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in? +How can you love to fly about continually--dropping down, as it were, in a +new world--cold and strange!--every other day? Why do you not attach those +tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?--This +alone is affection--every thing else is only humanity, electrified by +sympathy. + +I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be +detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours +sincerely and affectionately + + MARY. + +Fanny is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the +noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----Adieu! + + + + +LETTER XLIII + + +_[Hull, May 28, 1795] Thursday._ + +A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. I have then only a +moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give +information + + * * * * * + +But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared +with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this +painful string--God bless you! + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLIV + + +_[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]._ + +I have just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, +for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general +observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, +as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most +serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety +had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender +avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. +You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of +inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that +gratification which only the heart can bestow. + +The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites, +must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never lends +its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according +reason.--Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite +pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the +whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders +every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions, over which +satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment +cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These +emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive +characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite +relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and +drinkers and _child-begeters_, certainly have no idea. You will smile at +an observation that has just occurred to me:--I consider those minds as +the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to +their senses. + +Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot +help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, +to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of +feeling--which would open your heart to me.--I would fain rest there! + +Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my +attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live +has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that +despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my +child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might +become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might +there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated +sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight. + +Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting +happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in +order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked +sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, +without agony, think of your bosom's being continually contaminated; and +bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child +and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, +I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.--These are not common sorrows; +nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to +labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment. + +Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something like +a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider +whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term "the zest +of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of +your own incentive to action, do not deceive me! + +The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so +wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, +let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you +will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great +mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the +dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject. + +The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I +cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to +depart. + + + _[Hull, June 13, 1795] + Saturday Morning._ + +Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, +in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my +being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the +gloom of despair--Yes; with less affection, I should have been more +respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to +myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. +Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ----, and +that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only +written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being +thrown on you.[11] + +I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my +efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am +engaged. + +My friend--my dearest friend--I feel my fate united to yours by the most +sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of--yes, I will say it--a +true, unsophisticated heart. + + Yours most truly + MARY. + +If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am +afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to +write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect +a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not +Mr. ----'s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great +civilities, will send them after me. + +Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; +and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from +us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot +word--Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?--I +shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will +draw us more closely together. Once more adieu! + + + + +LETTER XLV + + +_[Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795]._ + +I rather expected to hear from you to-day--I wish you would not fail to +write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well--Whether I have +any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of +trembling--and, in spite of all my efforts, the child--every +thing--fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement. + +Mr. ---- forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was +fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the +necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, +a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather +interesting man.--They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor +Fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood. + +They took me in their carriage to Beverley, and I ran over my favourite +walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.--The town did not +please me quite so well as formerly--It appeared so diminutive; and, when +I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever +since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have +vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at +pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is +much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and +fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country. + +The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to +linger--When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I +do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your +connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of +your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of +mind.--Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of +being free, does not overbalance the pain you felt at parting with me? +Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you--or +why should we meet again?--but, the moment after, despair damps my rising +spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften +the cares of life.----God bless you! + + Yours sincerely and affectionately + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLVI + + +_[Hull] June 15 [1795]._ + +I want to know how you have settled with respect to ----. In short, be +very particular in your account of all your affairs--let our confidence, +my dear, be unbounded.--The last time we were separated, was a separation +indeed on your part--Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most +affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of +disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive--yet +should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true +friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the +world again. Accuse me not of pride--yet sometimes, when nature has opened +my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher +value on my heart. + +Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one +from me, and believe me yours + + Sincerely + MARY. + +The wind still continues in the same quarter. + + + + +LETTER XLVII + + +_[Hull, June, 1795] Tuesday Morning._ + +The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the +course of a few hours.--I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would +have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you--Should +one arrive, it will be sent after me. + +My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why----The quitting England seems +to be a fresh parting.--Surely you will not forget me.--A thousand weak +forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me +sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual +conflict of mind, I was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by +the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to +be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my +faculties. + +The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know +not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--It is not +a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of +disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for +misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--Well, let it +come--I care not!--what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! +God bless you--I am most affectionately and sincerely yours + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLVIII + + +_[June 17, 1795] Wednesday Morning._ + +I was hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having +changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we +are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to +advance a few miles. + +You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance--yet it was +even so--for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain +at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me +with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your +letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am +afraid to think how long. + +The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind +of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, +which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile +weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of +suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading. + +What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time +before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within +me!--Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and +feelings?--Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much +misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend +my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.--Will you not +endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I +saying?--Rather forget me, if you can--if other gratifications are dearer +to you.--How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? +What a world is this!--They only seem happy, who never look beyond +sensual or artificial enjoyments.--Adieu! + +Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.--I will +labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood, + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLIX + + +_[June 18, 1795] Thursday._ + +Here I am still--and I have just received your letter of Monday by the +pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he +expected, by the wind.--It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about +without going forward.--I have a violent headache--yet I am obliged to +take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because +---- is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of +the ship, as we ride at anchor. + +These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of +mind--compared with the sinking of a broken heart.--To tell you the truth, +I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits--from +despair.--I do not sleep--or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most +terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of +countenance. + +I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings--and +will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it--at +present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these +continual struggles--yet your letter this morning has afforded me some +comfort--and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you--when we +meet again--surely we are to meet!--it must be to part no more. I mean not +to have seas between us--it is more than I can support. + +The pilot is hurrying me--God bless you. + +In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would +disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of--"When the mind's free, +the body's delicate;"--mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles. + + Yours most truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER L + + +_[June 20, 1795] Saturday._ + +This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with +every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the +remembrances that sadden my heart. + +How am I altered by disappointment!--When going to Lisbon, ten years ago, +the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the +imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch +futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search +of sunbeams!--Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to +frown--or rather mourn with me.--Every thing is cold--cold as my +expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these +North east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming--Give me, gracious +Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial +affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger +there. + +I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to +seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after which I +hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I +have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost +drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for I never forget, +even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am +labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power. + +Poor ---- still continues sick, and ---- grows weary when the weather will +not allow her to remain on deck. + +I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you--are +you not tired of this lingering adieu? + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LI + + +_[Hull, June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning._ + +The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to +be left at a little village, offered to go to ---- to pass to-day. We had +a troublesome sail--and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has +changed. + +I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one +haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate--you might have known, +had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are +attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service--But why do +I foolishly continue to look for them? + +Adieu! adieu! My friend--your friendship is very cold--you see I am +hurt.--God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in +every sense of the word--Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. +I will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is full. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + +The child is well; I did not leave her on board. + + + + +LETTER LII + + +_[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795]._ + +I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land +at Arendall. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform +you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we +were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below. + +What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon--nor mention the +pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.--This morning +however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this +place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and +how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a +quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my +senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well. + +Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently +deranged me--and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm +to eat; the inns are mere stables--I must nevertheless go to bed. For +God's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well, +and yet you see I cannot die. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LIII + + +_[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]._ + +I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I +believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to +----'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--I likewise mentioned to +you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it +will have any serious consequences. + +---- will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ----. The inns here +are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am +overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours +to amuse me, from which I cannot escape. + +My friend--my friend, I am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies +heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; +and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the +hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," +appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly +enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my +pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LIV + + +_[Sweden] July 1 [1795]._ + +I labour in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow +and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me--this is a life that cannot +last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity--and, +when you have, I will act accordingly--I mean, we must either resolve to +live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual +struggles.--But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; +and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than +with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not +dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will +then adopt the plan I mentioned to you--for we must either live together, +or I will be entirely independent. + +My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision--You know however +that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the +moment--You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am +in need of) by being with me--and, if the tenderest friendship is of any +value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that +heartless affections cannot bestow? + +Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?--I shall, I should +imagine, be at ---- before the close of August; and, after you settle your +affairs at Paris, could we not meet there? + +God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + +Poor Fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth. + + + + +LETTER LV + + +_[Sweden] July 3 [1795]._ + +There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression +of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you +throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has +long since given place to your usual cheerfulness. + +Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) +there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than +disturb your tranquillity.--If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to +hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, +affectionate friend. + +I grow more and more attached to my little girl--and I cherish this +affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can +become bitterness of soul.--She is an interesting creature.--On +ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my +troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, "that the +virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but +the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine +round my heart--could have stopped me. + +What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I +have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to sully +the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started +with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ----) that stealing with +balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of +reviving nature. + +My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.--Love, in some minds, is +an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or +taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive +to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, +impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described. + +Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care +than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--Aiming at +tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul--almost +rooted out what renders it estimable--Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm +of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that +imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, +since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid--soul and body seemed +to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment. + +I am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my +constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought +for, begins to reanimate my countenance. + +I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of +regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect +due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of +the delights I was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can +extinguish the heavenly spark. + +Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush +when I recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound myself +with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.--I will listen to +delicacy, or pride. + + + + +LETTER LVI + + +_[Sweden] July 4 [1795]._ + +I hope to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot +tear my affections from you--and, though every remembrance stings me to +the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of +character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace. + +Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long +time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable +to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my +faculties.--Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to +the vigour of my reason--for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had +my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, +for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my +appearance that really surprises me.--The rosy fingers of health already +streak my cheeks--and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I +have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of +youth. + +With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to +hope!--Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor +----'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ----'s children, +and makes friends for herself. + +Do not tell me, that you are happier without us--Will you not come to us +in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?--why are +you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or +rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart?--It is my +misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and +lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me +not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the +sensibility of an expanded heart can give.--God bless you! Adieu. + + + + +LETTER LVII + + +_[Sweden] July 7 [1795]._ + +I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a +letter from you. My being at ---- was but a chance, and you might have +hazarded it; and would a year ago. + +I shall not however complain--There are misfortunes so great, as to +silence the usual expressions of sorrow--Believe me, there is such a thing +as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; +and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest +satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from +myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel +keener anguish, when alone with my child. + +Still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from +life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--My +God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful +sensations?--But it cannot--it shall not last long. + +The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be +wounded to the soul by a negative.--My brain seems on fire. I must go into +the air. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LVIII + + +_[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795]._ + +I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. I felt more at leaving my child, than +I thought I should--and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I +heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--I asked myself how I could +think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless? + +Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the winds +to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when +my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I +could add, with poor Lear--What is the war of elements to the pangs of +disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a +breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie! + +All is not right somewhere!--When you first knew me, I was not thus lost. +I could still confide--for I opened my heart to you--of this only comfort +you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first +object. Strange want of judgment! + +I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am +convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that +your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.--I mean +not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple +basis of all rectitude.--However I did not intend to argue--Your not +writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant +wretchedness. + +Poor ---- would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my +fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of +countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually +afraid of some accident.--But it would have injured the child this warm +season, as she is cutting her teeth. + +I hear not of your having written to me at Stromstad. Very well! Act as +you please--there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I +can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble +you with letters to which you do not reply. + + + + +LETTER LIX + + +_[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795]._ + +I am here in Tonsberg, separated from my child--and here I must remain a +month at least, or I might as well never have come. + + * * * * * + +I have begun ---- which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a +pecuniary kind.--I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having +done it sooner. + +I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LX + + +_[Tonsberg] July 30 [1795]._ + +I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of +June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my +detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence. + + * * * * * + +Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God +knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of +heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I +feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has +afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope +for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. + +I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live +together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor +girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that +she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving +her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to +expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can never be +healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing. + +When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution +than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined +always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot +dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and +set me free. + +Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings +anticipate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made +me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. +But to have done with these subjects. + + * * * * * + +I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet +I never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe, +and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The +child, ---- informs me, is well, I long to be with her. + +Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you +to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you +seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you. + + Yours most affectionately + MARY IMLAY + +I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to +yours. + + + + +LETTER LXI + + +_[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]._ + +Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have +entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my +nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though +trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I have, +it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a +long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no other +appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer +have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so +constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am afraid +not without a passion--and I feel the want of it more in society, than in +solitude. + + * * * * * + +Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with +tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, +when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in +my own bosom--tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes +overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. God +bless you! + + + + +LETTER LXII + + +_[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]._ + +Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, +and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.--I +cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some moments +of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the +rocks. + +This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on +something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am +sensible that I acted foolishly--but I was wretched--when we were +together--Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip +from me. I cannot live with you--I ought not--if you form another +attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little +reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel +disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to +depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a +chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can +provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part to +meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to +me--if I am to have no other--and only know me as her support. I feel that +I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are only to +correspond.--No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not +interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what +pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--You must +determine--examine yourself--But, for God's sake! spare me the anxiety of +uncertainty!--I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain. + +Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and +absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what +new form of misery I have to dread. + +I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you +will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIII + + +_[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795]._ + +Five of your letters have been sent after me from ----. One, dated the +14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not +expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to +assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am +disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my +affection.---- + +My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope--I +mean, I and my girl.--I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am +informed how your affairs terminate. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIV + + +_[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]._ + +I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more +pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot +conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. +Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have +promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future +shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an +independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head. + +I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even +vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for +peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm +contentment so termed.-- + + * * * * * + +You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect +yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of +this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they +produced.--Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have +lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not +comprehend--or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, +merely an object of compassion--a clog, however light, to teize you. +Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical +whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free--I will not torment, +when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not +continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to +cherish tenderness_ for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are +separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary +considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without +affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I +had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to +superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to +maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to +Switzerland. I shall not remain at ----, living expensively. But be not +alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more. + +Adieu! I am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if +shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins. + +God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXV + + +_[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795]._ + +I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter +last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. +I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to +imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of +life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose +on the idea that I am happy. + +Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like +resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have +suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy +substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies which bind +me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--They are the +agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and I have shaken hands. + +I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people +immersed in trade and sensuality. + +I am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting-place to +look to.--I am strangely cast off.--How often, passing through the rocks, +I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, +and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the +affections of my nature--I have never met with one, softer than the stone +that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it +was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound +together by affection or principle--and, when I am conscious that I have +fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I +am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus +abandoned?" + +You say now + + * * * * * + +I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more +explicitly--and determine on some mode of conduct.--I cannot endure this +suspense--Decide--Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or +eternally part!--I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer +to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent +subjects. + + * * * * * + +I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. But +this you ought to pardon--for it is with difficulty frequently that I make +out what you mean to say--You write, I suppose, at Mr. ----'s after +dinner, when your head is not the clearest--and as for your heart, if you +have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse +when you mention the child--Adieu! + + + + +LETTER LXVI + + +_[Hamburg] September 25 [1795]._ + +I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ----. In +that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three +mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed +it, I hear of another, and still no letter.--I am labouring to write +calmly--this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ---- remained +a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I +to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the +same--and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this +of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXVII + + +_[Hamburg] September 27 [1795]._ + +When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the +British coast--your letter of the 18th decided me. + +By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions +extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.--You desire me to +decide--I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine, +from ----, to the same purport, to consider.--In these, God knows! there +was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but +too faithfully pourtrayed!--What more then had I to say?--The negative was +to come from you.--You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting +me in the autumn--Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or +no?--Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am +accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, +much less of friendship.--I only see a desire to heave a load off your +shoulders. + +I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you +decide. + +The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a +world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, +I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I +am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you have +no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for +having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for +a momentary gratification. + +I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your +tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On +this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I +leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off +a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly are +differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on +my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at +present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step, +till I see or hear from you. + +Preparing myself for the worst--I have determined, if your next letter be +like the last, to write to Mr. ---- to procure me an obscure lodging, and +not to inform any body of my arrival.--There I will endeavour in a few +months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France--from you I will +not receive any more.--I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your +beneficence. + +Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the +extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the +independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a +great way in France--and I will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_ +enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my +girl.--The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I +can get at an easy rate at Paris--I can introduce her to such society as +she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, +which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity +which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp. +No poor temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at +his port. + + MARY. + +I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to +go to. Captain ---- will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, +that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that I wish to see +you, though it be for the last time. + + + + +LETTER LXVIII + + +_[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]._ + +I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th +of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ----; but, as we +sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received +it. + +You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for +the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I +expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be +glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in +the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our +interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at +last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever. + +From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you +have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly request +you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require +of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle +about a mere form. + +I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at +landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious +that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable +sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the +description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming +flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her +account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my +situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, +that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in +your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my +child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot. + +I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the +return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and +tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can +receive your letter on Wednesday morning. + +Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human +being: my die is cast!--I have fortitude enough to determine to do my +duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling +heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up +by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my +life--but life will have an end! + +Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you +will find me at ----. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIX + + +_[London, Nov. 1795]._ + +I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the +maid with ----, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ----, rue +----, section de ----. Should they be removed, ---- can give their +direction. + +Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction. + +Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I +forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing +but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst +you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have +lived together. + +I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let +my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you +receive this, my burning head will be cold. + +I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. +Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. +I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be +insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge +into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from +the death I seek. + +God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me +endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to +your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall +appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXX + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning._ + +I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was +inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is +not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic +attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I +am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, +it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured. + +You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the +wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long +since.--But I forbear to comment.--If I am condemned to live longer, it is +a living death. + +It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on +principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would +have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have +any friendship for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing +sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more +damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death +could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity.--It is +happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree. + +Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to +contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), +appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar +comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone, +you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not +shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any +direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I +have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own +reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value +money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do +much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am +dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child. + +I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you +again.--Adieu! + +God bless you! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXI + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning._ + +I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with +you, that + + * * * * * + +But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy. +I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary. + + * * * * * + +My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may +lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; +but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly +free.--God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXII + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night._ + +I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be +dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or +tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my +feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments. + +I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually +offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new +house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will +sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the +moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary +supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and +misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.-- + +Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be +necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see, +written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other +medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose, +that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing +of me, it will be the same thing to you. + + MARY. + +Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my +distracted mind. + + + + +LETTER LXXIII + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon._ + +Mr. ---- having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which +were left at the house, I have to request you to let ---- bring them to +---- + +I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from +coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think, and +feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I have any +criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously +treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the +grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my +child.--I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my +desperation. + + Farewel. + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXIV + + +_London, November 27 [1795]._ + +The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you +returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters +aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow. + +My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with +anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for +me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to +expect much attention to my sufferings. + +In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has +almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I +am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel +recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to +conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of +fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, +where I am buried alive. + +But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, that I +shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But is +it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does +mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so +"exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In +other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that +of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have +fostered, and the expectations you have excited? + +My affection for you is rooted in my heart.--I know you are not what you +now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may +never be comforted by the change.--Even at Paris, my image will haunt +you.--You will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will +drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine. + +I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your +_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--Right or wrong, I am +miserable! + +It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest +principles of justice and truth.--Yet, how wretched have my social +feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--I have loved with my +whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return--and that +existence is a burthen without it. + +I do not perfectly understand you.--If, by the offer of your friendship, +you still only mean pecuniary support--I must again reject it.--Trifling +are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--God bless you! + + MARY. + +I have been treated ungenerously--if I understand what is generosity.--You +seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off--regardless whether +you dashed me to atoms by the fall.--In truth I have been rudely handled. +_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those +capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the +most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.--You would +render mothers unnatural--and there would be no such thing as a +father!--If your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly +the most easy.--It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to +please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will! + +Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from +you--and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ----'s conduct--I am +convinced you will not always justify your own. + +Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your +mind, that you have acted ignobly--and condescended to subterfuge to +gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.--Do truth and principle +require such sacrifices? + + + + +LETTER LXXV + + +_London, December 8 [1795]._ + +Having just been informed that ---- is to return immediately to Paris, I +would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain +that my last, by Dover has reached you. + +Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and I wished +to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light +of an enemy. + +That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always +with the keen anguish I do at present--for I began even now to write +calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears. + +I am stunned!--Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful +dream.--Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little +address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--Principles are +sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity. + +The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your +affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--Indeed, it seems to me, +when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.--Yet you +will not always forget me.--You will feel something like remorse, for +having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior +gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had +one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour +of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part +of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your +heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present +conduct. You do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my +esteem. + +You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an +imaginary being.--I once thought that I knew you thoroughly--but now I am +obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared +up by time. + +You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own +eyes.--I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed +in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have +afforded you equal pleasure. + +Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I +thought your property in jeopardy.--When I went to [Sweden], I requested +you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and +some other people, whom I was interested about.--Money was lavished away, +yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not +discharged, that now come on me.--Was this friendship--or generosity? Will +you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for +you.--God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXVI + +_[London, Dec. 1795.]_ + +As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I +will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and +feeling ingenuity! + +I know the soundness of your understanding--and know that it is impossible +for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with +the manly dictates of principle. + +You tell me "that I torment you."--Why do I?----Because you cannot +estrange your heart entirely from me--and you feel that justice is on my +side. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."--It was not.--When +your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to +remove the impression!--and even before I returned to England, you took +great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the +effect of a worn-out constitution--and you concluded your letter with +these words, "Business alone has kept me from you.--Come to any port, and +I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own." + +With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I +wished? I might--and did think that you had a struggle with old +propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last +prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which +would enable you to conquer yourself. + +Imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me +feelings of this kind.--You could restore me to life and hope, and the +satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you. + +In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce--and the time will +come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even +in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.--I would owe every thing to +your generosity--but, for God's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!--Let +me see you once more!-- + + + + +LETTER LXXVII + + +_[London, Dec. 1795.]_ + +You must do as you please with respect to the child.--I could wish that it +might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is +now finished.--Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I +disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the +"forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.--It is however of no +consequence.--I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct. + +I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.--Yet I flinch +not from the duties which tie me to life. + +That there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it +matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet +your understanding or mine must be strangely warped--for what you term +"delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion +for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you +to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and +affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have +stood the brunt of your sarcasms. + +The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will +survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. +The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal +desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to +come.--Whether you will always think so, I shall never know. + +It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction +forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be. + +I part with you in peace. + + +_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ + + + + +Footnotes: + +[1] Dowden's "Life of Shelley." + +[2] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," +probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this +interview.--W. G. + +[3] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written +during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.--W. G. + +[4] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a +similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the +person to whom they were addressed.--W. G. + +[5] Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre, +but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he +went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited +London on business. + +[6] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a +considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.--W. G. + +[7] She means, "the latter more than the former."--W. G. + +[8] This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation +of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent +from Paris, and bear the address of London.--W. G. + +[9] The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], was about this +time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was +recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of +business now accumulated upon him.--W. G. + +[10] This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] the person to +whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, +things upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different +appellation.--W. G. + +[11] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, +and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.--W. G. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + +The word "an" was corrected to "am" on page 151. + +The unmatched closing quotation mark on page 167 is presented as in the +original text. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Letters of Mary +Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay, by Mary Wollstonecraft and Roger Ingpen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + +***** This file should be named 34413-8.txt or 34413-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/4/1/34413/ + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft + Roger Ingpen + +Release Date: November 23, 2010 [EBook #34413] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + + + + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<h1>The Love Letters<br /><small>of</small><br />Mary Wollstonecraft</h1> +<h3>TO GILBERT IMLAY</h3> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><span class="smcap"><b>With a Prefatory Memoir</b></span></p> +<h2>By Roger Ingpen</h2> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><b><i>ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS</i></b></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center">Philadelphia<br />J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY<br />London: HUTCHINSON & CO.<br />1908</p> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center">PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h2>MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT’S LETTERS</h2> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><strong>EDITED BY ROGER INGPEN</strong></p> +<div class="note"> +<p class="hang"><b>LEIGH HUNT’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY.</b> Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. <span class="smcap">A. Constable & Co.</span></p> +<p class="hang"><b>ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: A Collection of Verse Old and New.</b> <span class="smcap">Hutchinson & Co.</span></p> +<p class="hang"><b>FORSTER’S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH.</b> <i>Abridged.</i> (Standard Biographies.) <span class="smcap">Hutchinson & Co.</span></p> +<p class="hang"><b>BOSWELL’S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON.</b> <i>Abridged.</i> (Standard Biographies.) <span class="smcap">Hutchinson & Co.</span></p> +<p class="hang"><b>BOSWELL’S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON.</b> Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. <span class="smcap">Pitman.</span></p></div> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/image_1.jpg" alt="" /><br /> +<img src="images/signa.jpg" alt="Mary Wollstonecraft" /></div> +<p class="center"><i>From an engraving, after the painting by John Opie, R.A.</i></p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<h2>PREFACE</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>I</h3> + +<p>Of Mary Wollstonecraft’s ancestors little is known, except that they were +of Irish descent. Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraft, was the son of a +prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of Irish birth, from whom he +inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds. He married towards the middle of +the eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in +good position, of Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: Edward, Mary, +Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. Mary, the eldest daughter and second +child, was born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of Burns and Schiller, +and the last year of George II.’s reign. She passed her childhood, until +she was five years old, in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, but it is +doubtful whether she was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstonecraft +followed no profession in particular, although from time to time he +dabbled in a variety of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money. +He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an +ungovernable temper and a restless spirit that urged him to perpetual +changes of residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered most of his +fortune, he wandered to Essex, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span> then, among other places, in 1768 to +Beverley, in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at Laugharne in +Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired of this experiment and returned +once more to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality and +selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently compelled to defend her +mother from his acts of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting herself +bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. Wollstonecraft herself was far +from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant and a stern but incompetent +ruler of her household, she treated Mary as the scapegoat of the family. +Mary’s early years therefore were far from being happy; what little +schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father’s migratory habits.</p> + +<p>In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts were once more in London, +Mary formed a friendship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her own age, +which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. There was +a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for Fanny contrived by +her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as her +father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow.</p> + +<p>Mary’s new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. She loved music, +sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting +letters. It was by comparing Fanny Blood’s letters with her own, that Mary +first recognised how defective her education had been. She applied herself +therefore to the task of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span> increasing her slender stock of +knowledge—hoping ultimately to become a governess. At length, at the age +of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old +lady, a Mrs. Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London tradesman. In spite of +many difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years, +leaving it only to attend the deathbed of her mother.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the +home. Mary went to live temporarily with the Bloods at Walham Green, and +assisted Mrs. Blood, who took in needle-work; Everina became for a short +time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a solicitor; and Eliza married a +Mr. Bishop.</p> + +<p>Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that “all the Wollstonecraft sisters were +enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, +sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied +insults. All had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the +nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution.” +Mrs. Bishop’s married life from the first was one of utter misery; they +were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently +exasperated her husband’s worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the +scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were +afterwards described with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, “The +Wrongs of Women.” It was plainly impossible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span> for Mrs. Bishop to continue +to live with such a man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill, +Mary, with her characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon +after assisted her in her flight from her husband.</p> + +<p>In the following year (1783) Mary set up a school at Islington with Fanny +Blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, Mrs. +Bishop and Everina. The school was afterwards moved to Newington Green, +where Mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day scholars. After +a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house; but +unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to +her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet.</p> + +<p>While Mary was living at Newington Green, she was introduced to Dr. +Johnson, who, Godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and +attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. He desired her to +repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last +illness and death.</p> + +<p>In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired her health by overwork, and signs +of consumption were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who was engaged in +business at Lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long admired +Fanny, and wanted to marry her. It was thought that the climate of +Portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more +on that account than on any other, to become his wife.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> She left England +in February 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. Mary’s anxiety +for her friend’s welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition, +she at once went off to Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only +in time to comfort Fanny in her dying moments. Mary was almost +broken-hearted at the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon +as short as possible, remaining only as long as was necessary for Mrs. +Skeys’s funeral.</p> + +<p>She returned to England to find that the school had greatly suffered by +neglect during her absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys’s brother, George +Blood, she says: “The loss of Fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud +over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when I am bereft of +every other comfort? I have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and +where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?”</p> + +<p>She thus realised that to continue her school was useless. But her +experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. She had +observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and +her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, “Thoughts on the +Education of Daughters,” (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, +a sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who +were desirous of going over to Ireland.</p> + +<p>She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the October of 1787 she became +governess to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaelstown, with a +salary of forty pounds a year. Lady Kingsborough in Mary’s opinion was “a +shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... She rouges, and in short is a fine +lady without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by +dogs....” Lady Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her +chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. She pampered her dogs, much to +the disgust of Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. What views +she had on education were narrow. She had been accustomed to submission +from her governess, but she learnt before long that Mary was not of a +tractable disposition. The children, at first unruly and defiant, +“literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing,” soon +gave Mary their confidence, and before long their affection. One of her +pupils, Margaret King, afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the +warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady Mountcashel continued her +acquaintance with William Godwin after Mary’s death, and later came across +Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won from the children the affection +that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 1788, +when she had been with Lady Kingsborough for about a year, she received +her dismissal. She had completed by this time the novel to which she gave +the name of “Mary,” which is a tribute to the memory of her friend Fanny Blood.</p> + +<p> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span></p> +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary Wollstonecraft had concluded her +career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to +literature. Her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had +written nothing to encourage her for such a venture. It was her fortune, +however, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, the humanitarian +publisher and bookseller of St. Paul’s Churchyard, who issued the works of +Priestley, Horne Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and other men of advanced +thought, and she met at his table many of the authors for whom he +published, and such eminent men of the day as William Blake, Fuseli, and +Tom Paine. Mr. Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends, +encouraged her in her literary plans. He was the publisher of her +“Thoughts on the Education of Daughters,” and had recognised in that +little book so much promise, that when she sought his advice, he at once +offered to assist her with employment.</p> + +<p>Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a house in George Street, +Blackfriars. She had brought to London the manuscript of her novel “Mary,” +and she set to work on a book for children entitled “Original Stories from +Real Life.” Both of these books appeared before the year was out, the +latter with quaint plates by William Blake. Mary also occupied some of her +time with translations from the French, German, and even Dutch,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span> one of +which was an abridged edition of Saltzmann’s “Elements of Morality,” for +which Blake also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, Johnson +engaged Mary as his literary adviser or “reader,” and secured her services +in connexion with <i>The Analytical Review</i>, a periodical that he had +recently founded.</p> + +<p>While she was at George Street she also wrote her “Vindication of the +Rights of Man” in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief satisfaction in +keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters +could always come when out of employment. She was never weary of assisting +them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them +situations. One of her first acts when she settled in London was to send +Everina Wollstonecraft to Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. Johnson, +who wrote a short account of Mary’s life in London at this time, says she +often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his +advice, or unburden her troubles to him. Among the many duties she imposed +on herself was the charge of her father’s affairs, which must indeed have +been a profitless undertaking.</p> + +<p>The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft’s labours while she was living +at Blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with +her name, “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.” This volume—now much +better known by its title than its contents—was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span> dedicated to the astute +M. Talleyrand de Périgord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on account of +his authorship of a pamphlet on National Education. It is unnecessary to +attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal +book—modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both +of Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say that it is +really a plea for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not +only her own sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many of her +suggestions have long since been put to practical use, such as that of a +system of free national education, with equal advantages for boys and +girls. The book contains too much theory and is therefore to a great +extent obsolete. Mary Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that +recognises woman as the plaything of man; she pleads rather for a friendly +footing of equality between the sexes, besides claiming a new order of +things for women, in terms which are unusually frank. Such a book could +not fail to create a sensation, and it speedily made her notorious, not +only in this country, but on the Continent, where it was translated into +French. It was of course the outcome of the French Revolution; the whole +work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of that movement, but whereas +the French patriots demanded rights for men, she made the same demands +also for women.</p> + +<p>It is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in France +had made a deep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</a></span> impression on Mary’s mind—its influence is stamped on +every page of her book, and it was her desire to visit France with Mr. +Johnson and Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so +she went alone in the December of 1792, chiefly with the object of +perfecting her French. Godwin states, though apparently in error, that +Fuseli was the cause of her going to France, the acquaintance with the +painter having grown into something warmer than mere friendship. Fuseli, +however, had a wife and was happily married, so Mary “prudently resolved +to retire into another country, far remote from the object who had +unintentionally excited the tender passion in her breast.”</p> + +<p>She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on December +24 to her sister Everina: “The day after to-morrow I expect to see the +King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost afraid +to anticipate.” On the day in question, the 26th, Louis XVI. appeared in +the Hall of the Convention to plead his cause through his advocate, +Desize, and on the same day she wrote that letter to Mr. Johnson which has +so often been quoted: “About nine o’clock this morning,” she says, “the +King passed by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a +few strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through +empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round +the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span> flocked to +their windows, but the casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor +did I see anything like an insulting gesture. For the first time since I +entered France I bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected the +propriety of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can +scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow +insensibly from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than +I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, +where so many of his race had triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis +XIV. before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his +victories so flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of +prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery....”</p> + +<p>Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame Filiettaz, the daughter of +Madame Bregantz, in whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and Everina +Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary was now something of a +celebrity—“Authorship,” she writes, “is a heavy weight for female +shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity”—and she carried with +her letters of introduction to several influential people in Paris. She +renewed her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate with Helen Maria +Williams (who is said to have once lived with Imlay), and visited, among +others, the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her intention to go to +Switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she +settled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</a></span> at Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. “Her +habitation here,” says Godwin, “was a solitary house in the midst of a +garden, with no other habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man +who performed for her many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes +contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great +veneration for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some +grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the +greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had any person with her as a +visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed, +her historical and moral view of the French Revolution, into which she +incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her letters, +and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in +which they had been commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to +refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her host in +vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies +and murders that had been committed there.”</p> + +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/image_2.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p class="center">From an engraving by Ridley, dated 1796, after a painting by John Opie, R.A.</p> +<p class="center">MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</p> +<div class="note"> +<p>This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale of the +late Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that it represents Mary +Wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the <i>Monthly +Mirror</i> (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was +made. Mrs. Merritt made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul’s +edition of the “Letters to Imlay.”</p> +<p class="right"><i>To face p. xvi</i></p></div> +<p> </p> + +<p>It is probable that in March 1793 Mary Wollstonecraft first saw Gilbert +Imlay. The meeting occurred at Mr. Christie’s house, and her immediate +impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided +him. However, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and +later into love. Gilbert Imlay was born in New Jersey about 1755. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[Pg xvii]</a></span>He +served as a captain in the American army during the Revolutionary war, and +was the author of “A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of +North America,” 1792, and a novel entitled “The Emigrants,” 1793. In the +latter work, as an American, he proposes to “place a mirror to the view of +Englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were +once so lovely,” and further “to prevent the sacrilege which the present +practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce.” It is not known +whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of, +his connexion with Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in +business, probably in the timber trade with Sweden and Norway.</p> + +<p>In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary sought no advice and took no +one into her confidence. She was evidently deeply in love with him, and +felt that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness +to their union. Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay episode, +states that “the origin of the connexion was about the middle of April +1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for about three months.” +Imlay had no property whatever, and Mary had objected to marry him, +because she would not burden him with her own debts, or “involve him in +certain family embarrassments,” for which she believed herself +responsible. She looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, “as of the +most inviolable nature.” Then the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[Pg xviii]</a></span> French Government passed a decree that +all British subjects resident in France should go to prison until a +general declaration of peace. It therefore became expedient, not that a +marriage should take place, for that would necessitate Mary declaring her +nationality, but that she should take the name of Imlay, “which,” says +Godwin, “from the nature of their connexion (formed on her part at least, +with no capricious or fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to +do, and obtain a certificate from the American Ambassador, as the wife of +a native of that country. Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought +proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to +Paris.”</p> + +<p>In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her sister Everina, dated from +Havre, March 10, 1794, she describes the climate of France as “uncommonly +fine,” and praises the common people for their manners; but she is also +saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that “death and +misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... If any of +the many letters I have written have come to your hands or Eliza’s, you +know that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most worthy +man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of feeling, a +soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met +with. Having been brought up in the interior parts of America, he is a +most natural, unaffected creature.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[Pg xix]</a></span>Mary has expressed in the “Rights of Woman” her ideal of the relations +between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic +happiness as she had cherished for some time. She had known much +unhappiness in the past. Godwin says: “She brought in the present +instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a +chosen friend. Let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart, +querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character +seemed to change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of +her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the +vivacity of a youthful mind. She was playful, full of confidence, +kindness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new +colour and smoothness. Her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing +with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day +to day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well +recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost +every one that beheld it.” She had now met the man to whom she earnestly +believed she could surrender herself with entire devotion. Naturally of an +affectionate nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive +Irish spirit, as Godwin says, “she gave way to all the sensibilities of +her nature.”</p> + +<p>The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. Mary had +taken her step without much forethought. She attributed to Imlay<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx">[Pg xx]</a></span> +“uncommon tenderness of heart,” but she did not detect his instability of +character. He certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both +before and after his attachment to Mary. He was not the man to be +satisfied with one woman as his life-companion. A typical American, he was +deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much +of his time as he represented. In the September after he set up house with +Mary, that is in ’93, the year of the Terror, he left her in Paris while +he went to Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to +Havre Marat. It is awful to think what must have been the life of this +lonely stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain +hardly a reference to the events of the Revolution.</p> + +<p>Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay’s return to Paris, and sickened with the +“growing cruelties of Robespierre,” joined him at Havre in January 1794, +and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory +of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence +throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. +In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus +of little Fanny:</p> + +<p>“I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to +fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She +does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and +though I am sure she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxi" id="Page_xxi">[Pg xxi]</a></span> has her father’s quick temper and feelings, her good +humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing.”</p> + +<p>In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had +subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of +their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing. +The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in +which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris. +Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she +expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of +business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had +cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay +put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an +end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest +forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress +belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at +first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second +consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished +house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when +she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take +her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt +of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was +at this time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxii" id="Page_xxii">[Pg xxii]</a></span> engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy +representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that +the journey would restore Mary’s health and spirits. She therefore +consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a +document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and +describing her as “Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife,” and concluding: +“Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved +friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely +and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and +affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay.”</p> + +<p>The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were +issued in 1796, as “Letters from Sweden and Norway,” one of her most +readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by +Godwin in his wife’s posthumous works, and are given in the present +volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay +had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and +to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her +suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely +neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the +discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought +Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference +resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxiii" id="Page_xxiii">[Pg xxiii]</a></span> drown herself. She +first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and +therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived +there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until +her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She +was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life +was saved.</p> + +<p>Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last +sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when “he alighted +from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter +passed,” she assured Godwin, “without producing in her any oppressive +emotion.” Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from +Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to +be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor +interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not +known.</p> + +<p>Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and +publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her +literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more +seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was +William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced +republicans of the time, the author of “Political Justice” and the novel +“Caleb Williams.” They had met before,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxiv" id="Page_xxiv">[Pg xxiv]</a></span> for the first time in November +1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the +naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although +they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became +friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him +extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of +the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, +Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his +family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he +appears to the worst advantage—a kind of early Pecksniff—in his later +correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this +correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine +side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait +Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and +eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by +Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so +pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of +Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face +portrait of the philosopher—“he has large noble eyes, and a <i>nose</i>—oh, +most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the +effect of its downward elongation.”</p> + +<p>Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as “friendship melting into +love.” They agreed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxv" id="Page_xxv">[Pg xxv]</a></span> live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty +doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his +theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family +happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, +generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at +his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a +walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate +with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints +some of these; such as Godwin’s:</p> + +<p>“I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you +four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How +do you do?”</p> + +<p>And Mary’s: “Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I +wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I +shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie’s; but should I not +find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give +Fanny butter with her pudding.” This note is dated April 20, 1797, and +probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie.</p> + +<p>On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional +clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed +bachelor habits.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxvi" id="Page_xxvi">[Pg xxvi]</a></span>Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at +Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being +witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered +diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a +mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent +to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly +for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. +Reveley, two of Godwin’s admirers, were so upset at the announcement of +his marriage that they shed tears.</p> + +<p>An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey’s +letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, “Of all the +lions or <i>literati</i> I have seen here, Mary Imlay’s countenance is the +best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat +similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display—an expression +indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but +still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of +one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I +ever saw.”</p> + +<p>Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life +was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to +Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband +and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxvii" id="Page_xxvii">[Pg xxvii]</a></span>delightful +reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were.</p> + +<p> </p> +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/image_3.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p class="center">From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie<br /> +(probably painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery.</p> +<p class="center">MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.</p> +<div class="note"> +<p>This picture passed from Godwin’s hands on his death to his grandson, Sir +Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his +widow, Lady Shelley. It was engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin’s +memoir of his wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the <i>Lady’s +Magazine</i>, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a +mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1802. Mrs. Merritt also made an +etching of the picture for Mr. Paul’s edition of the “Letters to Imlay.”</p> + +<p class="right"><i>To face p. xxvi</i></p></div> +<p> </p> + +<p>On August 30, Mary’s child was born, not the William so much desired by +them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well +with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The +best medical advice was obtained, but after a week’s illness, on Sunday +morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During +her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave +Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, “Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven.” But, +as Mr. Kegan Paul says, “even at that moment Godwin declined to be +entrapped into the admission that heaven existed,” and his instant reply +was: “You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat +easier.” Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband’s religious +doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one.</p> + +<p>Godwin’s grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately +after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the “Memoirs” testify. +Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in +the presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was +laid beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is +said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin’s daughter. In 1851, when +the Metropolitan and Midland Railways were constructed at St.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxviii" id="Page_xxviii">[Pg xxviii]</a></span> Pancras, +the graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of Mary and William Godwin +were removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, to Bournemouth, where +they now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley.</p> + +<p>In the year following Mary’s death (1798) Godwin edited his wife’s +“Posthumous Works,” in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to +Imlay, and her incomplete novel “The Wrongs of Woman.” His tribute to Mary +Godwin’s memory was also published in 1798, under the title of “Memoirs of +the Author of <i>A Vindication of the Rights of Woman</i>.” Godwin’s novel, +“St. Leon” came out in 1799; his tragedy “Antonio” was produced only to +fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by Mrs. Clairmont, a +widow. The Godwin household was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it +did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. Godwin’s two children, Charles and +Claire Clairmont, and also of William, the only child born of her marriage +with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began a correspondence with Godwin, which +ultimately led to Mary Godwin’s elopement with the poet. Poor Fanny Imlay, +or Godwin, as she was called after her mother’s death, died at the age of +nineteen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life had been far from +happy in this strange household. She had grown to love Shelley, but his +choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her secret to +herself. One day she suddenly left home and travelled to Swansea, where +she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxix" id="Page_xxix">[Pg xxix]</a></span> where +she had taken a room, “her long brown hair about her face; a bottle of +laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: ‘I have long +determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the +existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only +been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in +endeavouring to promote her welfare.’ She had with her the little Genevan +watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley: and in her purse were a few +shillings.”<small><a name="f1.1" id="f1.1" href="#f1">[1]</a></small></p> + +<p>Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with Fanny in London, +wrote this stanza:</p> + +<p class="poem">“Her voice did quiver as we parted;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet knew I not that heart was broken</span><br /> +From whence it came, and I departed<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Heeding not the words then spoken.</span><br /> +Misery—O Misery,<br /> +This world is all too wide for thee!”</p> + +<p> </p> +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>The vicissitudes to which Mary Wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during +her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. In her own day +recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in +terms not less ungentle than Horace Walpole’s epithets, “a hyena in +petticoats” or “a philosophising serpent,” posterity has proved hardly +more lenient to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxx" id="Page_xxx">[Pg xxx]</a></span> But the vigorous work of this “female patriot” has +saved her name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of +many men and women more talented than Mary Wollstonecraft. Reputed chiefly +as an unsexed being, who had written “A Vindication of the Rights of +Women,” she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of +her sex; but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction +of the public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. Whether +right or wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing +forbidden subjects. It is true that she detected many social evils, and +suggested some excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was +not ripe for her book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer. +Moreover, her memoir by William Godwin, beautiful as it is in many +respects, exercised a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her +memory. The very fact that she became the wife of so notorious a man, was +sufficient reason to condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen.</p> + +<p>For two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to +remove the stigma from her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan Paul, a +man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain +something like justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book on William +Godwin, published in 1876, the true story of Mary’s life was told for the +first time. It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history +of an unhappy but brave and loyal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxi" id="Page_xxxi">[Pg xxxi]</a></span> woman, whose faults proceeded from +excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. Mary +Wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her +outlook on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her +imagination. She saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre +shadows—it was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce +some of her best writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the +defects of her worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul’s memoir, Mary +Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an entirely different aspect, and many +there are who have come under the spell of her fascinating personality. It +is not, however, her message alone that now interests us, but the woman +herself, her desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her love. +Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint mists of the past, a +woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her books are no longer +read. But it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in this volume +are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other writers +have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love, but Mary +Wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the man +whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. It is +true that she was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had probably +assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but +something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xxxii" id="Page_xxxii">[Pg xxxii]</a></span> any +motive in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with Imlay. +She was far too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it +was only by a mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion.</p> + +<p><i>December 1907.</i></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<h2>PORTRAITS</h2> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="5" summary="table"> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mary Wollstonecraft</span> (Photogravure)</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_v"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mary Wollstonecraft</span>, by Opie. From an engraving by Ridley</td><td align="right"><i>facing p.</i> <a href="#Page_xvi">xvi</a></td></tr> +<tr><td><span class="smcap">Mary Wollstonecraft</span>, from the picture by Opie</td><td align="right"><i>facing p.</i> <a href="#Page_xxvii">xxvi</a></td></tr></table> + + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h1>LETTERS TO GILBERT IMLAY</h1> +<p> </p> +<h2>LETTER I</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Two o’Clock</i> [<i>Paris, June</i> 1793].</p> + +<p>My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I +have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early +hour, with the Miss ——s, the <i>only</i> day they intend to pass here. I +shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my +fire-side when I return, about eight o’clock. Will you not wait for poor +Joan?—whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately +of her.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours, truly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + +<p>I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER II</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Past Twelve o’Clock, Monday Night</i><br /> +[<i>Paris, Aug.</i> 1793].</p> + +<p>I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my +love, good-night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can +to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ——’s eye. You +can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we are +to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how many +plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart +has found peace in your bosom.—Cherish me with that dignified tenderness, +which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep +under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you pain.—Yes, I +will be <i>good</i>, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> +cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen +almost too heavy to be borne.</p> + +<p>But, good-night!—God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss—yet +I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude +to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, because it +signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether we +have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock to-morrow.<small><a name="f2.1" id="f2.1" href="#f2">[2]</a></small>—Yours—</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER III</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Wednesday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Aug.</i> 1793].</p> + +<p>You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you +know how very attentive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> I have been to the —— ever since I came to +Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I +like to see your eyes praise me; and Milton insinuates, that, during such +recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the +honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.</p> + +<p>Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me +to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of <span class="smcaplc">DUTY</span>—you <i>must</i> +be glad to see me—because you are glad—or I will make love to the +<i>shade</i> of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was +talking with Madame ——, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have +sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so +highly respect principle.——</p> + +<p>Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—Far from it—and, +if I had not begun to form a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> new theory respecting men, I should, in the +vanity of my heart, have <i>imagined</i> that <i>I</i> could have made something of +his——it was composed of such materials—Hush! here they come—and love +flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing +on my pale cheeks.</p> + +<p>I hope to see Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——’s to meet him. +——, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I +am to spend the day with ——.</p> + +<p>I shall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no +matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I +immediately want, to take with me.—On Friday then I shall expect you to +dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since +I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately,</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER IV<span class="foot"><a name="f3.1" id="f3.1" href="#f3">[3]</a></span></h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Friday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Sept.</i> 1793].</p> + +<p>A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previously announced, called here +yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at +not finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ——. I have since seen him, +and he tells me that he has settled the business.</p> + +<p>So much for business!—May I venture to talk a little longer about less +weighty affairs?—How are you?—I have been following you all along the +road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love, my +imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by +their presence—I was going to say caresses—and why should I not? I have +found out that I have more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> mind than you, in one respect; because I can, +without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same +object, much longer than you can.—The way to my senses is through my +heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours.</p> + +<p>With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is +necessary to render a woman <i>piquante</i>, a soft word for desirable; and, +beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by +fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my +whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their +pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the +few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life.</p> + +<p>I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought +produced it—that these continual separations were necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> to warm your +affection.—Of late, we are always separating.—Crack!—crack!—and away +you go.—This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began +to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my +eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers +that you are one of the best creatures in the world.—Pardon then the +vagaries of a mind, that has been almost “crazed by care,” as well as +“crossed in hapless love,” and bear with me a <i>little</i> longer!—When we +are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and +my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion +that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours, +with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.</p> + +<p>Take care of yourself—and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear, +if you please) who sincerely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> loves you, and will try to convince you of +it, by becoming happier.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER V</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Sunday Night</i> [<i>Paris</i>, 1793].</p> + +<p>I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed +tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that +my mind is serene and my heart affectionate.</p> + +<p>Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle +twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature +who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced +an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm my +mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we are to +have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding that +I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I sat +down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.</p> + +<p>Are you very busy?</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come +home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe +you will.—</p> + +<p>Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be +patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the +time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over +again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely +connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes +of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you +have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> Take care of +yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the +kindest good-night I can utter.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER VI</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Friday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Dec.</i> 1793].</p> + +<p>I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as +myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy <i>first</i> letter, the +very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it +before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There is +a full, true, and particular account.—</p> + +<p>Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of +stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the +same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.—There<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions +always give grace to the actions.</p> + +<p>Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy +money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the +exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have +expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before +me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and +thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than +soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not +left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has +spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a +delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a +grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> thus +alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it +divides—I must pause a moment.</p> + +<p>Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know why, +but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than present; +nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let +me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and +have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER VII.</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Sunday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Dec.</i> 29, 1793].</p> + +<p>You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. Pray sir! when do you think +of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit +you? I shall expect (as the country people say in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> England) that you will +make a <i>power</i> of money to indemnify me for your absence.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>Well! but, my love, to the old story—am I to see you this week, or this +month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I +would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.</p> + +<p>I long to see Mrs. ——; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself +airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for +not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.—On this +score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from +my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will +only suffer an exclamation—“The creature!” or a kind look to escape me, +when I pass the slippers—which I could not remove from my <i>falle</i> door, +though<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> they are not the handsomest of their kind.</p> + +<p><i>Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be +purchased.</i> God bless you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER VIII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Monday Night</i> [<i>Paris, Dec.</i> 30, 1793].</p> + +<p>My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, +depressed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me several, +and the parcel of books directed to Mr. —— was for me. Mr. ——’s letter +was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own +affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me.</p> + +<p>A melancholy letter from my sister —— has also harrassed my mind—that +from my brother would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> have given me sincere pleasure; but for</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and +you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.—I think +that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when +your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of +playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, +and a desire to please the——where shall I find a word to express the +relationship which subsists between us?—Shall I ask the little +twitcher?—But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you how +much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I have been +fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to write, and my +heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to you.</p> + +<p>I did not receive your letter till I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> came home; and I did not expect it, +for the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me—and I +wanted one.</p> + +<p>Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a +little!—It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I +love.</p> + +<p>There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, +if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very +dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours affectionately.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER IX</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Tuesday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Dec.</i> 31, 1793].</p> + +<p>Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take +one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because +trifles of this sort, without having<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> any effect on my mind, damp my +spirits:—and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of his +same sensibility.—Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to +master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of +affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to +dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to +days browned by care!</p> + +<p>The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not look +into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my +stockings.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER X</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Wednesday Night</i> [<i>Paris, Jan.</i> 1, 1794].</p> + +<p>As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to +complain of two: yet, as I expected<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> to receive a letter this afternoon, I +am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not +feel?</p> + +<p>I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s head and heart be organized +from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of +them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The “peace” and +clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. “I am +fallen,” as Milton said, “on evil days;” for I really believe that Europe +will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. Life is +but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; +for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, +down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!</p> + +<p>Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head +aches, and my heart is heavy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> The world appears an “unweeded garden,” +where “things rank and vile” flourish best.</p> + +<p>If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of +it—I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off—nobody knows +where.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——s, +simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ——, and ——, nay, +all the world, may know it for aught I care!—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s +coarse jokes.</p> + +<p>Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it +comes into the world, it seems to me, by a <i>natural right</i>, to belong to +her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, +excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are these the +privileges of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps +the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for +man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A man is a +tyrant!</p> + +<p>You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing +away with some honest fellows in London. The casual exercise of social +sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an +heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour +with you, to be pleased with the world.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="right"><i>Thursday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Jan.</i> 2, 1794].</p> + +<p>I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful +temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the +matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it—I do not want to be +loved like a goddess but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you!<small><a name="f4.1" id="f4.1" href="#f4">[4]</a></small></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XI</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Monday Night</i> [<i>Paris, Jan.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my +face, glowing with shame for my folly.—I would hide it in your bosom, if +you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my +fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes +overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I entreat you.—Do +not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very +wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had +no confidence in me——</p> + +<p>It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> caprices +of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much +indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or +perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and +tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully +disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; +still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter.</p> + +<p>Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask +as many questions as Voltaire’s Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue +to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my +tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into +playfulness.</p> + +<p>Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not +an angry word—I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> think I deserve a +scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come +back—and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you +the next.</p> + +<p>—— did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre. +Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it +was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so.</p> + +<p>God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of +tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my +support.—Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did +writing it, and you will make happy your</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Wednesday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Jan.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>encourage “quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my +love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not +half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as +seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little +pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days +past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be +glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me, +and that I want to be soothed to peace.</p> + +<p>One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness +which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to +me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would +be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a +duty to stifle them, when I imagine <i>that I am treated with coldness</i>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of +your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there +is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly +depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look +forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth +affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look +at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, +yet most affectionate</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XIII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Thursday Night</i> [<i>Paris, Jan.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I +knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, +when your tender epistle of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your +poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to +receive another cold one.—Burn it also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget +that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect, +that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me +again to your heart.</p> + +<p>I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, +because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading +continually the fatal consequence of my folly.—But, should you think it +right to remain at Havre, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of +a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be +strong again.—Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took +such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind. +The girl is come to warm my bed—so I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> will tenderly say, good-night! and +write a line or two in the morning.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="right"><i>Morning.</i></p> + +<p>I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence +shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was +so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.</p> + +<p>I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether +this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, +before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, +and gave a turn to my whole system.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary Imlay.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XIV</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Saturday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Feb.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your +motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what +seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.—I thought +also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at Havre, I might as +well have been with you.—Well! well, what signifies what I brooded +over—Let us now be friends!</p> + +<p>I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon—and +I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, +till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire +when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to +your Mary, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your +journey.</p> + +<p>What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy +was instantly at work, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my +eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your +knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six—if you +have not set your heart on this round number.</p> + +<p>I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to visit her since the +first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as +I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has +been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am +quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not +much.—The two Mrs. ——s have been very anxious and tender.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XV</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Sunday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Feb.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is +still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I +am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, +after having talked of illness and apprehensions.</p> + +<p>I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire +phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood +into my head) so <i>lightsome</i>, that I think it will not <i>go badly with +me</i>.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am +urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born +tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.</p> + +<p>I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the +fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have +promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, +will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could +not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to +read over this prattle—but it is only for your eye.</p> + +<p>I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by +impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional +uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do +not think a <i>little</i> money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will +struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of +poverty.</p> + +<p>Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for +I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> into +them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XVI</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Tuesday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Feb.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday +with Mr. ——, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall +be to see you. I have just got my passport, for I do not foresee any +impediment to my reaching Havre, to bid you good-night next Friday in my +new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile +me to sleep—for I have not caught much rest since we parted.</p> + +<p>You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully +round my heart, than I supposed possible.—Let me indulge the thought, +that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish +to be supported.—This is talking a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> new language for me!—But, knowing +that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of +affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more in +the same house with you. God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XVII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Wednesday Morning</i> [<i>Paris, Feb.</i> 1794].</p> + +<p>I only send this as an <i>avant-coureur</i>, without jack-boots, to tell you, +that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you +receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more +properly speaking, cheerful.—What is the reason that my spirits are not +as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your +temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own +forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am afraid +to say never.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in +person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has +never left you.</p> + +<p>I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too +fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to +Havre my spirits will not sink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my +body to do whatever I wished.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XVIII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Thursday Morning, Havre, March</i> 12 [1794].</p> + +<p>We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was +sorry, childishly so, for your going,<small><a name="f5.1" id="f5.1" href="#f5">[5]</a></small> when I knew that you were to stay +such a short time, and I had a plan<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> of employment; yet I could not +sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of +the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; +but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, +though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am, wishing you a +finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of +your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over +your relaxing features.</p> + +<p>But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take +care of yourself—and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XIX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Havre, March</i>, 1794].</p> + +<p>Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I +was to inclose.—This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter +of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> business.—You know, you say, they will not chime together.—I had got +you by the fire-side, with the <i>gigot</i> smoking on the board, to lard your +poor bare ribs—and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper +up, that was directly under my eyes! What had I got in them to render me +so blind?—I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; +for I am,</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Havre</i>] <i>Sunday, August</i> 17 [1794].</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I have promised —— to go with him to his country-house, where he is now +permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be sure<small><a name="f6.1" id="f6.1" href="#f6">[6]</a></small>—whom I cannot +help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> shall enjoy +the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my +imagination.</p> + +<p>I have called on Mrs. ——. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a +dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her <i>piquante</i>.—But +<i>Monsieur</i> her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the +mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the +foreground of the picture.</p> + +<p>The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the house smelt of commerce +from top to toe—so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only +proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a +room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the <i>pendule</i>—A +nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed +Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah! +kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> away the +loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the +<i>sombre</i> day of life—whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see +things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running +stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to +tantalize us.</p> + +<p>But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me +let the square-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of +the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who +sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain +my pen.</p> + +<p>I have been writing on, expecting poor —— to come; for, when I began, I +merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally +associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.</p> + +<p>Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> +<i>gigot</i> every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to +cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments +in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the +senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the +father,<small><a name="f7.1" id="f7.1" href="#f7">[7]</a></small> when they produce the suffusion I admire.—In spite of icy age, +I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, +and be stupidly useful to the stupid—</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXI</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Havre, August</i> 19 [1794] <i>Tuesday</i>.</p> + +<p>I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you +yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to +the right cause. I intended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> answering your kind letter immediately, that +you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but —— came in, and some +other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, +leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is +sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my +place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary +your affection is to my happiness.—Still I do not think it false +delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness +should arise <i>as much</i> from love, which is always rather a selfish +passion, as reason—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by seeking +your own.—For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your +generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the +very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which +demand my affection; but, unless the attachment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> appears to me clearly +mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of +cherishing a tenderness for your person.</p> + +<p>I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long +time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all +my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though +they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment—This for our little +girl was at first very reasonable—more the effect of reason, a sense of +duty, than feeling—now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and +when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.</p> + +<p>You too have somehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my +dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve for +myself, tears rushed into my eyes.—Do not however suppose that I am +melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> I can find +fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.</p> + +<p>I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation) +with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the +friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXII</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Havre, August</i> 20 [1794].</p> + +<p>I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ——. Knavery always +rouses my indignation—I should be gratified to hear that the law had +chastised —— severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the +business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly +know how you would express your contempt.</p> + +<p>Pray ask some questions about Tallien—I am still pleased with the dignity +of his conduct.—The other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of +a degree of address, which I admire—and mean to point out to you, as one +of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the +man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, +which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.</p> + +<p>Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, +of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning +woman, and you almost look for cunning—Nay, in <i>managing</i> my happiness, +you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest +sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart, +which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and +cherished.—You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that +overflowing (<i>épanchement de cœur</i>), which becoming almost childish, +appears a weakness only to the weak.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span>But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as +a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a +<i>number</i> of mistresses.—Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather +flattered his vanity than his senses.</p> + +<p>Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to +close it without mentioning the little damsel—who has been almost +springing out of my arm—she certainly looks very like you—but I do not +love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXIII<span class="foot"><a name="f8.1" id="f8.1" href="#f8">[8]</a></span></h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>September</i> 22 [1794].</p> + +<p>I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> and +which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely +write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had +left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me +why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and +over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.</p> + +<p>Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her—to +ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud +music—yesterday, at the <i>fête</i>, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to +honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever +had round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.</p> + +<p>Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap? +There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then +rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> +coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I +recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window, +regarding the waving corn!</p> + +<p>Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the +imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of +sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the +passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more +exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, +appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if +you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the +imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold +creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to +rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of +leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which +would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are +embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back +your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; +and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be +dear to me; for I am yours truly,</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXIV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Evening, Sept.</i> 23, [1794].</p> + +<p>I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I +cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my +bosom, she looked so like you (<i>entre nous</i>, your best looks, for I do not +admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, +and I began to think that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> there was something in the assertion of man and +wife being one—for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the +beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited.</p> + +<p>Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present—the rest is +all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain +of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days +past.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>, 1794] <i>Morning</i>.</p> + +<p>Yesterday B—— sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me +before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the same opinion +of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and +real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be +met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> age of +mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him +to see her.</p> + +<p>I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I suppose will write about business. +Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now +with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow +the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.</p> + +<p>I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at +night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am +alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into +reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.</p> + +<p>This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, +I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and +—— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> kiss the girl +for you, and bid you adieu.</p> + +<p>I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your +barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know +that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, +intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could +wish for.</p> + +<p>I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; +but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing +sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring +—— with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your +letters—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you +say of the negroes.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXV</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Paris, Sept.</i> 28 [1794].</p> + +<p>I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have +prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward +them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he +will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your +return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. +—— is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.</p> + +<p>I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you +with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar +circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost +lamented that I left Havre. ——, who is at best a most helpless creature, +is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> use to me, so that +I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.—She indeed rewards +me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother’s +fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent +smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of +sensibility and observation. The other day by B——’s child, a fine one, +she looked like a little sprite.—She is all life and motion, and her eyes +are not the eyes of a fool—I will swear.</p> + +<p>I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in +which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to +fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be +alluded to.</p> + +<p>Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of +your child, and the comfort of her mother.</p> + +<p>I have received, for you, letters<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> from ——. I want to hear how that +affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his +folly or knavery.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Your own</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>October</i> 1 [1794].</p> + +<p>It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will +ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going, +every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a +low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to +forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. <i>Tant mieux!</i> you +will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents +of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the +sight of it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> would afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I just now +stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last +absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague +you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, +ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into +your eyes.</p> + +<p>After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in +business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money, +taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be +gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the +mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, +than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy +traces they left on my mind—and every emotion is on the same side as my +reason, which always was on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious +to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I +love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where +else.</p> + +<p>My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a +kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my +heart.</p> + +<p>I have been interrupted—and must send off my letter. The liberty of the +press will produce a great effect here—the <i>cry of blood will not be +vain</i>!—Some more monsters will perish—and the Jacobins are +conquered.—Yet I almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast.</p> + +<p>I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which I shall not +now trouble you with a detail of.—I am sending —— back; her pregnancy +rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is +better for the child.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.</p> + +<p>—— is still here: he is a lost man.—He really loves his wife, and is +anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social +feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his +health, as well as renders his person disgusting.—If his wife had more +sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save +him.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most truly and affectionately</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>October</i> 26 [1794].</p> + +<p>My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the +sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged +to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and +this said little girl, our darling, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> become a most intelligent little +creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do +not find quite so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before +she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not +deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile +upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or +after a short absence. She has now the advantage of having two good +nurses, and I am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without +being the slave of it.</p> + +<p>I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ——, and +am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also +made some new acquaintance. I have almost <i>charmed</i> a judge of the +tribunal, R——, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has +humanity, if not <i>beaucoup d’esprit</i>. But let me tell you, if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> do not +make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the +<i>Marseillaise</i>, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and +plays sweetly on the violin.</p> + +<p>What do you say to this threat?—why, <i>entre nous</i>, I like to give way to +a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with +you. “The devil,” you know, is proverbially said to be “in a good humour, +when he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy, and come back +quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the +new-comer best.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks +happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come +back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not +be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> exertions which +injure your constitution.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most truly and tenderly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>P.S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ——, and pray +call for an answer.—It is for a person uncomfortably situated.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXVIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Dec.</i> 26 [1794].</p> + +<p>I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not +allow to assume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that +many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.—Well, I now +see your letter—and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that +your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> matters, +which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are +safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling +that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading +that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, +husband, father of my child!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this +moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it is +always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the world +again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy +thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted +my dreams.</p> + +<p>My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not +here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;” but +certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> is to +me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most +despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her +more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have +embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and +laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I +am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these +details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXIX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>December</i> 28 [1794].</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your +disappointments.—Yet, knowing that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> you are well, and think of me with +affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that +you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me.</p> + +<p>——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new +projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather +an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who +are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we +meet, we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and it has +probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue +some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to +arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing +to live.</p> + +<p>Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as +to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> your +departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment +necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the +expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be +considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment +and affection out of the heart?</p> + +<p>I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to +forward it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what +he has doubtless recommended most warmly.</p> + +<p>Stay, my friend, whilst it is <i>absolutely</i> necessary.—I will give you no +tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the +settling the <i>present</i> objects permit.—<i>I do not consent</i> to your taking +any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows +where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may +add, to your reason, (for this immoderate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> desire of wealth, which makes +—— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of +action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to +see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made +angry, by delays.—Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if +I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all +a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because +remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture.</p> + +<p>My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs—She wants you to +bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing +her, and yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her mother for +taking such care of her, as you only can.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>December</i> 29 [1794].</p> + +<p>Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as —— has just +informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I +take advantage of it to inclose you</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which +obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be +content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this +wearisome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been +drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give +place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?—I am +contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from +wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> you, I have my +project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will +take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness—your +distant civilities—no; not we.</p> + +<p>This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which +—— manifests to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to +you?—If he can persuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with +me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal +projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as +affection seems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur +to you—and you will act accordingly.</p> + +<p>Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have +heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, +about the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +contriving to live—earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but +just above poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate +mother—fatigued even by her attention.—However she has an affectionate +husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure.</p> + +<p>I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I +grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to +observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes +attached!—These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer +them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own +maxim to “live in the present moment.”—<i>If you do</i>—stay, for God’s sake; +but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and +let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.</p> + +<p>Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> take my darling to my bosom to comfort +me.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXXI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>December</i> 30 [1794].</p> + +<p>Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have +written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife +you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my +epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ——’s +opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your +staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual +inquietude—and, <i>entre nous</i>, I am determined to try to earn some money +here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the +world to get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little girl and I will +live without your assistance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> unless you are with us. I may be termed +proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.</p> + +<p>The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they +debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a +gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they +maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, +whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been +polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.</p> + +<p>I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former +is necessary, to give life to the other—and such a degree of respect do I +think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its +place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, +or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> end of all +my hopes of happiness—I could not forgive it, if I would.</p> + +<p>I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of +men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it +is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient +delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my +little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am sorry to have a +tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.</p> + +<p>You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the +strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. —— has +taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it +has inconceivably depressed my spirits—You have always known my +opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, +ought not to be long separated.—If certain things are more necessary to +you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> than me—search for them—Say but one word, and you shall never hear +of me more.—If not—for God’s sake, let us struggle with poverty—with +any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been +told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more +distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to +forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain, +and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no +conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span><small><a name="f9.1" id="f9.1" href="#f9">[9]</a></small></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXXII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>January</i> 9 [1795].</p> + +<p>I just now received one of your hasty <i>notes</i>; for business so entirely +occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to +write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and +schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb +your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.</p> + +<p>Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain +independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which +I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from +passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life +were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I +have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> and have allowed +some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous +enjoyment can give.—Why have you so soon dissolved the charm.</p> + +<p>I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s +never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you +are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of +action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to +my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness +to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and +still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these +continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and +roots out affection from the heart.</p> + +<p>I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will +simply observe, that, led to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>expect you every week, I did not make the +arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the +necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose +only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most +violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual +coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to +recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be +borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the +spirits.</p> + +<p>Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have +determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too +soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said, +“despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.</p> + +<p>This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> +weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you +left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object.—If your feelings were +in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary +prospects of future advantage.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXXIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Jan.</i> 15 [1795].</p> + +<p>I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which +would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is +pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated +the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely +conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After +longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have +seen a superscription written by you.—Promising myself pleasure,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> and +feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, +left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen +hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.</p> + +<p>Well, now for business—</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing +the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and +now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. +You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will +guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for +some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey—nothing can +equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect +her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come soon to tell us that you +do.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXXIV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Jan.</i> 30 [1795].</p> + +<p>From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will +scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you +have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it +pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground +again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, +it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it +for ever; yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers +by your absence.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make +money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore +was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> home, lest I +should have uttered unseasonable truths.</p> + +<p>My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.—I +have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to +mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of life,” +you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I have ever +considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the +resolution necessary to bear the <i>common</i><small><a name="f10.1" id="f10.1" href="#f10">[10]</a></small> evils of life; I should +answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would +avoid them, cost what it would——</p> + +<p>Adieu!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXXV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>February</i> 9 [1795].</p> + +<p>The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we +were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——, +convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other +letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got, +were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight +of the superscriptions excited.</p> + +<p>I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for +utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find +it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.</p> + +<p>You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the +most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span>However, I +recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during +the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I never before +experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at +the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.—God preserve +this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!</p> + +<p>But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I +think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is +come to this.—I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to +you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to +reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better +fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and, but for this little +darling, I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of +every charm.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to tell +you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated +by honour.—Indeed, I scarcely understand you.—You request me to come, +and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to +this place.</p> + +<p>When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.—I +would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of +trouble on which you are entering.—I have certain principles of action: I +know what I look for to found my happiness on.—It is not money.—With you +I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is, less +will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for +my child, and she does not want more at present.—I have two or three +plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, +neglected by you, I will lie<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> under obligations of a pecuniary kind to +you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service.—I wanted the support +of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I +complained of ——’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he +would have dragged you into his schemes.</p> + +<p>I cannot write.—I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your +departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was +written.—You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more +determined, moment.—Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together +is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be +running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.</p> + +<p>Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XXXVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Feb.</i> 10 [1795].</p> + +<p>You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am +dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the +business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. +I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I +feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly +devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure +you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady +you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they +may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write +more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present +lodgings, and go into the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> same house. I can live much cheaper there, +which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I +shall take one more, to pay my servant’s wages, &c. and then I shall +endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall entirely +give up the acquaintance of the Americans.</p> + +<p>—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very +unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had +provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have +dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining +where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter +cup to care about trifles.</p> + +<p>When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the +gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in +America, which would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> been an independence. You find now that you did +not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary +to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a +year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, +drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be +remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but checked my +pen.</p> + +<p>As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your +reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content +with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of +hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative +to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice +could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, +and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> as you +are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them—I +shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to +complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of +the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers +who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in +life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I +am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could +forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXXVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Paris</i>] <i>Feb.</i> 19 [1795].</p> + +<p>When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an +indefinite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now +calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the +quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. +Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with +every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in +myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take +any pains to recover my health.</p> + +<p>As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a +repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. +Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, +after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the +necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and, my God! how has mine be +harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the wind +of heaven not suffered to visit them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> too rudely,” I have not found a +guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my +bosom.</p> + +<p>What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I +will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand +you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning +here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannot explain +myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my +meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am +I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, +but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to +be left there a prey to it!</p> + +<p>Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl +would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> some plans +of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.</p> + +<p>In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am +left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has +rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or +affectionate emotions.—With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help +displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of +the effect it is visible it has had on me.</p> + +<p>Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to +avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.—Do not +mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times +to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking—you must guess +why—Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which +you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> have sacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be silent for +ever.——</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXXVIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Havre</i>] <i>April</i> 7 [1795].</p> + +<p>Here I am at Havre, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell +you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I +shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my +heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of +delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot +indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without +trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual.</p> + +<p>I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes, +when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.—I have indeed +been so unhappy this winter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> I find it as difficult to acquire fresh +hopes, as to regain tranquillity.—Enough of this—lie still, foolish +heart!—But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease +to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.</p> + +<p>Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I +weaned her, about ten days ago.—I am however glad I conquered my +repugnance.—It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish +to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off +till we met.—It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to +throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw +over my shoulder.—I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after +sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot +think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span>I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity +for your coming to me.—Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little +friend with me.—My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some +inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have +not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, +as you. God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XXXIX</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April</i> 11 [1795].</p> + +<p>Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I +can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.—I shall drive to ——’s +hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope +you will take care to be there to receive us.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span>I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to +take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my +share.—But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to +meet soon?—What does your heart say?</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XL</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place</i>]<br /><i>London, Friday, May</i> 22 [1795].</p> + +<p>I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think +that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, +when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be +necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose +it was something relative to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> circumstance you have mentioned, which +made —— request to see me to-day, to <i>converse about a matter of great +importance</i>. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my +spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as +distressing, as the two former had been.</p> + +<p>I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that +tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so +different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry +with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments +which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.—We have +had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future +prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to +affection.—Let the subject never be revived!</p> + +<p>It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +being happy.—Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has been +shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for +dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my +irritable nerves——</p> + +<p>My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the +question; for, alas! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what +will render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you +desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, +tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very +involuntarily interrupted your peace.</p> + +<p>I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a +cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which +only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately +yours,</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XLI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>May</i> 27, 1795] <i>Wednesday</i>.</p> + +<p>I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am +tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am +angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I shall +make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to whirl +round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, +emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.</p> + +<p>God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull</i>] <i>Wednesday, Two o’Clock</i><br />[<i>May</i> 27, 1795].</p> + +<p>We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> the +child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the +night—and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a +tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have +finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes +out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.</p> + +<p>I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the +struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to +allow me to write with composure.—Imlay,—dear Imlay,—am I always to be +tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to rest <i>contented</i> in? +How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a +new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach those +tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?—This +alone is affection—every thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> else is only humanity, electrified by +sympathy.</p> + +<p>I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be +detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours +sincerely and affectionately</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>Fanny is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the +noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.——Adieu!</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull, May</i> 28, 1795] <i>Thursday</i>.</p> + +<p>A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. I have then only a +moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give +information</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared +with the sinking of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this +painful string—God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLIV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull</i>] <i>Friday, June</i> 12 [1795].</p> + +<p>I have just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, +for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general +observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, +as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most +serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety +had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender +avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. +You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of +inferior feelings, you have sought in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> vulgar excesses, for that +gratification which only the heart can bestow.</p> + +<p>The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites, +must have variety to banish <i>ennui</i>, because the imagination never lends +its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according +reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite +pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the +whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders +every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions, over which +satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment +cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These +emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive +characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite +relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +drinkers and <i>child-begeters</i>, certainly have no idea. You will smile at +an observation that has just occurred to me:—I consider those minds as +the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to +their senses.</p> + +<p>Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot +help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, +to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of +feeling—which would open your heart to me.—I would fain rest there!</p> + +<p>Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my +attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live +has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that +despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my +child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might +become our tomb; and that the heart, still so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> alive to anguish, might +there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated +sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.</p> + +<p>Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting +happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in +order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked +sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, +without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually contaminated; and +bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child +and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, +I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.—These are not common sorrows; +nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to +labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something like +a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider +whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term “the zest +of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of +your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!</p> + +<p>The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so +wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, +let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you +will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great +mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the +dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.</p> + +<p>The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I +cannot yet say when the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> vessel will sail in which I have determined to +depart.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="right">[<i>Hull, June</i> 13, 1795]<br /><i>Saturday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, +in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my +being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the +gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have been more +respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to +myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. +Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ——, and +that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only +written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being +thrown on you.<small><a name="f11.1" id="f11.1" href="#f11">[11]</a></small></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my +efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am +engaged.</p> + +<p>My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most +sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a +true, unsophisticated heart.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + +<p>If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am +afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to +write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect +a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not +Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great +civilities, will send them after me.</p> + +<p>Do write by every occasion! I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; +and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from +us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot +word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I +shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will +draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull</i>] <i>Sunday, June</i> 14 [1795].</p> + +<p>I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to +write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I have +any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of +trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every +thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.</p> + +<p>Mr. —— forced on me a letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> to a physician of this place; it was +fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the +necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, +a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather +interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor +Fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.</p> + +<p>They took me in their carriage to Beverley, and I ran over my favourite +walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not +please me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when +I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever +since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have +vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at +pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is +much improved;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and +fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.</p> + +<p>The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to +linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I +do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your +connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of +your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of +mind.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of +being free, does not overbalance the pain you felt at parting with me? +Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you—or +why should we meet again?—but, the moment after, despair damps my rising +spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften +the cares of life.——God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely and affectionately</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XLVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull</i>] <i>June</i> 15 [1795].</p> + +<p>I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be +very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence, +my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation +indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most +affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of +disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive—yet +should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true +friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the +world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened +my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher +value on my heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span>Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one +from me, and believe me yours</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + +<p>The wind still continues in the same quarter.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull, June</i>, 1795] <i>Tuesday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the +course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would +have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you—Should +one arrive, it will be sent after me.</p> + +<p>My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why——The quitting England seems +to be a fresh parting.—Surely you will not forget me.—A thousand weak +forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> me +sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual +conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here, bowed down by +the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to +be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my +faculties.</p> + +<p>The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know +not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.—It is not +a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of +disappointment,—having a heart that has been as it were a mark for +misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.—Well, let it +come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! +God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> +<h2>LETTER XLVIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>June</i> 17, 1795] <i>Wednesday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having +changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we +are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to +advance a few miles.</p> + +<p>You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was +even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain +at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me +with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your +letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am +afraid to think how long.</p> + +<p>The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind +of man. There being no other<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> passengers, I have the cabin to myself, +which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile +weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of +suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.</p> + +<p>What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time +before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within +me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and +feelings?—Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much +misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend +my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.—Will you not +endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I +saying?—Rather forget me, if you can—if other gratifications are dearer +to you.—How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? +What a world is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> this!—They only seem happy, who never look beyond +sensual or artificial enjoyments.—Adieu!</p> + +<p>Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.—I will +labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER XLIX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>June</i> 18, 1795] <i>Thursday.</i></p> + +<p>Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the +pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he +expected, by the wind.—It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about +without going forward.—I have a violent headache—yet I am obliged to +take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because +—— is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of +the ship, as we ride at anchor.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of +mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart.—To tell you the truth, +I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits—from +despair.—I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most +terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of +countenance.</p> + +<p>I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and +will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at +present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these +continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some +comfort—and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you—when we +meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean not +to have seas between us—it is more than I can support.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>The pilot is hurrying me—God bless you.</p> + +<p>In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would +disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free, +the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER L</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>June</i> 20, 1795] <i>Saturday.</i></p> + +<p>This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with +every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the +remembrances that sadden my heart.</p> + +<p>How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to Lisbon, ten years ago, +the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness—and the +imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch +futurity in smiling colours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> Now I am going towards the North in search +of sunbeams!—Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to +frown—or rather mourn with me.—Every thing is cold—cold as my +expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these +North east <i>chillers</i>, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious +Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial +affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger +there.</p> + +<p>I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to +seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk—after which I +hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I +have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost +drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for I never forget, +even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> +labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power.</p> + +<p>Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will +not allow her to remain on deck.</p> + +<p>I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you—are +you not tired of this lingering adieu?</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hull, June</i> 21, 1795] <i>Sunday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to +be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had +a troublesome sail—and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has +changed.</p> + +<p>I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one +haphazard, it would have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> kind and considerate—you might have known, +had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are +attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service—But why do +I foolishly continue to look for them?</p> + +<p>Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am +hurt.—God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in +every sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. +I will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary</span>.</span></p> + +<p>The child is well; I did not leave her on board.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Gothenburg</i>] <i>June</i> 27, <i>Saturday</i>, [1795].</p> + +<p>I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +at Arendall. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform +you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we +were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.</p> + +<p>What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon—nor mention the +pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.—This morning +however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this +place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and +how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a +quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my +senses—the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.</p> + +<p>Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently +deranged me—and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm +to eat; the inns are mere stables—I must nevertheless go to bed. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +God’s sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well, +and yet you see I cannot die.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Gothenburg</i>] <i>June</i> 29 [1795].</p> + +<p>I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I +believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to +——’s illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to +you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it +will have any serious consequences.</p> + +<p>—— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns here +are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am +overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours +to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies +heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; +and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the +hopes that alone render them bearable. “How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” +appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly +enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my +pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LIV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Sweden</i>] <i>July</i> 1 [1795].</p> + +<p>I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow +and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot +last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to +live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual +struggles.—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; +and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than +with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not +dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will +then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together, +or I will be entirely independent.</p> + +<p>My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision—You know however +that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the +moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am +in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest friendship is of any +value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that +heartless affections cannot bestow?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span>Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should +imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your +affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?</p> + +<p>God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>Poor Fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Sweden</i>] <i>July</i> 3 [1795].</p> + +<p>There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression +of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you +throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has +long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you)<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> +there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than +disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to +hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, +affectionate friend.</p> + +<p>I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this +affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can +become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature.—On +ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my +troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that the +virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!” and nothing but +the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine +round my heart—could have stopped me.</p> + +<p>What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I +have laid the strictest restraint<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> on my very thoughts—yes; not to sully +the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started +with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing with +balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of +reviving nature.</p> + +<p>My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love, in some minds, is +an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or +taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive +to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, +impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.</p> + +<p>Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care +than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming at +tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul—almost +rooted out what renders it estimable—Yes, I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> damped that enthusiasm +of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that +imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, +since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed +to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.</p> + +<p>I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my +constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought +for, begins to reanimate my countenance.</p> + +<p>I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of +regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect +due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of +the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can +extinguish the heavenly spark.</p> + +<p>Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> blush +when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound myself +with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.—I will listen to +delicacy, or pride.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Sweden</i>] <i>July</i> 4 [1795].</p> + +<p>I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot +tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to +the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of +character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.</p> + +<p>Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long +time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable +to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my +faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to +the vigour of my <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span>reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had +my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, +for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my +appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already +streak my cheeks—and I have seen a <i>physical</i> life in my eyes, after I +have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of +youth.</p> + +<p>With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to +hope!—Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor +——’s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, +and makes friends for herself.</p> + +<p>Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us +in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?—why are +you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or +rather quickness of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> senses, hardens your heart?—It is my +misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and +lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me +not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the +sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Sweden</i>] <i>July</i> 7 [1795].</p> + +<p>I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a +letter from you. My being at —— was but a chance, and you might have +hazarded it; and would a year ago.</p> + +<p>I shall not however complain—There are misfortunes so great, as to +silence the usual expressions of sorrow—Believe me, there is such a thing +as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; +and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> +satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from +myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel +keener anguish, when alone with my child.</p> + +<p>Still, could any thing please me—had not disappointment cut me off from +life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.—My +God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful +sensations?—But it cannot—it shall not last long.</p> + +<p>The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be +wounded to the soul by a negative.—My brain seems on fire. I must go into +the air.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LVIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Laurvig, Norway</i>] <i>July</i> 14 [1795].</p> + +<p>I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. I felt more at leaving my child,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> than +I thought I should—and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I +heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,—I asked myself how I could +think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?</p> + +<p>Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that “God will temper the winds +to the shorn lamb!” but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when +my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I +could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of +disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a +breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!</p> + +<p>All is not right somewhere!—When you first knew me, I was not thus lost. +I could still confide—for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort +you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first +object. Strange want of judgment!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am +convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that +your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.—I mean +not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple +basis of all rectitude.—However I did not intend to argue—Your not +writing is cruel—and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant +wretchedness.</p> + +<p>Poor —— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my +fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of +countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually +afraid of some accident.—But it would have injured the child this warm +season, as she is cutting her teeth.</p> + +<p>I hear not of your having written to me at Stromstad. Very well! Act as +you please—there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I +can,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble +you with letters to which you do not reply.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LIX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Tonsberg</i>] <i>July</i> 18 [1795].</p> + +<p>I am here in Tonsberg, separated from my child—and here I must remain a +month at least, or I might as well never have come.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I have begun —— which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a +pecuniary kind.—I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having +done it sooner.</p> + +<p>I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Tonsberg</i>] <i>July</i> 30 [1795].</p> + +<p>I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my +detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God +knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of +heart!—My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I +feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has +afforded me pleasure,—and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope +for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.</p> + +<p>I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live +together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor +girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that +she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>preserving +her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to +expect, and little to fear, in life—There are wounds that can never be +healed—but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing.</p> + +<p>When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution +than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined +always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot +dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and +set me free.</p> + +<p>Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings +anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made +me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. +But to have done with these subjects.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I have been seriously employed in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet +I never was so much in the air.—I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe, +and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The +child, —— informs me, is well, I long to be with her.</p> + +<p>Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you +to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you +seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours most affectionately</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary Imlay</span></span></p> + +<p>I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to yours.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Tonsberg</i>] <i>August</i> 5 [1795].</p> + +<p>Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have +entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> of my +nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though +trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer—yet still the same.—I have, +it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a +long—long time past.—(I say happiness, for I can give no other +appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer +have afforded me.)—Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so +constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection—I am afraid +not without a passion—and I feel the want of it more in society, than in +solitude.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs—my eyes fill with +tears, and my trembling hand stops—you may then depend on my resolution, +when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in +my own <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span>bosom—tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes +overlook delicacy—the same tenderness will in future restrain me. God +bless you!</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Tonsberg</i>] <i>August</i> 7 [1795].</p> + +<p>Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, +and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.—I +cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some moments +of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the +rocks.</p> + +<p>This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on +something—and soon;—we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am +sensible that I acted foolishly—but I was wretched—when we were +together—Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip +from me. I cannot live with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> you—I ought not—if you form another +attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little +reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel +disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to +depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a +chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can +provide for her, and it shall be my object—if we are indeed to part to +meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to +me—if I am to have no other—and only know me as her support. I feel that +I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you—if we are only to +correspond.—No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not +interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what +pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.—You must +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>determine—examine yourself—But, for God’s sake! spare me the anxiety of +uncertainty!—I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain.</p> + +<p>Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and +absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what +new form of misery I have to dread.</p> + +<p>I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you +will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours truly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Tonsberg</i>] <i>August</i> 9 [1795].</p> + +<p>Five of your letters have been sent after me from ——. One, dated the +14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not +expect from you. However<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> this is not a time to reply to it, except to +assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am +disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my +affection.——</p> + +<p>My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope—I +mean, I and my girl.—I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am +informed how your affairs terminate.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours sincerely</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXIV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Gothenburg</i>] <i>August</i> 26 [1795].</p> + +<p>I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more +pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot +conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. +Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> to her. I have +promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future +shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an +independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.</p> + +<p>I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even +vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for +peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm +contentment so termed.—</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect +yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of +this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they +produced.—Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have +lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not +comprehend—or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, +merely an object of compassion—a clog, however light, to teize you. +Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical +whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free—I will not torment, +when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not +continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, <i>that you will try to +cherish tenderness</i> for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are +separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary +considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without +affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I +had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to +superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to +maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +Switzerland. I shall not remain at ——, living expensively. But be not +alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.</p> + +<p>Adieu! I am agitated—my whole frame is convulsed—my lips tremble, as if +shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.</p> + +<p>God bless you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXV</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Copenhagen</i>] <i>September</i> 6 [1795].</p> + +<p>I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter +last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. +I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to +imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of +life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and repose +on the idea that I am happy.</p> + +<p>Gracious God! It is impossible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> for me to stifle something like +resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have +suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy +substitute for wisdom, insensibility—and the lively sympathies which bind +me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the +agonies of a broken heart—pleasure and I have shaken hands.</p> + +<p>I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people +immersed in trade and sensuality.</p> + +<p>I am weary of travelling—yet seem to have no home—no resting-place to +look to.—I am strangely cast off.—How often, passing through the rocks, +I have thought, “But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, +and never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the +affections of my nature—I have never met with one, softer than the stone +that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> had, but it +was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound +together by affection or principle—and, when I am conscious that I have +fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I +am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus +abandoned?”</p> + +<p>You say now</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more +explicitly—and determine on some mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this +suspense—Decide—Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or +eternally part!—I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer +to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent +subjects.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>I do not know whether I write<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. But +this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make +out what you mean to say—You write, I suppose, at Mr. ——’s after +dinner, when your head is not the clearest—and as for your heart, if you +have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse +when you mention the child—Adieu!</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hamburg</i>] <i>September</i> 25 [1795].</p> + +<p>I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ——. In +that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three +mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed +it, I hear of another, and still no letter.—I am labouring to write +calmly—this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain —— remained +a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> What have I +to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the +same—and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this +of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Hamburg</i>] <i>September</i> 27 [1795].</p> + +<p>When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the +British coast—your letter of the 18th decided me.</p> + +<p>By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions +extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.—You desire me to +decide—I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine, +from ——, to the same purport, to consider.—In these, God knows! there +was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> but +too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to say?—The negative was +to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting +me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or +no?—Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I <ins class="correction" title="original: an">am</ins> +accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, +much less of friendship.—I only see a desire to heave a load off your +shoulders.</p> + +<p>I am above disputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you +decide.</p> + +<p>The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a +world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, +I had little chance of escaping misery.—To the fiat of fate I submit.—I +am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have +no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>you—for +having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for +a momentary gratification.</p> + +<p>I am strangely deficient in sagacity.—Uniting myself to you, your +tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.—On +this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!—but I +leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off +a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are +differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on +my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at +present on you, whether you will see me or not.—I shall take no step, +till I see or hear from you.</p> + +<p>Preparing myself for the worst—I have determined, if your next letter be +like the last, to write to Mr. —— to procure me an obscure lodging, and +not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> a few +months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France—from you I will +not receive any more.—I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your +beneficence.</p> + +<p>Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the +extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the +independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a +great way in France—and I will borrow a sum, which my industry <i>shall</i> +enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my +girl.—The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I +can get at an easy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to such society as +she will like—and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, +which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity +which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp. +No poor temptest-tossed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at +his port.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to +go to. Captain —— will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, +that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense—and that I wish to see +you, though it be for the last time.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXVIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>Dover</i>] <i>Sunday, October</i> 4 [1795].</p> + +<p>I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th +of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ——; but, as we +sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received +it.</p> + +<p>You say, I must decide for myself.—I had decided, that it was most for +the interest of my little girl, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> for my own comfort, little as I +expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be +glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in +the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our +interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at +last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever.</p> + +<p>From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you +have formed some new attachment.—If it be so, let me earnestly request +you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require +of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle +about a mere form.</p> + +<p>I am labouring to write with calmness—but the extreme anguish I feel, at +landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious +that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> +sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the +description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming +flood of sorrow—and the playfulness of my child distresses me.—On her +account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my +situation.—Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, +that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness—and, even in +your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my +child.—Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.</p> + +<p>I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the +return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and +tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can +receive your letter on Wednesday morning.</p> + +<p>Do not keep me in suspense.—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> expect nothing from you, or any human +being: my die is cast!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my +duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling +heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up +by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my +life—but life will have an end!</p> + +<p>Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you +will find me at ——. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yours affectionately,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXIX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Nov.</i> 1795].</p> + +<p>I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the +maid with ——, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ——, rue +——, section de ——.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> Should they be removed, —— can give their +direction.</p> + +<p>Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.</p> + +<p>Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I +forced from her—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing +but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst +you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have +lived together.</p> + +<p>I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let +my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you +receive this, my burning head will be cold.</p> + +<p>I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. +Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. +I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be +insulted by an endeavour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge +into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from +the death I seek.</p> + +<p>God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me +endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to +your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall +appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXX</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Nov.</i> 1795] <i>Sunday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was +inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is +not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic +attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I +am only accountable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, +it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.</p> + +<p>You say, “that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the +wretchedness into which we have been plunged.” You are extricated long +since.—But I forbear to comment.—If I am condemned to live longer, it is +a living death.</p> + +<p>It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on +principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would +have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have +any friendship for me.—But since your new attachment is the only thing +sacred in your eyes, I am silent—Be happy! My complaints shall never more +damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death +could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity.—It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> is +happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.</p> + +<p>Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to +contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), +appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not such vulgar +comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, +you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not +shrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any +direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I +have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderness for your own +reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value +money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do +much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am +dead,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.</p> + +<p>I write with difficulty—probably I shall never write to you +again.—Adieu!</p> + +<p>God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Nov.</i> 1795] <i>Monday Morning.</i></p> + +<p>I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with +you, that</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. +I am unequal to the task of writing—and explanations are not necessary.</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span><span class="spacer">*</span></p> + +<p>My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence—and may +lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span>precautions; +but she shall not despise me for meanness.—You are now perfectly +free.—God bless you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Nov.</i> 1795] <i>Saturday Night.</i></p> + +<p>I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be +dictated by any tenderness to me.—You ask “If I am well or +tranquil?”—They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my +feelings by.—I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.</p> + +<p>I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually +offering me pecuniary assistance—and, considering your going to the new +house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will +sooner perish than receive any thing from you—and I say this at the +moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> a temporary +supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and +misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.—</p> + +<p>Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be +necessary for you to talk—of course, not to think of me. But let me see, +written by yourself—for I will not receive it through any other +medium—that the affair is finished.—It is an insult to me to suppose, +that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing +of me, it will be the same thing to you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my +distracted mind.</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXIII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Nov.</i> 1795] <i>Thursday Afternoon.</i></p> + +<p>Mr. —— having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +were left at the house, I have to request you to let —— bring them to +——</p> + +<p>I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from +coming here to transact your business.—And, whatever I may think, and +feel—you need not fear that I shall publicly complain—No! If I have any +criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously +treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the +grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my +child.—I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my +desperation.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;">Farewel.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXIV</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>London, November</i> 27 [1795].</p> + +<p>The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> you +returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.—I had thrown the letters +aside—I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.</p> + +<p>My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with +anger—under the impression your departure, without even a line left for +me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to +expect much attention to my sufferings.</p> + +<p>In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has +almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured—I scarcely know where I +am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel +recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to +conceal in total solitude.—My life therefore is but an exercise of +fortitude, continually on the stretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, +where I am buried alive.</p> + +<p>But I meant to reason with you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> and not to complain.—You tell me, that I +shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence.<ins class="correction" title="Unmatched in the original.">”</ins> But is +it not possible that <i>passion</i> clouds your reason, as much as it does +mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so +“exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In +other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that +of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have +fostered, and the expectations you have excited?</p> + +<p>My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you +now seem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may +never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt +you.—You will see my pale face—and sometimes the tears of anguish will +drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine.</p> + +<p>I cannot write. I thought I could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> quickly have refuted all your +<i>ingenious</i> arguments; but my head is confused.—Right or wrong, I am +miserable!</p> + +<p>It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest +principles of justice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my social +feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my +whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return—and that +existence is a burthen without it.</p> + +<p>I do not perfectly understand you.—If, by the offer of your friendship, +you still only mean pecuniary support—I must again reject it.—Trifling +are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.—God bless you!</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + +<p>I have been treated ungenerously—if I understand what is generosity.—You +seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off—regardless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> whether +you dashed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled. +<i>Do you judge coolly</i>, and I trust you will not continue to call those +capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only the +most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.—You would +render mothers unnatural—and there would be no such thing as a +father!—If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly +the most easy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to +please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!</p> + +<p>Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from +you—and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ——’s conduct—I am +convinced you will not always justify your own.</p> + +<p>Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your +mind, that you have acted <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>ignobly—and condescended to subterfuge to +gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.—Do truth and principle +require such sacrifices?</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXV</h2> + +<p class="right"><i>London, December</i> 8 [1795].</p> + +<p>Having just been informed that —— is to return immediately to Paris, I +would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain +that my last, by Dover has reached you.</p> + +<p>Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wished +to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light +of an enemy.</p> + +<p>That I have not been used <i>well</i> I must ever feel; perhaps, not always +with the keen anguish I do at present—for I began even now to write +calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.</p> + +<p>I am stunned!—Your late conduct<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> still appears to me a frightful +dream.—Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little +address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are +sacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.</p> + +<p>The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your +affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it seems to me, +when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.—Yet you +will not always forget me.—You will feel something like remorse, for +having lived only for yourself—and sacrificed my peace to inferior +gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had +one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour +of recollection will come—and you will not be satisfied to act the part +of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your +heart, and your principles of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> action, are all superior to your present +conduct. You do, you must, respect me—and you will be sorry to forfeit my +esteem.</p> + +<p>You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an +imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am +obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared +up by time.</p> + +<p>You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own +eyes.—I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed +in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have +afforded you equal pleasure.</p> + +<p>Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I +thought your property in jeopardy.—When I went to [Sweden], I requested +you, <i>if you could conveniently</i>, not to forget my father, sisters, and +some other people, whom I was interested about.—Money was lavished away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not +discharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendship—or generosity? Will +you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for +you.—God bless you.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Mary.</span></span></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXVI</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Dec.</i> 1795.]</p> + +<p>As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I +will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and +feeling ingenuity!</p> + +<p>I know the soundness of your understanding—and know that it is impossible +for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with +the manly dictates of principle.</p> + +<p>You tell me “that I torment you.”—Why do I?——Because you cannot +estrange your heart entirely from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> me—and you feel that justice is on my +side. You urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.”—It was not.—When +your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to +remove the impression!—and even before I returned to England, you took +great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the +effect of a worn-out constitution—and you concluded your letter with +these words, “Business alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and +I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”</p> + +<p>With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I +wished? I might—and did think that you had a struggle with old +propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last +prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which +would enable you to conquer yourself.</p> + +<p>Imlay, believe me, it is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> romance, you have acknowledged to me +feelings of this kind.—You could restore me to life and hope, and the +satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.</p> + +<p>In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will +come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even +in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.—I would owe every thing to +your generosity—but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in suspense!—Let +me see you once more!—</p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 25%;" /> +<h2>LETTER LXXVII</h2> + +<p class="right">[<i>London, Dec.</i> 1795.]</p> + +<p>You must do as you please with respect to the child.—I could wish that it +might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is +now finished.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I +disdain to utter a <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span>reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the +“forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no +consequence.—I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.</p> + +<p>I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch +not from the duties which tie me to life.</p> + +<p>That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it +matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet +your understanding or mine must be strangely warped—for what you term +“delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion +for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you +to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and +affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have +stood the brunt of your sarcasms.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will +survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. +The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal +desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to +come.—Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.</p> + +<p>It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction +forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.</p> + +<p>I part with you in peace.</p> + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<p class="center"><i>Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.</i></p> + + +<p> </p><p> </p> +<hr style="width: 50%;" /> +<p><strong>Footnotes:</strong></p> + +<p><a name="f1" id="f1" href="#f1.1">[1]</a> Dowden’s “Life of Shelley.”</p> + +<p><a name="f2" id="f2" href="#f2.1">[2]</a> The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,” +probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this +interview.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f3" id="f3" href="#f3.1">[3]</a> This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written +during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f4" id="f4" href="#f4.1">[4]</a> Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a +similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the +person to whom they were addressed.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f5" id="f5" href="#f5.1">[5]</a> Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre, +but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he +went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited +London on business.</p> + +<p><a name="f6" id="f6" href="#f6.1">[6]</a> The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a +considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f7" id="f7" href="#f7.1">[7]</a> She means, “the latter more than the former.”—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f8" id="f8" href="#f8.1">[8]</a> This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation +of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent +from Paris, and bear the address of London.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f9" id="f9" href="#f9.1">[9]</a> The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], was about this +time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was +recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of +business now accumulated upon him.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f10" id="f10" href="#f10.1">[10]</a> This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] the person to +whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, +things upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different +appellation.—W. G.</p> + +<p><a name="f11" id="f11" href="#f11.1">[11]</a> This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, +and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.—W. G.</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Letters of Mary +Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay, by Mary Wollstonecraft and Roger Ingpen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + +***** This file should be named 34413-h.htm or 34413-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/4/1/34413/ + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay + +Author: Mary Wollstonecraft + Roger Ingpen + +Release Date: November 23, 2010 [EBook #34413] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + + + + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + The Love Letters + OF + Mary Wollstonecraft + TO GILBERT IMLAY + + WITH A PREFATORY MEMOIR + By Roger Ingpen + + _ILLUSTRATED WITH PORTRAITS_ + + Philadelphia + J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY + London: HUTCHINSON & CO. + 1908 + + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT'S LETTERS + + + + +EDITED BY ROGER INGPEN + +LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. A. CONSTABLE & +CO. + +ONE THOUSAND POEMS FOR CHILDREN: A Collection of Verse Old and New. +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +FORSTER'S LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.) +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. _Abridged._ (Standard Biographies.) +HUTCHINSON & CO. + +BOSWELL'S LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. Complete. Illustrated Edition. 2 Vols. +PITMAN. + + + + +[Illustration: Mary Wollstonecraft + +_From an engraving, after the painting by John Opie, R.A._] + + + + +PREFACE + + +I + +Of Mary Wollstonecraft's ancestors little is known, except that they were +of Irish descent. Her father, Edward John Wollstonecraft, was the son of a +prosperous Spitalfields manufacturer of Irish birth, from whom he +inherited the sum of ten thousand pounds. He married towards the middle of +the eighteenth century Elizabeth Dixon, the daughter of a gentleman in +good position, of Ballyshannon, by whom he had six children: Edward, Mary, +Everina, Eliza, James, and Charles. Mary, the eldest daughter and second +child, was born on April 27, 1759, the birth year of Burns and Schiller, +and the last year of George II.'s reign. She passed her childhood, until +she was five years old, in the neighbourhood of Epping Forest, but it is +doubtful whether she was born there or at Hoxton. Mr. Wollstonecraft +followed no profession in particular, although from time to time he +dabbled in a variety of pursuits when seized with a desire to make money. +He is described as of idle, dissipated habits, and possessed of an +ungovernable temper and a restless spirit that urged him to perpetual +changes of residence. From Hoxton, where he squandered most of his +fortune, he wandered to Essex, and then, among other places, in 1768 to +Beverley, in Yorkshire. Later he took up farming at Laugharne in +Pembrokeshire, but he at length grew tired of this experiment and returned +once more to London. As his fortunes declined, his brutality and +selfishness increased, and Mary was frequently compelled to defend her +mother from his acts of personal violence, sometimes by thrusting herself +bodily between him and his victim. Mrs. Wollstonecraft herself was far +from being an amiable woman; a petty tyrant and a stern but incompetent +ruler of her household, she treated Mary as the scapegoat of the family. +Mary's early years therefore were far from being happy; what little +schooling she had was spasmodic, owing to her father's migratory habits. + +In her sixteenth year, when the Wollstonecrafts were once more in London, +Mary formed a friendship with Fanny Blood, a young girl about her own age, +which was destined to be one of the happiest events of her life. There was +a strong bond of sympathy between the two friends, for Fanny contrived by +her work as an artist to be the chief support of her family, as her +father, like Mr. Wollstonecraft, was a lazy, drunken fellow. + +Mary's new friend was an intellectual and cultured girl. She loved music, +sang agreeably, was well-read too, for her age, and wrote interesting +letters. It was by comparing Fanny Blood's letters with her own, that Mary +first recognised how defective her education had been. She applied herself +therefore to the task of increasing her slender stock of +knowledge--hoping ultimately to become a governess. At length, at the age +of nineteen, Mary went to Bath as companion to a tiresome and exacting old +lady, a Mrs. Dawson, the widow of a wealthy London tradesman. In spite of +many difficulties, she managed to retain her situation for some two years, +leaving it only to attend the deathbed of her mother. + +Mrs. Wollstonecraft's death (in 1780) was followed by the break-up of the +home. Mary went to live temporarily with the Bloods at Walham Green, and +assisted Mrs. Blood, who took in needle-work; Everina became for a short +time housekeeper to her brother Edward, a solicitor; and Eliza married a +Mr. Bishop. + +Mr. Kegan Paul has pointed out that "all the Wollstonecraft sisters were +enthusiastic, excitable, and hasty tempered, apt to exaggerate trifles, +sensitive to magnify inattention into slights, and slights into studied +insults. All had bad health of a kind which is especially trying to the +nerves, and Eliza had in excess the family temperament and constitution." +Mrs. Bishop's married life from the first was one of utter misery; they +were an ill-matched pair, and her peculiar temperament evidently +exasperated her husband's worst nature. His outbursts of fury and the +scenes of violence of daily occurrence, for which he was responsible, were +afterwards described with realistic fidelity by Mary in her novel, "The +Wrongs of Women." It was plainly impossible for Mrs. Bishop to continue +to live with such a man, and when, in 1782, she became dangerously ill, +Mary, with her characteristic good nature, went to nurse her, and soon +after assisted her in her flight from her husband. + +In the following year (1783) Mary set up a school at Islington with Fanny +Blood, and she was thus in a position to offer a home to her sisters, Mrs. +Bishop and Everina. The school was afterwards moved to Newington Green, +where Mary soon had an establishment with some twenty day scholars. After +a time, emboldened by her success, she took a larger house; but +unfortunately the number of her pupils did not increase in proportion to +her obligations, which were now heavier than she could well meet. + +While Mary was living at Newington Green, she was introduced to Dr. +Johnson, who, Godwin says, treated her with particular kindness and +attention, and with whom she had a long conversation. He desired her to +repeat her visit, but she was prevented from seeing him again by his last +illness and death. + +In the meantime Fanny Blood had impaired her health by overwork, and signs +of consumption were already evident. A Mr. Hugh Skeys, who was engaged in +business at Lisbon, though somewhat of a weak lover, had long admired +Fanny, and wanted to marry her. It was thought that the climate of +Portugal might help to restore her health, and she consented, perhaps more +on that account than on any other, to become his wife. She left England +in February 1785, but her health continued to grow worse. Mary's anxiety +for her friend's welfare was such that, on hearing of her grave condition, +she at once went off to Lisbon, and arrived after a stormy passage, only +in time to comfort Fanny in her dying moments. Mary was almost +broken-hearted at the loss of her friend, and she made her stay in Lisbon +as short as possible, remaining only as long as was necessary for Mrs. +Skeys's funeral. + +She returned to England to find that the school had greatly suffered by +neglect during her absence. In a letter to Mrs. Skeys's brother, George +Blood, she says: "The loss of Fanny was sufficient to have thrown a cloud +over my brightest days: what effect then must it have, when I am bereft of +every other comfort? I have too many debts, the rent is so enormous, and +where to go, without money or friends, who can point out?" + +She thus realised that to continue her school was useless. But her +experience as a schoolmistress was to bear fruit in the future. She had +observed some of the defects of the educational methods of her time, and +her earliest published effort was a pamphlet entitled, "Thoughts on the +Education of Daughters," (1787). For this essay she received ten guineas, +a sum that she gave to the parents of her friend, Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who +were desirous of going over to Ireland. + +She soon went to Ireland herself, for in the October of 1787 she became +governess to the daughters of Lord Kingsborough at Michaelstown, with a +salary of forty pounds a year. Lady Kingsborough in Mary's opinion was "a +shrewd clever woman, a great talker.... She rouges, and in short is a fine +lady without fancy or sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by +dogs...." Lady Kingsborough was rather selfish and uncultured, and her +chief object was the pursuit of pleasure. She pampered her dogs, much to +the disgust of Mary Wollstonecraft, and neglected her children. What views +she had on education were narrow. She had been accustomed to submission +from her governess, but she learnt before long that Mary was not of a +tractable disposition. The children, at first unruly and defiant, +"literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed and not very pleasing," soon +gave Mary their confidence, and before long their affection. One of her +pupils, Margaret King, afterwards Lady Mountcashel, always retained the +warmest regard for Mary Wollstonecraft. Lady Mountcashel continued her +acquaintance with William Godwin after Mary's death, and later came across +Shelley and his wife in Italy. Mary won from the children the affection +that they withheld from their mother, consequently, in the autumn of 1788, +when she had been with Lady Kingsborough for about a year, she received +her dismissal. She had completed by this time the novel to which she gave +the name of "Mary," which is a tribute to the memory of her friend Fanny +Blood. + + +II + +And now, in her thirtieth year, Mary Wollstonecraft had concluded her +career as a governess, and was resolved henceforth to devote herself to +literature. Her chances of success were slender indeed, for she had +written nothing to encourage her for such a venture. It was her fortune, +however, to make the acquaintance of Joseph Johnson, the humanitarian +publisher and bookseller of St. Paul's Churchyard, who issued the works of +Priestley, Horne Tooke, Gilbert Wakefield, and other men of advanced +thought, and she met at his table many of the authors for whom he +published, and such eminent men of the day as William Blake, Fuseli, and +Tom Paine. Mr. Johnson, who afterwards proved one of her best friends, +encouraged her in her literary plans. He was the publisher of her +"Thoughts on the Education of Daughters," and had recognised in that +little book so much promise, that when she sought his advice, he at once +offered to assist her with employment. + +Mary therefore settled at Michaelmas 1788 in a house in George Street, +Blackfriars. She had brought to London the manuscript of her novel "Mary," +and she set to work on a book for children entitled "Original Stories from +Real Life." Both of these books appeared before the year was out, the +latter with quaint plates by William Blake. Mary also occupied some of her +time with translations from the French, German, and even Dutch, one of +which was an abridged edition of Saltzmann's "Elements of Morality," for +which Blake also supplied the illustrations. Besides this work, Johnson +engaged Mary as his literary adviser or "reader," and secured her services +in connexion with _The Analytical Review_, a periodical that he had +recently founded. + +While she was at George Street she also wrote her "Vindication of the +Rights of Man" in a letter to Edmund Burke. Her chief satisfaction in +keeping up this house was to have a home where her brothers and sisters +could always come when out of employment. She was never weary of assisting +them either with money, or by exerting her influence to find them +situations. One of her first acts when she settled in London was to send +Everina Wollstonecraft to Paris to improve her French accent. Mr. Johnson, +who wrote a short account of Mary's life in London at this time, says she +often spent her afternoons and evenings at his house, and used to seek his +advice, or unburden her troubles to him. Among the many duties she imposed +on herself was the charge of her father's affairs, which must indeed have +been a profitless undertaking. + +The most important of Mary Wollstonecraft's labours while she was living +at Blackfriars was the writing of the book that is chiefly associated with +her name, "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman." This volume--now much +better known by its title than its contents--was dedicated to the astute +M. Talleyrand de Perigord, late Bishop of Autun, apparently on account of +his authorship of a pamphlet on National Education. It is unnecessary to +attempt an analysis of this strikingly original but most unequal +book--modern reprints of the work have appeared under the editorship both +of Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Pennell. It is sufficient to say that it is +really a plea for a more enlightened system of education, affecting not +only her own sex, but also humanity in its widest sense. Many of her +suggestions have long since been put to practical use, such as that of a +system of free national education, with equal advantages for boys and +girls. The book contains too much theory and is therefore to a great +extent obsolete. Mary Wollstonecraft protests against the custom that +recognises woman as the plaything of man; she pleads rather for a friendly +footing of equality between the sexes, besides claiming a new order of +things for women, in terms which are unusually frank. Such a book could +not fail to create a sensation, and it speedily made her notorious, not +only in this country, but on the Continent, where it was translated into +French. It was of course the outcome of the French Revolution; the whole +work is permeated with the ideas and ideals of that movement, but whereas +the French patriots demanded rights for men, she made the same demands +also for women. + +It is evident that the great historical drama then being enacted in France +had made a deep impression on Mary's mind--its influence is stamped on +every page of her book, and it was her desire to visit France with Mr. +Johnson and Fuseli. Her friends were, however, unable to accompany her, so +she went alone in the December of 1792, chiefly with the object of +perfecting her French. Godwin states, though apparently in error, that +Fuseli was the cause of her going to France, the acquaintance with the +painter having grown into something warmer than mere friendship. Fuseli, +however, had a wife and was happily married, so Mary "prudently resolved +to retire into another country, far remote from the object who had +unintentionally excited the tender passion in her breast." + +She certainly arrived in Paris at a dramatic moment; she wrote on December +24 to her sister Everina: "The day after to-morrow I expect to see the +King at the bar, and the consequences that will follow I am almost afraid +to anticipate." On the day in question, the 26th, Louis XVI. appeared in +the Hall of the Convention to plead his cause through his advocate, +Desize, and on the same day she wrote that letter to Mr. Johnson which has +so often been quoted: "About nine o'clock this morning," she says, "the +King passed by my window, moving silently along (excepting now and then a +few strokes on the drum, which rendered the stillness more awful) through +empty streets, surrounded by the national guards, who, clustering round +the carriage, seemed to deserve their name. The inhabitants flocked to +their windows, but the casements were all shut, not a voice was heard, nor +did I see anything like an insulting gesture. For the first time since I +entered France I bowed to the majesty of the people, and respected the +propriety of behaviour so perfectly in unison with my own feelings. I can +scarcely tell you why, but an association of ideas made the tears flow +insensibly from my eyes, when I saw Louis sitting, with more dignity than +I expected from his character, in a hackney coach, going to meet death, +where so many of his race had triumphed. My fancy instantly brought Louis +XIV. before me, entering the capital with all his pomp, after one of his +victories so flattering to his pride, only to see the sunshine of +prosperity overshadowed by the sublime gloom of misery...." + +Mary first went to stay at the house of Madame Filiettaz, the daughter of +Madame Bregantz, in whose school at Putney both Mrs. Bishop and Everina +Wollstonecraft had been teachers. Mary was now something of a +celebrity--"Authorship," she writes, "is a heavy weight for female +shoulders, especially in the sunshine of prosperity"--and she carried with +her letters of introduction to several influential people in Paris. She +renewed her acquaintance with Tom Paine, became intimate with Helen Maria +Williams (who is said to have once lived with Imlay), and visited, among +others, the house of Mr. Thomas Christie. It was her intention to go to +Switzerland, but there was some trouble about her passport, so she +settled at Neuilly, then a village three miles from Paris. "Her +habitation here," says Godwin, "was a solitary house in the midst of a +garden, with no other habitant than herself and the gardener, an old man +who performed for her many offices of a domestic, and would sometimes +contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great +veneration for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some +grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the +greatest difficulty obtain of him when she had any person with her as a +visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed, +her historical and moral view of the French Revolution, into which she +incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her letters, +and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in +which they had been commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to +refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her host in +vain endeavoured to dissuade her, by recounting divers horrible robberies +and murders that had been committed there." + + +[Illustration: From an engraving by Ridley, dated 1796, after a painting +by John Opie, R.A. + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. + +This picture was purchased for the National Gallery at the sale of the +late Mr. William Russell. The reason for supposing that it represents Mary +Wollstonecraft rests solely on testimony of the engraving in the _Monthly +Mirror_ (published during her lifetime), from which this reproduction was +made. Mrs. Merritt made an etching of the picture for Mr. Kegan Paul's +edition of the "Letters to Imlay." + +_To face p. xvi_] + + +It is probable that in March 1793 Mary Wollstonecraft first saw Gilbert +Imlay. The meeting occurred at Mr. Christie's house, and her immediate +impression was one of dislike, so that on subsequent occasions she avoided +him. However, her regard for him rapidly changed into friendship, and +later into love. Gilbert Imlay was born in New Jersey about 1755. He +served as a captain in the American army during the Revolutionary war, and +was the author of "A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of +North America," 1792, and a novel entitled "The Emigrants," 1793. In the +latter work, as an American, he proposes to "place a mirror to the view of +Englishmen, that they may behold the decay of these features that were +once so lovely," and further "to prevent the sacrilege which the present +practice of matrimonial engagements necessarily produce." It is not known +whether these views regarding marriage preceded, or were the result of, +his connexion with Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1793 he was engaged in +business, probably in the timber trade with Sweden and Norway. + +In deciding to devote herself to Imlay, Mary sought no advice and took no +one into her confidence. She was evidently deeply in love with him, and +felt that their mutual confidence shared by no one else gave a sacredness +to their union. Godwin, who is our chief authority on the Imlay episode, +states that "the origin of the connexion was about the middle of April +1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for about three months." +Imlay had no property whatever, and Mary had objected to marry him, +because she would not burden him with her own debts, or "involve him in +certain family embarrassments," for which she believed herself +responsible. She looked upon her connexion with Imlay, however, "as of the +most inviolable nature." Then the French Government passed a decree that +all British subjects resident in France should go to prison until a +general declaration of peace. It therefore became expedient, not that a +marriage should take place, for that would necessitate Mary declaring her +nationality, but that she should take the name of Imlay, "which," says +Godwin, "from the nature of their connexion (formed on her part at least, +with no capricious or fickle design), she conceived herself entitled to +do, and obtain a certificate from the American Ambassador, as the wife of +a native of that country. Their engagement being thus avowed, they thought +proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to +Paris." + +In a letter from Mary Wollstonecraft to her sister Everina, dated from +Havre, March 10, 1794, she describes the climate of France as "uncommonly +fine," and praises the common people for their manners; but she is also +saddened by the scenes that she had witnessed and adds that "death and +misery, in every shape of terror, haunt this devoted country.... If any of +the many letters I have written have come to your hands or Eliza's, you +know that I am safe, through the protection of an American, a most worthy +man who joins to uncommon tenderness of heart and quickness of feeling, a +soundness of understanding, and reasonableness of temper rarely to be met +with. Having been brought up in the interior parts of America, he is a +most natural, unaffected creature." + +Mary has expressed in the "Rights of Woman" her ideal of the relations +between man and wife; she now looked forward to such a life of domestic +happiness as she had cherished for some time. She had known much +unhappiness in the past. Godwin says: "She brought in the present +instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the attachment of a +chosen friend. Let it not, however, be imagined, that she brought a heart, +querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character +seemed to change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of +her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity and the +vivacity of a youthful mind. She was playful, full of confidence, +kindness, and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre, and her cheeks new +colour and smoothness. Her voice became cheerful; her temper overflowing +with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day +to day illuminated her countenance, which all who knew her will so well +recollect, and which won, both heart and soul, the affections of almost +every one that beheld it." She had now met the man to whom she earnestly +believed she could surrender herself with entire devotion. Naturally of an +affectionate nature, for the first time in her life, with her impulsive +Irish spirit, as Godwin says, "she gave way to all the sensibilities of +her nature." + +The affair was nevertheless doomed to failure from the first. Mary had +taken her step without much forethought. She attributed to Imlay +"uncommon tenderness of heart," but she did not detect his instability of +character. He certainly fascinated her, as he fascinated other women, both +before and after his attachment to Mary. He was not the man to be +satisfied with one woman as his life-companion. A typical American, he was +deeply immersed in business, but his affairs may not have claimed as much +of his time as he represented. In the September after he set up house with +Mary, that is in '93, the year of the Terror, he left her in Paris while +he went to Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to +Havre Marat. It is awful to think what must have been the life of this +lonely stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain +hardly a reference to the events of the Revolution. + +Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to Paris, and sickened with the +"growing cruelties of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 1794, +and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory +of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence +throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. +In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus +of little Fanny: + +"I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to +fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She +does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and +though I am sure she has her father's quick temper and feelings, her good +humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing." + +In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had +subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of +their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing. +The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in +which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris. +Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she +expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of +business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had +cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay +put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an +end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest +forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress +belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at +first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second +consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished +house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when +she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take +her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt +of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was +at this time engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy +representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that +the journey would restore Mary's health and spirits. She therefore +consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a +document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and +describing her as "Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife," and concluding: +"Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved +friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely +and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and +affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay." + +The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were +issued in 1796, as "Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her most +readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by +Godwin in his wife's posthumous works, and are given in the present +volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay +had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and +to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her +suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely +neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the +discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought +Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference +resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She +first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and +therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived +there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until +her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She +was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life +was saved. + +Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last +sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when "he alighted +from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter +passed," she assured Godwin, "without producing in her any oppressive +emotion." Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from +Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to +be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor +interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not +known. + +Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and +publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her +literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more +seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was +William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced +republicans of the time, the author of "Political Justice" and the novel +"Caleb Williams." They had met before, for the first time in November +1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the +naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although +they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became +friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him +extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of +the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, +Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his +family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he +appears to the worst advantage--a kind of early Pecksniff--in his later +correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this +correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine +side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait +Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and +eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by +Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so +pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of +Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face +portrait of the philosopher--"he has large noble eyes, and a _nose_--oh, +most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the +effect of its downward elongation." + +Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as "friendship melting into +love." They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty +doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his +theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family +happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, +generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at +his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a +walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate +with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints +some of these; such as Godwin's: + +"I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you +four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How +do you do?" + +And Mary's: "Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I +wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I +shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie's; but should I not +find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give +Fanny butter with her pudding." This note is dated April 20, 1797, and +probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie. + +On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional +clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed +bachelor habits. + +Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at +Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being +witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered +diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a +mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent +to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly +for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. +Reveley, two of Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announcement of +his marriage that they shed tears. + +An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey's +letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, "Of all the +lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's countenance is the +best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat +similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display--an expression +indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but +still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of +one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I +ever saw." + +Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life +was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to +Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband +and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most delightful +reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were. + + +[Illustration: From a photo by Emery, Walker after the picture by Opie +(probably painted in April, 1797) in the National Portrait Gallery. + +MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. + +This picture passed from Godwin's hands on his death to his grandson, Sir +Percy Florence Shelley. It was afterwards bequeathed to the nation by his +widow, Lady Shelley. It was engraved by Heath (Jan. 1, 1798) for Godwin's +memoir of his wife. An engraving of it also appeared in the _Lady's +Magazine_, from which the frontispiece to this book was made, and a +mezzotint by W. T. Annis was published in 1802. Mrs. Merritt also made an +etching of the picture for Mr. Paul's edition of the "Letters to Imlay." + +_To face p. xxvi_] + + +On August 30, Mary's child was born, not the William so much desired by +them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well +with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The +best medical advice was obtained, but after a week's illness, on Sunday +morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During +her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave +Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, "Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." But, +as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that moment Godwin declined to be +entrapped into the admission that heaven existed," and his instant reply +was: "You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat +easier." Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband's religious +doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one. + +Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately +after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the "Memoirs" testify. +Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in +the presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was +laid beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is +said to have plighted his troth to Mary Godwin's daughter. In 1851, when +the Metropolitan and Midland Railways were constructed at St. Pancras, +the graveyard was destroyed, but the bodies of Mary and William Godwin +were removed by their grandson, Sir Percy Shelley, to Bournemouth, where +they now rest with his remains, and those of his mother, Mrs. Shelley. + +In the year following Mary's death (1798) Godwin edited his wife's +"Posthumous Works," in four volumes, in which appeared the letters to +Imlay, and her incomplete novel "The Wrongs of Woman." His tribute to Mary +Godwin's memory was also published in 1798, under the title of "Memoirs of +the Author of _A Vindication of the Rights of Woman_." Godwin's novel, +"St. Leon" came out in 1799; his tragedy "Antonio" was produced only to +fail, in 1800, and in 1801, he was wooed and won by Mrs. Clairmont, a +widow. The Godwin household was a somewhat mixed one, consisting, as it +did, of Fanny Imlay, Mary Godwin, Mrs. Godwin's two children, Charles and +Claire Clairmont, and also of William, the only child born of her marriage +with Godwin. In 1812 Shelley began a correspondence with Godwin, which +ultimately led to Mary Godwin's elopement with the poet. Poor Fanny Imlay, +or Godwin, as she was called after her mother's death, died at the age of +nineteen by her own hand, in October 1816. Her life had been far from +happy in this strange household. She had grown to love Shelley, but his +choice had fallen on her half-sister, so she bravely kept her secret to +herself. One day she suddenly left home and travelled to Swansea, where +she was found lying dead the morning after her arrival, in the inn where +she had taken a room, "her long brown hair about her face; a bottle of +laudanum upon the table, and a note which ran thus: 'I have long +determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the +existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only +been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in +endeavouring to promote her welfare.' She had with her the little Genevan +watch, a gift of travel from Mary and Shelley: and in her purse were a few +shillings."[1] + +Shelley, afterwards recalling his last interview with Fanny in London, +wrote this stanza: + + "Her voice did quiver as we parted; + Yet knew I not that heart was broken + From whence it came, and I departed + Heeding not the words then spoken. + Misery--O Misery, + This world is all too wide for thee!" + + +III + +The vicissitudes to which Mary Wollstonecraft was so largely a prey during +her lifetime seem to have pursued her after death. In her own day +recognised as a public character, reviled by most of her contemporaries in +terms not less ungentle than Horace Walpole's epithets, "a hyena in +petticoats" or "a philosophising serpent," posterity has proved hardly +more lenient to her. But the vigorous work of this "female patriot" has +saved her name from that descent into obscurity which is the reward of +many men and women more talented than Mary Wollstonecraft. Reputed chiefly +as an unsexed being, who had written "A Vindication of the Rights of +Women," she was not the first woman to hold views on the emancipation of +her sex; but her chief crimes were in expressing them for the instruction +of the public, and having the courage to live up to her opinions. Whether +right or wrong, she paid the penalty of violating custom by discussing +forbidden subjects. It is true that she detected many social evils, and +suggested some excellent remedies for their amelioration, but the time was +not ripe for her book, and she suffered the usual fate of the pioneer. +Moreover, her memoir by William Godwin, beautiful as it is in many +respects, exercised a distinctly harmful influence in regard to her +memory. The very fact that she became the wife of so notorious a man, was +sufficient reason to condemn her in the eyes of her countrymen. + +For two generations after her death practically no attempt was made to +remove the stigma from her name. But at length the late Mr. Kegan Paul, a +man of wide and generous sympathies, made a serious effort to obtain +something like justice for Mary Wollstonecraft. In his book on William +Godwin, published in 1876, the true story of Mary's life was told for the +first time. It was somewhat of a revelation, for it recorded the history +of an unhappy but brave and loyal woman, whose faults proceeded from +excessive sensibility and from a heart that was over-susceptible. Mary +Wollstonecraft was an idealist in a very matter-of-fact age, and her +outlook on life, like that of most idealists, was strongly affected by her +imagination. She saw people and events in brilliant lights or sombre +shadows--it was a power akin to enthusiasm which enabled her to produce +some of her best writing, but it also prevented her from seeing the +defects of her worst work. Since Mr. Kegan Paul's memoir, Mary +Wollstonecraft has been viewed from an entirely different aspect, and many +there are who have come under the spell of her fascinating personality. It +is not, however, her message alone that now interests us, but the woman +herself, her desires, her aspirations, her struggles, and her love. +Pathetic and lonely, she stands out in the faint mists of the past, a +woman that will continue to evoke sympathy when her books are no longer +read. But it is safe to predict that the pages reprinted in this volume +are not destined to share the fate of the rest of her work. Other writers +have been unhappy and have known the pains of unrequited love, but Mary +Wollstonecraft addressed these letters with a breaking heart to the man +whom she adored, the most passionate love letters in our literature. It is +true that she was a votary of Rousseau, and that she had probably +assimilated from the study of his work not only many of his views, but +something of his style; it does not, however, appear that she had any +motive in writing these letters other than to plead her cause with Imlay. +She was far too sensitive to have intended them for publication, and it +was only by a mere chance that they were rescued from oblivion. + +_December 1907._ + + + + +PORTRAITS + + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT (Photogravure) _Frontispiece_ + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, by Opie. From an engraving + by Ridley _facing p._ xvi + + MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT, from the picture by Opie _facing p._ xxvi + + + + +LETTERS TO GILBERT IMLAY + + + + +LETTER I + +_Two o'Clock [Paris, June 1793]._ + + +My dear love, after making my arrangements for our snug dinner to-day, I +have been taken by storm, and obliged to promise to dine, at an early +hour, with the Miss ----s, the _only_ day they intend to pass here. I +shall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my +fire-side when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor +Joan?--whom you will find better, and till then think very affectionately +of her. + + Yours, truly, + MARY. + +I am sitting down to dinner; so do not send an answer. + + + + +LETTER II + + + _Past Twelve o'Clock, Monday Night + [Paris, Aug. 1793]._ + + +I obey an emotion of my heart, which made me think of wishing thee, my +love, good-night! before I go to rest, with more tenderness than I can +to-morrow, when writing a hasty line or two under Colonel ----'s eye. You +can scarcely imagine with what pleasure I anticipate the day, when we are +to begin almost to live together; and you would smile to hear how many +plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart +has found peace in your bosom.--Cherish me with that dignified tenderness, +which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep +under a quickness of feeling, that has sometimes given you pain.--Yes, I +will be _good_, that I may deserve to be happy; and whilst you love me, I +cannot again fall into the miserable state, which rendered life a burthen +almost too heavy to be borne. + +But, good-night!--God bless you! Sterne says, that is equal to a kiss--yet +I would rather give you the kiss into the bargain, glowing with gratitude +to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, because it +signifies something habitual; and we are soon to meet, to try whether we +have mind enough to keep our hearts warm. + + MARY. + +I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow.[2]--Yours-- + + + + +LETTER III + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Aug. 1793]._ + +You have often called me, dear girl, but you would now say good, did you +know how very attentive I have been to the ---- ever since I came to +Paris. I am not however going to trouble you with the account, because I +like to see your eyes praise me; and Milton insinuates, that, during such +recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the +honey that drops from the lips is not merely words. + +Yet, I shall not (let me tell you before these people enter, to force me +to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiss of DUTY--you _must_ +be glad to see me--because you are glad--or I will make love to the +_shade_ of Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilst I was +talking with Madame ----, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have +sufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, sentiment, though I so +highly respect principle.---- + +Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles--Far from it--and, +if I had not begun to form a new theory respecting men, I should, in the +vanity of my heart, have _imagined_ that _I_ could have made something of +his----it was composed of such materials--Hush! here they come--and love +flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little brush of his wing +on my pale cheeks. + +I hope to see Dr. ---- this morning; I am going to Mr. ----'s to meet him. +----, and some others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I +am to spend the day with ----. + +I shall probably not be able to return to ---- to-morrow; but it is no +matter, because I must take a carriage, I have so many books, that I +immediately want, to take with me.--On Friday then I shall expect you to +dine with me--and, if you come a little before dinner, it is so long since +I have seen you, you will not be scolded by yours affectionately, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER IV[3] + + +_Friday Morning [Paris, Sept. 1793]._ + +A man, whom a letter from Mr. ---- previously announced, called here +yesterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he seemed disappointed at +not finding you at home, I sent him to Mr. ----. I have since seen him, +and he tells me that he has settled the business. + +So much for business!--May I venture to talk a little longer about less +weighty affairs?--How are you?--I have been following you all along the +road this comfortless weather; for, when I am absent from those I love, my +imagination is as lively, as if my senses had never been gratified by +their presence--I was going to say caresses--and why should I not? I have +found out that I have more mind than you, in one respect; because I can, +without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same +object, much longer than you can.--The way to my senses is through my +heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours. + +With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is +necessary to render a woman _piquante_, a soft word for desirable; and, +beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by +fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my +whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their +pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the +few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life. + +I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought +produced it--that these continual separations were necessary to warm your +affection.--Of late, we are always separating.--Crack!--crack!--and away +you go.--This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began +to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my +eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers +that you are one of the best creatures in the world.--Pardon then the +vagaries of a mind, that has been almost "crazed by care," as well as +"crossed in hapless love," and bear with me a _little_ longer!--When we +are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and +my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion +that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours, +with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands. + +Take care of yourself--and write soon to your own girl (you may add dear, +if you please) who sincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of +it, by becoming happier. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER V + + +_Sunday Night [Paris, 1793]._ + +I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed +tranquilly without saying a few words in reply--merely to tell you, that +my mind is serene and my heart affectionate. + +Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle +twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature +who will soon be sensible of my care.--This thought has not only produced +an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm my +mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we are to +have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday--do not smile!--finding that +I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I sat +down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again. + +Are you very busy? + + * * * * * + +So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come +home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe +you will.-- + +Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be +patient--kindly--and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the +time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.--Tell me also over and over +again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely +connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the fumes +of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine, which you +have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you! Take care of +yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate + + MARY. + +I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.--This is the +kindest good-night I can utter. + + + + +LETTER VI + + +_Friday Morning [Paris, Dec. 1793]._ + +I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as +myself--for be it known to thee, that I answered thy _first_ letter, the +very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it +before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.--There is +a full, true, and particular account.-- + +Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of +stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the +same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and compass.--There +is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality, and the passions +always give grace to the actions. + +Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy +money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the +exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have +expected from thy character.--No; I have thy honest countenance before +me--Pop--relaxed by tenderness; a little--little wounded by my whims; and +thy eyes glistening with sympathy.--Thy lips then feel softer than +soft--and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.--I have not +left the hue of love out of the picture--the rosy glow; and fancy has +spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst a +delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a +grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus +alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it +divides--I must pause a moment. + +Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?--I do not know why, +but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than present; +nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my heart let +me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am true, and +have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish. + + Yours sincerely, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER VII. + + +_Sunday Morning [Paris, Dec. 29, 1793]._ + +You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. Pray sir! when do you think +of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit +you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that you will +make a _power_ of money to indemnify me for your absence. + + * * * * * + +Well! but, my love, to the old story--am I to see you this week, or this +month?--I do not know what you are about--for, as you did not tell me, I +would not ask Mr. ----, who is generally pretty communicative. + +I long to see Mrs. ----; not to hear from you, so do not give yourself +airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ----. And I am half angry with you for +not informing me whether she had brought one with her or not.--On this +score I will cork up some of the kind things that were ready to drop from +my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addressing you; or, will +only suffer an exclamation--"The creature!" or a kind look to escape me, +when I pass the slippers--which I could not remove from my _falle_ door, +though they are not the handsomest of their kind. + +_Be not too anxious to get money!--for nothing worth having is to be +purchased._ God bless you. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER VIII + + +_Monday Night [Paris, Dec. 30, 1793]._ + +My best love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, +depressed by the letters I received by ----, for he brought me several, +and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ---- was for me. Mr. ----'s letter +was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his own +affairs, though he obviously makes the best of them, has vexed me. + +A melancholy letter from my sister ---- has also harrassed my mind--that +from my brother would have given me sincere pleasure; but for + + * * * * * + +There is a spirit of independence in his letter, that will please you; and +you shall see it, when we are once more over the fire together.--I think +that you would hail him as a brother, with one of your tender looks, when +your heart not only gives a lustre to your eye, but a dance of +playfulness, that he would meet with a glow half made up of bashfulness, +and a desire to please the----where shall I find a word to express the +relationship which subsists between us?--Shall I ask the little +twitcher?--But I have dropt half the sentence that was to tell you how +much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his sister. I have been +fancying myself sitting between you, ever since I began to write, and my +heart has leaped at the thought! You see how I chat to you. + +I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, +for the post came in much later than usual. It was a cordial to me--and I +wanted one. + +Mr. ---- tells me that he has written again and again.--Love him a +little!--It would be a kind of separation, if you did not love those I +love. + +There was so much considerate tenderness in your epistle to-night, that, +if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very +dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares. + + Yours affectionately. + MARY. + + + + +LETTER IX + + +_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Dec. 31, 1793]._ + +Though I have just sent a letter off, yet, as captain ---- offers to take +one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, because +trifles of this sort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my +spirits:--and you, with all your struggles to be manly, have some of his +same sensibility.--Do not bid it begone, for I love to see it striving to +master your features; besides, these kind of sympathies are the life of +affection: and why, in cultivating our understandings, should we try to +dry up these springs of pleasure, which gush out to give a freshness to +days browned by care! + +The books sent to me are such as we may read together; so I shall not look +into them till you return; when you shall read, whilst I mend my +stockings. + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER X + + +_Wednesday Night [Paris, Jan. 1, 1794]._ + +As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to +complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I +am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do not +feel? + +I hate commerce. How differently must ----'s head and heart be organized +from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of +them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and +clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. "I am +fallen," as Milton said, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe +will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. Life is +but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; +for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, +down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew! + +Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head +aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," +where "things rank and vile" flourish best. + +If you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of +it--I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--nobody knows +where. + + MARY. + +Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ----s, +simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ----, and ----, nay, +all the world, may know it for aught I care!--Yet I wish to avoid ----'s +coarse jokes. + +Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it +comes into the world, it seems to me, by a _natural right_, to belong to +her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, +excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!--Are these the +privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps +the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for +man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.--A man is a +tyrant! + +You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing +away with some honest fellows in London. The casual exercise of social +sympathy would not be sufficient for me--I should not think such an +heartless life worth preserving.--It is necessary to be in good-humour +with you, to be pleased with the world. + + +_Thursday Morning [Paris, Jan. 2, 1794]._ + +I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful +temper, which makes absence easy to you.--And, why should I mince the +matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it--I do not want to be +loved like a goddess but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless you![4] + + + + +LETTER XI + + +_Monday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I have just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my +face, glowing with shame for my folly.--I would hide it in your bosom, if +you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my +fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes +overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I entreat you.--Do +not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very +wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had +no confidence in me---- + +It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices +of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much +indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or +perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and +tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully +disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach; +still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter. + +Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask +as many questions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue +to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my +tears--You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into +playfulness. + +Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not +an angry word--I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a +scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come +back--and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you +the next. + +---- did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre. +Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it +was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so. + +God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of +tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my +support.--Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did +writing it, and you will make happy your + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XII + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to +encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my +love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not +half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as +seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little +pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days +past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be +glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me, +and that I want to be soothed to peace. + +One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness +which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to +me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would +be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a +duty to stifle them, when I imagine _that I am treated with coldness_. + +I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of +your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there +is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly +depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look +forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth +affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look +at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, +yet most affectionate + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XIII + + +_Thursday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._ + +I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I +knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand--and this afternoon, +when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your +poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to +receive another cold one.--Burn it also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget +that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect, +that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me +again to your heart. + +I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, +because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading +continually the fatal consequence of my folly.--But, should you think it +right to remain at Havre, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of +a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be +strong again.--Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took +such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind. +The girl is come to warm my bed--so I will tenderly say, good-night! and +write a line or two in the morning. + + +_Morning._ + +I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence +shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was +so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing. + +I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether +this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, +before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, +and gave a turn to my whole system. + + Yours truly + MARY IMLAY. + + + + +LETTER XIV + + +_Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, +will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your +motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what +seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.--I thought +also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at Havre, I might as +well have been with you.--Well! well, what signifies what I brooded +over--Let us now be friends! + +I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon--and +I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least, +till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire +when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to +your Mary, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your +journey. + +What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy +was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my +eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your +knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six--if you +have not set your heart on this round number. + +I am going to dine with Mrs. ----. I have not been to visit her since the +first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as +I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has +been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am +quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not +much.--The two Mrs. ----s have been very anxious and tender. + + Yours truly + MARY. + +I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine. + + + + +LETTER XV + + +_Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is +still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I +am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me, +after having talked of illness and apprehensions. + +I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire +phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood +into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go badly with +me_.--And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am +urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born +tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart. + +I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater +part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the +fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have +promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it, +will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could +not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.--I am afraid to +read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye. + +I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by +impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional +uneasiness.--If you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, I do +not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will +struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of +poverty. + +Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for +I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into +them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVI + + +_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday +with Mr. ----, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall +be to see you. I have just got my passport, for I do not foresee any +impediment to my reaching Havre, to bid you good-night next Friday in my +new apartment--where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile +me to sleep--for I have not caught much rest since we parted. + +You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully +round my heart, than I supposed possible.--Let me indulge the thought, +that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish +to be supported.--This is talking a new language for me!--But, knowing +that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of +affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more in +the same house with you. God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVII + + +_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._ + +I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you, +that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you +receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more +properly speaking, cheerful.--What is the reason that my spirits are not +as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your +temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own +forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time--I am afraid +to say never. + +Farewell for a moment!--Do not forget that I am driving towards you in +person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has +never left you. + +I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too +fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.--With my face turned to +Havre my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my +body to do whatever I wished. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XVIII + + +_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._ + +We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was +sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when I knew that you were to stay +such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not +sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of +the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; +but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, +though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am, wishing you a +finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of +your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over +your relaxing features. + +But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So God bless you! Take +care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XIX + + +_[Havre, March, 1794]._ + +Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I +was to inclose.--This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter +of business.--You know, you say, they will not chime together.--I had got +you by the fire-side, with the _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your +poor bare ribs--and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper +up, that was directly under my eyes! What had I got in them to render me +so blind?--I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold; +for I am, + + Yours most affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XX + + +_[Havre] Sunday, August 17 [1794]._ + + * * * * * + +I have promised ---- to go with him to his country-house, where he is now +permitted to dine--I, and the little darling, to be sure[6]--whom I cannot +help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall enjoy +the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my +imagination. + +I have called on Mrs. ----. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a +dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_.--But +_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the +mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the +foreground of the picture. + +The H----s are very ugly, without doubt--and the house smelt of commerce +from top to toe--so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only +proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a +room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_--A +nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed +Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.--Ah! +kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the +loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the +_sombre_ day of life--whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see +things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running +stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to +tantalize us. + +But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me +let the square-headed money-getters alone.--Peace to them! though none of +the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who +sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain +my pen. + +I have been writing on, expecting poor ---- to come; for, when I began, I +merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally +associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other. + +Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a +_gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to +cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments +in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the +senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the +father,[7] when they produce the suffusion I admire.--In spite of icy age, +I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, +and be stupidly useful to the stupid-- + + Yours, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXI + + +_Havre, August 19 [1794] Tuesday._ + +I received both your letters to-day--I had reckoned on hearing from you +yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to +the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that +you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ---- came in, and some +other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated--yet, +leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is +sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my +place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary +your affection is to my happiness.--Still I do not think it false +delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness +should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish +passion, as reason--that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by seeking +your own.--For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your +generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the +very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which +demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly +mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of +cherishing a tenderness for your person. + +I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long +time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all +my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though +they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment--This for our little +girl was at first very reasonable--more the effect of reason, a sense of +duty, than feeling--now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and +when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me. + +You too have somehow clung round my heart--I found I could not eat my +dinner in the great room--and, when I took up the large knife to carve for +myself, tears rushed into my eyes.--Do not however suppose that I am +melancholy--for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find +fault with you--but how I can doubt your affection. + +I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation) +with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the +friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXII + + +_Havre, August 20 [1794]._ + +I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ----. Knavery always +rouses my indignation--I should be gratified to hear that the law had +chastised ---- severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the +business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly +know how you would express your contempt. + +Pray ask some questions about Tallien--I am still pleased with the dignity +of his conduct.--The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of +a degree of address, which I admire--and mean to point out to you, as one +of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the +man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart, +which is the true basis of both public and private friendship. + +Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you, +of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning +woman, and you almost look for cunning--Nay, in _managing_ my happiness, +you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest +sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart, +which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and +cherished.--You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that +overflowing (_epanchement de coeur_), which becoming almost childish, +appears a weakness only to the weak. + +But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as +a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a +_number_ of mistresses.--Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather +flattered his vanity than his senses. + +Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to +close it without mentioning the little damsel--who has been almost +springing out of my arm--she certainly looks very like you--but I do not +love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIII[8] + + +_[Paris] September 22 [1794]._ + +I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and +which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely +write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had +left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me +why you did not write a longer--and you will want to be told, over and +over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered. + +Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her--to +ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud +music--yesterday, at the _fete_, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to +honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever +had round her--and why not?--for I have always been half in love with him. + +Well, this you will say is trifling--shall I talk about alum or soap? +There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then +rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you +coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.--With what pleasure do I +recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window, +regarding the waving corn! + +Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the +imagination--I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of +sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the +passions--animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more +exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, +appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if +you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the +imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold +creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to +rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of +leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords. + +If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which +would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are +embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life--Bring me then back +your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; +and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be +dear to me; for I am yours truly, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIV + + +_[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794]._ + +I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I +cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my +bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do not +admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, +and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and +wife being one--for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the +beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited. + +Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present--the rest is +all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain +of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days +past. + + +_[Paris, 1794] Morning._ + +Yesterday B---- sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me +before; and I like him better than I did--that is, I have the same opinion +of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and +real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be +met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of +mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him +to see her. + +I have been interrupted. Mr. ---- I suppose will write about business. +Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now +with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow +the Jacobins, I plainly perceive. + +I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at +night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am +alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into +reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me. + +This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, +I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and +---- is waiting to carry this to Mr. ----'s. I will then kiss the girl +for you, and bid you adieu. + +I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your +barrier-face--or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know +that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, +intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could +wish for. + +I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; +but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing +sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. ----. I want you to bring +---- with you. Madame S---- is by me, reading a German translation of your +letters--she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you +say of the negroes. + + Yours most affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXV + + +_Paris, Sept. 28 [1794]._ + +I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have +prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward +them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B----; yet, finding that he +will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your +return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to ----, as Mr. +---- is detained, to whom I also gave a letter. + +I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you +with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar +circumstances.--I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost +lamented that I left Havre. ----, who is at best a most helpless creature, +is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that +I still continue to be almost a slave to the child.--She indeed rewards +me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother's +fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent +smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of +sensibility and observation. The other day by B----'s child, a fine one, +she looked like a little sprite.--She is all life and motion, and her eyes +are not the eyes of a fool--I will swear. + +I slept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in +which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.--I did not forget to +fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be +alluded to. + +Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of +your child, and the comfort of her mother. + +I have received, for you, letters from ----. I want to hear how that +affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his +folly or knavery. + + Your own + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXVI + + +_[Paris] October 1 [1794]._ + +It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will +ever reach you.--I have given two to ----, who has been a-going, a-going, +every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a +low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to +forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. _Tant mieux!_ you +will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents +of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the +sight of it would afford--judging of your feelings by my own. I just now +stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last +absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague +you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, +ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into +your eyes. + +After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in +business, as during the last three or four months past--for even money, +taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be +gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the +mind.--These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, +than at present--for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy +traces they left on my mind--and every emotion is on the same side as my +reason, which always was on yours.--Separated, it would be almost impious +to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.--I feel that I +love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where +else. + +My little darling grows every day more dear to me--and she often has a +kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my +heart. + +I have been interrupted--and must send off my letter. The liberty of the +press will produce a great effect here--the _cry of blood will not be +vain_!--Some more monsters will perish--and the Jacobins are +conquered.--Yet I almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast. + +I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which I shall not +now trouble you with a detail of.--I am sending ---- back; her pregnancy +rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is +better for the child. + +I long to hear from you.--Bring a copy of ---- and ---- with you. + +---- is still here: he is a lost man.--He really loves his wife, and is +anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social +feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his +health, as well as renders his person disgusting.--If his wife had more +sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save +him. + + Yours most truly and affectionately + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXVII + + +_[Paris] October 26 [1794]._ + +My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the +sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged +to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and +this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little +creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do +not find quite so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before +she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not +deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile +upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or +after a short absence. She has now the advantage of having two good +nurses, and I am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without +being the slave of it. + +I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of ----, and +am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also +made some new acquaintance. I have almost _charmed_ a judge of the +tribunal, R----, who, though I should not have thought it possible, has +humanity, if not _beaucoup d'esprit_. But let me tell you, if you do not +make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the +_Marseillaise_, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and +plays sweetly on the violin. + +What do you say to this threat?--why, _entre nous_, I like to give way to +a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with +you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially said to be "in a good humour, +when he is pleased." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back +quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the +new-comer best. + + * * * * * + +My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks +happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come +back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not +be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make exertions which +injure your constitution. + + Yours most truly and tenderly, + MARY. + +P.S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. ----, and pray +call for an answer.--It is for a person uncomfortably situated. + + + + +LETTER XXVIII + + +_[Paris] Dec. 26 [1794]._ + +I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not +allow to assume a form--I had been expecting you daily--and I heard that +many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale.--Well, I now +see your letter--and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that +your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing. + + * * * * * + +Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, +which ---- has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are +safe--and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling +that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading +that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, +husband, father of my child!--All these fond ties glow at my heart at this +moment, and dim my eyes.--With you an independence is desirable; and it is +always within our reach, if affluence escapes us--without you the world +again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy +thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted +my dreams. + +My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not +here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of "dalliance;" but +certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to +me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most +despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness--yes; I love her +more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have +embraced her as my only comfort--when pleased with you, for looking and +laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I +am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these +details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately + + Yours, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXIX + + +_[Paris] December 28 [1794]._ + + * * * * * + +I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your +disappointments.--Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with +affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that +you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me. + +----, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new +projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather +an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who +are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we +meet, we will discuss this subject--You will listen to reason, and it has +probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue +some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to +arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing +to live. + +Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as +to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your +departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment +necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the +expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be +considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment +and affection out of the heart? + +I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to +forward it with ----'s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what +he has doubtless recommended most warmly. + +Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.--I will give you no +tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the +settling the _present_ objects permit.--_I do not consent_ to your taking +any other journey--or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows +where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may +add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes +---- so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of +action), I will not importune you.--I will only tell you, that I long to +see you--and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made +angry, by delays.--Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if +I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all +a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because +remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture. + +My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs--She wants you to +bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing +her, and yet she is not satisfied--she wants you to thank her mother for +taking such care of her, as you only can. + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXX + + +_[Paris] December 29 [1794]._ + +Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as ---- has just +informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I +take advantage of it to inclose you + + * * * * * + +How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which +obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be +content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this +wearisome labyrinth?--I know very well that you have imperceptibly been +drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give +place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?--I am +contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from +wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my +project also--and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will +take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness--your +distant civilities--no; not we. + +This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which +---- manifests to have you remain where you are.--Yet why do I talk to +you?--If he can persuade you--let him!--for, if you are not happier with +me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal +projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as +affection seems to offer them--if our affection be mutual, they will occur +to you--and you will act accordingly. + +Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have +heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, +about the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but +contriving to live--earning their daily bread--yet, though they are but +just above poverty, I envy them.--She is a tender, affectionate +mother--fatigued even by her attention.--However she has an affectionate +husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure. + +I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I +grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to +observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes +attached!--These appear to me to be true pleasures--and still you suffer +them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.--It is your own +maxim to "live in the present moment."--_If you do_--stay, for God's sake; +but tell me the truth--if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and +let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart. + +Adieu! I am a little hurt.--I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort +me. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXI + + +_[Paris] December 30 [1794]._ + +Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have +written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife +you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my +epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ----'s +opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your +staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual +inquietude--and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn some money +here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the +world to get a fortune, it is for yourself--for the little girl and I will +live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I may be termed +proud--Be it so--but I will never abandon certain principles of action. + +The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they +debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a +gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they +maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, +whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been +polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence. + +I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former +is necessary, to give life to the other--and such a degree of respect do I +think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its +place, brings you back, never return!--for, if a wandering of the heart, +or even a caprice of the imagination detains you--there is an end of all +my hopes of happiness--I could not forgive it, if I would. + +I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of +men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it +is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient +delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my +little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.--I am sorry to have a +tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns. + +You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the +strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. ---- has +taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it +has inconceivably depressed my spirits--You have always known my +opinion--I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, +ought not to be long separated.--If certain things are more necessary to +you than me--search for them--Say but one word, and you shall never hear +of me more.--If not--for God's sake, let us struggle with poverty--with +any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been +told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more +distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to +forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain, +and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no +conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence. + + MARY.[9] + + + + +LETTER XXXII + + +_[Paris] January 9 [1795]._ + +I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely +occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to +write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and +schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb +your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine. + +Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain +independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which +I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from +passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life +were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I +have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed +some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous +enjoyment can give.--Why have you so soon dissolved the charm. + +I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ----'s +never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness--but you +are mistaken--I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of +action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to +my feelings, appears to me unnecessary--and therefore I have not firmness +to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and +still wish, to retire with you to a farm--My God! any thing, but these +continual anxieties--any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and +roots out affection from the heart. + +I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences----yet I will +simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the +arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the +necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose +only, is indispensible--The want of wood, has made me catch the most +violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual +coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to +recollect myself.--This however is one of the common evils which must be +borne with----bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the +spirits. + +Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have +determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.--It is too +soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!--And as one has well said, +"despair is a freeman," we will go and seek our fortune together. + +This is not a caprice of the moment--for your absence has given new +weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you +left me.--I do not chuse to be a secondary object.--If your feelings were +in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary +prospects of future advantage. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIII + + +_[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]._ + +I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which +would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is +pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated +the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely +conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After +longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have +seen a superscription written by you.--Promising myself pleasure, and +feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, +left the room--when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen +hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul. + +Well, now for business-- + + * * * * * + +My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing +the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and +now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. +You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will +guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for +some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey--nothing can +equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect +her. Adieu! do not forget to love us--and come soon to tell us that you +do. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIV + + +_[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795]._ + +From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will +scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you +have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it +pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground +again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, +it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it +for ever; yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers +by your absence. + + * * * * * + +For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make +money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore +was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest I +should have uttered unseasonable truths. + +My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself.--I +have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to +mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The secondary pleasures of life," +you say, "are very necessary to my comfort:" it may be so; but I have ever +considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the +resolution necessary to bear the _common_[10] evils of life; I should +answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would +avoid them, cost what it would---- + +Adieu! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXV + + +_[Paris] February 9 [1795]._ + +The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we +were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ----, +convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other +letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got, +were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight +of the superscriptions excited. + +I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for +utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find +it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence. + +You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the +most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I +recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during +the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I never before +experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at +the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.--God preserve +this poor child, and render her happier than her mother! + +But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I +think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is +come to this.--I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to +you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to +reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better +fate. My soul is weary--I am sick at heart; and, but for this little +darling, I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of +every charm. + +You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to tell +you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated +by honour.--Indeed, I scarcely understand you.--You request me to come, +and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to +this place. + +When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.--I +would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of +trouble on which you are entering.--I have certain principles of action: I +know what I look for to found my happiness on.--It is not money.--With you +I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life--as it is, less +will do.--I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for +my child, and she does not want more at present.--I have two or three +plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, +neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to +you!--No; I would sooner submit to menial service.--I wanted the support +of your affection--that gone, all is over!--I did not think, when I +complained of ----'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he +would have dragged you into his schemes. + +I cannot write.--I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your +departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was +written.--You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more +determined, moment.--Do not insult me by saying, that "our being together +is paramount to every other consideration!" Were it, you would not be +running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind. + +Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXVI + + +_[Paris] Feb. 10 [1795]._ + +You talk of "permanent views and future comfort"--not for me, for I am +dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the +business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. +I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I +feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly +devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure +you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady +you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they +may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write +more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present +lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, +which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ----, and I +shall take one more, to pay my servant's wages, &c. and then I shall +endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall entirely +give up the acquaintance of the Americans. + +---- and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very +unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had +provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have +dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining +where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter +cup to care about trifles. + +When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the +gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in +America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did +not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary +to you than you imagined--more necessary than an uncorrupted heart--For a +year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, +drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be +remembered with regret--I was going to say with remorse, but checked my +pen. + +As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your +reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content +with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of +hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative +to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice +could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, +and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you +are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them--I +shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu! + + MARY. + +This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to +complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of +the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers +who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in +life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I +am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could +forget my misery--so that my head or heart would be still.---- + + + + +LETTER XXXVII + + +_[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]._ + +When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an +indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now +calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the +quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. +Society fatigues me inexpressibly--So much so, that finding fault with +every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in +myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take +any pains to recover my health. + +As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a +repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. +Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, +after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the +necessity of keeping the mind tranquil--and, my God! how has mine be +harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind +of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," I have not found a +guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my +bosom. + +What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!--But I +will not go over this ground--I want to tell you that I do not understand +you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning +here--and I know that it will be necessary--nay, is. I cannot explain +myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my +meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am +I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, +but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to +be left there a prey to it! + +Why is it so necessary that I should return?--brought up here, my girl +would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans +of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness. + +In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am +left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has +rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or +affectionate emotions.--With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help +displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of +the effect it is visible it has had on me. + +Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to +avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.--Do not +mistake me, I have never been refused.--Yet I have gone half a dozen times +to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking--you must guess +why--Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which +you have sacrificed my peace--not remembering--but I will be silent for +ever.---- + + + + +LETTER XXXVIII + + +_[Havre] April 7 [1795]._ + +Here I am at Havre, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell +you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I +shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my +heart--You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of +delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride--Still I cannot +indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without +trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual. + +I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea--and tears rush into my eyes, +when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.--I have indeed +been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh +hopes, as to regain tranquillity.--Enough of this--lie still, foolish +heart!--But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease +to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment. + +Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I +weaned her, about ten days ago.--I am however glad I conquered my +repugnance.--It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish +to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off +till we met.--It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to +throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw +over my shoulder.--I wished to endure it alone, in short--Yet, after +sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot +think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom! + +I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity +for your coming to me.--Pray inform Mr. ----, that I have his little +friend with me.--My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some +inconvenience----and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have +not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, +as you. God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XXXIX + + +_Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11 [1795]._ + +Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I +can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.--I shall drive to ----'s +hotel, where ---- tells me you have been--and, if you have left it, I hope +you will take care to be there to receive us. + +I have brought with me Mr. ----'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to +take care of our little darling--not on the way, for that fell to my +share.--But why do I write about trifles?--or any thing?--Are we not to +meet soon?--What does your heart say? + + Yours truly + MARY. + +I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread. + + + + +LETTER XL + + + _[26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place] + London, Friday, May 22 [1795]._ + +I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think +that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, +when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be +necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose +it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which +made ---- request to see me to-day, to _converse about a matter of great +importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my +spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as +distressing, as the two former had been. + +I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me--Still I find that +tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so +different from the resignation of despair!--I am however no longer angry +with you--nor will I ever utter another complaint--there are arguments +which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.--We have +had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future +prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to +affection.--Let the subject never be revived! + +It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of +being happy.--Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.--My soul has been +shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.--I have gone out--and sought for +dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my +irritable nerves---- + +My friend--my dear friend--examine yourself well--I am out of the +question; for, alas! I am nothing--and discover what you wish to do--what +will render you most comfortable--or, to be more explicit--whether you +desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, +tell me frankly, I conjure you!--for, believe me, I have very +involuntarily interrupted your peace. + +I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a +cheerful face to greet you--at any rate I will avoid conversations, which +only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately +yours, + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLI + + +_[May 27, 1795] Wednesday._ + +I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am +tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning--not because I am +angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.--I shall +make every effort to calm my mind--yet a strong conviction seems to whirl +round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, +emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart. + +God bless you! + + Yours sincerely, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLII + + + _[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Clock + [May 27, 1795]._ + +We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the +child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the +night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a +tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have +finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes +out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn. + +I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the +struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.--It is even now too full to +allow me to write with composure.--Imlay,--dear Imlay,--am I always to be +tossed about thus?--shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in? +How can you love to fly about continually--dropping down, as it were, in a +new world--cold and strange!--every other day? Why do you not attach those +tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?--This +alone is affection--every thing else is only humanity, electrified by +sympathy. + +I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be +detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours +sincerely and affectionately + + MARY. + +Fanny is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the +noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----Adieu! + + + + +LETTER XLIII + + +_[Hull, May 28, 1795] Thursday._ + +A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. I have then only a +moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give +information + + * * * * * + +But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared +with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this +painful string--God bless you! + + Yours truly, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLIV + + +_[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]._ + +I have just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, +for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general +observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, +as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most +serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety +had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender +avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. +You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of +inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that +gratification which only the heart can bestow. + +The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites, +must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never lends +its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by according +reason.--Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite +pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the +whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders +every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions, over which +satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment +cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These +emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive +characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite +relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and +drinkers and _child-begeters_, certainly have no idea. You will smile at +an observation that has just occurred to me:--I consider those minds as +the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to +their senses. + +Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot +help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, +to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of +feeling--which would open your heart to me.--I would fain rest there! + +Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my +attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live +has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that +despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my +child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might +become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might +there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated +sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight. + +Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting +happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in +order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked +sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, +without agony, think of your bosom's being continually contaminated; and +bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child +and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, +I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.--These are not common sorrows; +nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to +labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment. + +Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something like +a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider +whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term "the zest +of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of +your own incentive to action, do not deceive me! + +The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so +wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, +let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you +will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great +mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the +dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject. + +The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I +cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to +depart. + + + _[Hull, June 13, 1795] + Saturday Morning._ + +Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, +in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my +being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the +gloom of despair--Yes; with less affection, I should have been more +respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to +myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. +Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ----, and +that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only +written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being +thrown on you.[11] + +I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my +efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am +engaged. + +My friend--my dearest friend--I feel my fate united to yours by the most +sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of--yes, I will say it--a +true, unsophisticated heart. + + Yours most truly + MARY. + +If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am +afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to +write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect +a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not +Mr. ----'s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great +civilities, will send them after me. + +Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; +and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from +us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot +word--Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?--I +shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will +draw us more closely together. Once more adieu! + + + + +LETTER XLV + + +_[Hull] Sunday, June 14 [1795]._ + +I rather expected to hear from you to-day--I wish you would not fail to +write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well--Whether I have +any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of +trembling--and, in spite of all my efforts, the child--every +thing--fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement. + +Mr. ---- forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was +fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the +necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, +a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather +interesting man.--They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor +Fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood. + +They took me in their carriage to Beverley, and I ran over my favourite +walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.--The town did not +please me quite so well as formerly--It appeared so diminutive; and, when +I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever +since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have +vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at +pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is +much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and +fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country. + +The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to +linger--When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I +do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your +connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of +your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of +mind.--Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of +being free, does not overbalance the pain you felt at parting with me? +Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you--or +why should we meet again?--but, the moment after, despair damps my rising +spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften +the cares of life.----God bless you! + + Yours sincerely and affectionately + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLVI + + +_[Hull] June 15 [1795]._ + +I want to know how you have settled with respect to ----. In short, be +very particular in your account of all your affairs--let our confidence, +my dear, be unbounded.--The last time we were separated, was a separation +indeed on your part--Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most +affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of +disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive--yet +should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true +friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the +world again. Accuse me not of pride--yet sometimes, when nature has opened +my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher +value on my heart. + +Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one +from me, and believe me yours + + Sincerely + MARY. + +The wind still continues in the same quarter. + + + + +LETTER XLVII + + +_[Hull, June, 1795] Tuesday Morning._ + +The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the +course of a few hours.--I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would +have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you--Should +one arrive, it will be sent after me. + +My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why----The quitting England seems +to be a fresh parting.--Surely you will not forget me.--A thousand weak +forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me +sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual +conflict of mind, I was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by +the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to +be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my +faculties. + +The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know +not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--It is not +a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of +disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for +misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--Well, let it +come--I care not!--what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! +God bless you--I am most affectionately and sincerely yours + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLVIII + + +_[June 17, 1795] Wednesday Morning._ + +I was hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having +changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we +are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to +advance a few miles. + +You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance--yet it was +even so--for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain +at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me +with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your +letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am +afraid to think how long. + +The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind +of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, +which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile +weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of +suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading. + +What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time +before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within +me!--Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and +feelings?--Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much +misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend +my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.--Will you not +endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I +saying?--Rather forget me, if you can--if other gratifications are dearer +to you.--How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? +What a world is this!--They only seem happy, who never look beyond +sensual or artificial enjoyments.--Adieu! + +Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.--I will +labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood, + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER XLIX + + +_[June 18, 1795] Thursday._ + +Here I am still--and I have just received your letter of Monday by the +pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he +expected, by the wind.--It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about +without going forward.--I have a violent headache--yet I am obliged to +take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because +---- is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of +the ship, as we ride at anchor. + +These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of +mind--compared with the sinking of a broken heart.--To tell you the truth, +I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits--from +despair.--I do not sleep--or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most +terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of +countenance. + +I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings--and +will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it--at +present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these +continual struggles--yet your letter this morning has afforded me some +comfort--and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you--when we +meet again--surely we are to meet!--it must be to part no more. I mean not +to have seas between us--it is more than I can support. + +The pilot is hurrying me--God bless you. + +In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would +disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of--"When the mind's free, +the body's delicate;"--mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles. + + Yours most truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER L + + +_[June 20, 1795] Saturday._ + +This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with +every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the +remembrances that sadden my heart. + +How am I altered by disappointment!--When going to Lisbon, ten years ago, +the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the +imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch +futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search +of sunbeams!--Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to +frown--or rather mourn with me.--Every thing is cold--cold as my +expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these +North east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming--Give me, gracious +Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial +affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger +there. + +I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to +seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after which I +hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I +have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost +drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for I never forget, +even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am +labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power. + +Poor ---- still continues sick, and ---- grows weary when the weather will +not allow her to remain on deck. + +I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you--are +you not tired of this lingering adieu? + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LI + + +_[Hull, June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning._ + +The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to +be left at a little village, offered to go to ---- to pass to-day. We had +a troublesome sail--and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has +changed. + +I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one +haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate--you might have known, +had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are +attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service--But why do +I foolishly continue to look for them? + +Adieu! adieu! My friend--your friendship is very cold--you see I am +hurt.--God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in +every sense of the word--Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. +I will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is full. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + +The child is well; I did not leave her on board. + + + + +LETTER LII + + +_[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795]._ + +I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land +at Arendall. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform +you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we +were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below. + +What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon--nor mention the +pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.--This morning +however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this +place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and +how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a +quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my +senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well. + +Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently +deranged me--and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm +to eat; the inns are mere stables--I must nevertheless go to bed. For +God's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well, +and yet you see I cannot die. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LIII + + +_[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]._ + +I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I +believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to +----'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--I likewise mentioned to +you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it +will have any serious consequences. + +---- will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ----. The inns here +are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am +overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours +to amuse me, from which I cannot escape. + +My friend--my friend, I am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies +heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; +and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the +hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," +appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly +enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my +pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LIV + + +_[Sweden] July 1 [1795]._ + +I labour in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow +and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me--this is a life that cannot +last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity--and, +when you have, I will act accordingly--I mean, we must either resolve to +live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual +struggles.--But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; +and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than +with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not +dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will +then adopt the plan I mentioned to you--for we must either live together, +or I will be entirely independent. + +My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision--You know however +that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the +moment--You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am +in need of) by being with me--and, if the tenderest friendship is of any +value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that +heartless affections cannot bestow? + +Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?--I shall, I should +imagine, be at ---- before the close of August; and, after you settle your +affairs at Paris, could we not meet there? + +God bless you! + + Yours truly + MARY. + +Poor Fanny has suffered during the journey with her teeth. + + + + +LETTER LV + + +_[Sweden] July 3 [1795]._ + +There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression +of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you +throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has +long since given place to your usual cheerfulness. + +Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) +there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than +disturb your tranquillity.--If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to +hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, +affectionate friend. + +I grow more and more attached to my little girl--and I cherish this +affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can +become bitterness of soul.--She is an interesting creature.--On +ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my +troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, "that the +virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but +the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine +round my heart--could have stopped me. + +What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I +have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to sully +the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started +with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ----) that stealing with +balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of +reviving nature. + +My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.--Love, in some minds, is +an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or +taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive +to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, +impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described. + +Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care +than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--Aiming at +tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul--almost +rooted out what renders it estimable--Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm +of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that +imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, +since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid--soul and body seemed +to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment. + +I am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my +constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought +for, begins to reanimate my countenance. + +I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of +regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect +due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of +the delights I was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can +extinguish the heavenly spark. + +Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush +when I recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound myself +with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.--I will listen to +delicacy, or pride. + + + + +LETTER LVI + + +_[Sweden] July 4 [1795]._ + +I hope to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot +tear my affections from you--and, though every remembrance stings me to +the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of +character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace. + +Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long +time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable +to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my +faculties.--Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to +the vigour of my reason--for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have had +my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, +for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my +appearance that really surprises me.--The rosy fingers of health already +streak my cheeks--and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I +have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of +youth. + +With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to +hope!--Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor +----'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ----'s children, +and makes friends for herself. + +Do not tell me, that you are happier without us--Will you not come to us +in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?--why are +you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or +rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart?--It is my +misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and +lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me +not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the +sensibility of an expanded heart can give.--God bless you! Adieu. + + + + +LETTER LVII + + +_[Sweden] July 7 [1795]._ + +I could not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a +letter from you. My being at ---- was but a chance, and you might have +hazarded it; and would a year ago. + +I shall not however complain--There are misfortunes so great, as to +silence the usual expressions of sorrow--Believe me, there is such a thing +as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; +and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion, cannot rest +satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from +myself and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel +keener anguish, when alone with my child. + +Still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from +life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--My +God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful +sensations?--But it cannot--it shall not last long. + +The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be +wounded to the soul by a negative.--My brain seems on fire. I must go into +the air. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LVIII + + +_[Laurvig, Norway] July 14 [1795]._ + +I am now on my journey to Tonsberg. I felt more at leaving my child, than +I thought I should--and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I +heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--I asked myself how I could +think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless? + +Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the winds +to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when +my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm? Yes; I +could add, with poor Lear--What is the war of elements to the pangs of +disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a +breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie! + +All is not right somewhere!--When you first knew me, I was not thus lost. +I could still confide--for I opened my heart to you--of this only comfort +you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first +object. Strange want of judgment! + +I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am +convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that +your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.--I mean +not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the simple +basis of all rectitude.--However I did not intend to argue--Your not +writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant +wretchedness. + +Poor ---- would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my +fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of +countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually +afraid of some accident.--But it would have injured the child this warm +season, as she is cutting her teeth. + +I hear not of your having written to me at Stromstad. Very well! Act as +you please--there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I +can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble +you with letters to which you do not reply. + + + + +LETTER LIX + + +_[Tonsberg] July 18 [1795]._ + +I am here in Tonsberg, separated from my child--and here I must remain a +month at least, or I might as well never have come. + + * * * * * + +I have begun ---- which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a +pecuniary kind.--I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having +done it sooner. + +I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LX + + +_[Tonsberg] July 30 [1795]._ + +I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of +June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my +detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence. + + * * * * * + +Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God +knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of +heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I +feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has +afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope +for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. + +I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live +together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor +girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that +she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving +her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to +expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can never be +healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing. + +When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution +than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined +always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot +dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and +set me free. + +Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings +anticipate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made +me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. +But to have done with these subjects. + + * * * * * + +I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet +I never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe, +and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The +child, ---- informs me, is well, I long to be with her. + +Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you +to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you +seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you. + + Yours most affectionately + MARY IMLAY + +I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to +yours. + + + + +LETTER LXI + + +_[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]._ + +Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have +entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my +nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though +trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I have, +it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a +long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no other +appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer +have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so +constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am afraid +not without a passion--and I feel the want of it more in society, than in +solitude. + + * * * * * + +Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with +tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, +when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in +my own bosom--tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes +overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. God +bless you! + + + + +LETTER LXII + + +_[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]._ + +Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, +and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.--I +cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some moments +of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the +rocks. + +This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on +something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am +sensible that I acted foolishly--but I was wretched--when we were +together--Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip +from me. I cannot live with you--I ought not--if you form another +attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little +reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel +disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to +depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a +chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can +provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part to +meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to +me--if I am to have no other--and only know me as her support. I feel that +I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are only to +correspond.--No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not +interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what +pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--You must +determine--examine yourself--But, for God's sake! spare me the anxiety of +uncertainty!--I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain. + +Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and +absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what +new form of misery I have to dread. + +I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you +will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of + + Yours truly + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIII + + +_[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795]._ + +Five of your letters have been sent after me from ----. One, dated the +14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not +expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to +assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am +disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my +affection.---- + +My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope--I +mean, I and my girl.--I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am +informed how your affairs terminate. + + Yours sincerely + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIV + + +_[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]._ + +I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more +pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot +conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. +Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have +promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future +shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an +independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head. + +I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even +vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for +peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm +contentment so termed.-- + + * * * * * + +You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect +yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of +this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they +produced.--Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have +lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not +comprehend--or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, +merely an object of compassion--a clog, however light, to teize you. +Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical +whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free--I will not torment, +when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not +continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to +cherish tenderness_ for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are +separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary +considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without +affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I +had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to +superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to +maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to +Switzerland. I shall not remain at ----, living expensively. But be not +alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more. + +Adieu! I am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if +shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins. + +God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXV + + +_[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795]._ + +I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter +last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. +I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to +imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of +life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose +on the idea that I am happy. + +Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like +resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have +suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy +substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies which bind +me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--They are the +agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and I have shaken hands. + +I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people +immersed in trade and sensuality. + +I am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting-place to +look to.--I am strangely cast off.--How often, passing through the rocks, +I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, +and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the +affections of my nature--I have never met with one, softer than the stone +that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it +was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound +together by affection or principle--and, when I am conscious that I have +fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I +am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus +abandoned?" + +You say now + + * * * * * + +I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more +explicitly--and determine on some mode of conduct.--I cannot endure this +suspense--Decide--Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or +eternally part!--I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer +to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent +subjects. + + * * * * * + +I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. But +this you ought to pardon--for it is with difficulty frequently that I make +out what you mean to say--You write, I suppose, at Mr. ----'s after +dinner, when your head is not the clearest--and as for your heart, if you +have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse +when you mention the child--Adieu! + + + + +LETTER LXVI + + +_[Hamburg] September 25 [1795]._ + +I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain ----. In +that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three +mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed +it, I hear of another, and still no letter.--I am labouring to write +calmly--this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ---- remained +a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I +to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the +same--and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this +of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXVII + + +_[Hamburg] September 27 [1795]._ + +When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the +British coast--your letter of the 18th decided me. + +By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions +extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.--You desire me to +decide--I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine, +from ----, to the same purport, to consider.--In these, God knows! there +was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but +too faithfully pourtrayed!--What more then had I to say?--The negative was +to come from you.--You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting +me in the autumn--Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or +no?--Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am +accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, +much less of friendship.--I only see a desire to heave a load off your +shoulders. + +I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you +decide. + +The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a +world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, +I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I +am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you have +no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for +having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for +a momentary gratification. + +I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your +tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On +this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I +leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off +a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly are +differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on +my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at +present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step, +till I see or hear from you. + +Preparing myself for the worst--I have determined, if your next letter be +like the last, to write to Mr. ---- to procure me an obscure lodging, and +not to inform any body of my arrival.--There I will endeavour in a few +months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France--from you I will +not receive any more.--I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your +beneficence. + +Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the +extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the +independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a +great way in France--and I will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_ +enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my +girl.--The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I +can get at an easy rate at Paris--I can introduce her to such society as +she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, +which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity +which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp. +No poor temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at +his port. + + MARY. + +I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to +go to. Captain ---- will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, +that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that I wish to see +you, though it be for the last time. + + + + +LETTER LXVIII + + +_[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]._ + +I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th +of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ----; but, as we +sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received +it. + +You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for +the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I +expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be +glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in +the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our +interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at +last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever. + +From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you +have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly request +you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require +of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle +about a mere form. + +I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at +landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious +that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable +sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the +description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming +flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her +account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my +situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, +that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in +your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my +child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot. + +I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the +return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and +tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can +receive your letter on Wednesday morning. + +Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human +being: my die is cast!--I have fortitude enough to determine to do my +duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling +heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up +by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my +life--but life will have an end! + +Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you +will find me at ----. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where. + + Yours affectionately, + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXIX + + +_[London, Nov. 1795]._ + +I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the +maid with ----, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ----, rue +----, section de ----. Should they be removed, ---- can give their +direction. + +Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction. + +Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I +forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing +but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst +you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have +lived together. + +I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let +my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you +receive this, my burning head will be cold. + +I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. +Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. +I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be +insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge +into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from +the death I seek. + +God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me +endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to +your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall +appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXX + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning._ + +I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was +inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is +not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic +attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I +am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, +it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured. + +You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the +wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long +since.--But I forbear to comment.--If I am condemned to live longer, it is +a living death. + +It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on +principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would +have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have +any friendship for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing +sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more +damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death +could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity.--It is +happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree. + +Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to +contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), +appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar +comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone, +you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not +shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any +direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I +have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own +reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value +money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do +much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am +dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child. + +I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you +again.--Adieu! + +God bless you! + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXI + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning._ + +I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with +you, that + + * * * * * + +But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy. +I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary. + + * * * * * + +My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may +lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; +but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly +free.--God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXII + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night._ + +I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be +dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or +tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my +feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments. + +I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually +offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new +house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will +sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the +moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary +supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and +misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.-- + +Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be +necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see, +written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other +medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose, +that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing +of me, it will be the same thing to you. + + MARY. + +Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my +distracted mind. + + + + +LETTER LXXIII + + +_[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon._ + +Mr. ---- having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which +were left at the house, I have to request you to let ---- bring them to +---- + +I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from +coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think, and +feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I have any +criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously +treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the +grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my +child.--I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my +desperation. + + Farewel. + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXIV + + +_London, November 27 [1795]._ + +The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you +returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters +aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow. + +My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with +anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for +me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to +expect much attention to my sufferings. + +In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has +almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I +am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel +recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to +conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of +fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, +where I am buried alive. + +But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, that I +shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But is +it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does +mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so +"exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In +other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that +of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have +fostered, and the expectations you have excited? + +My affection for you is rooted in my heart.--I know you are not what you +now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may +never be comforted by the change.--Even at Paris, my image will haunt +you.--You will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will +drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine. + +I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your +_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--Right or wrong, I am +miserable! + +It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest +principles of justice and truth.--Yet, how wretched have my social +feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--I have loved with my +whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return--and that +existence is a burthen without it. + +I do not perfectly understand you.--If, by the offer of your friendship, +you still only mean pecuniary support--I must again reject it.--Trifling +are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--God bless you! + + MARY. + +I have been treated ungenerously--if I understand what is generosity.--You +seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off--regardless whether +you dashed me to atoms by the fall.--In truth I have been rudely handled. +_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those +capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the +most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.--You would +render mothers unnatural--and there would be no such thing as a +father!--If your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly +the most easy.--It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to +please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will! + +Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from +you--and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ----'s conduct--I am +convinced you will not always justify your own. + +Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your +mind, that you have acted ignobly--and condescended to subterfuge to +gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.--Do truth and principle +require such sacrifices? + + + + +LETTER LXXV + + +_London, December 8 [1795]._ + +Having just been informed that ---- is to return immediately to Paris, I +would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain +that my last, by Dover has reached you. + +Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and I wished +to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light +of an enemy. + +That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always +with the keen anguish I do at present--for I began even now to write +calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears. + +I am stunned!--Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful +dream.--Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little +address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--Principles are +sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity. + +The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your +affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--Indeed, it seems to me, +when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.--Yet you +will not always forget me.--You will feel something like remorse, for +having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior +gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had +one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour +of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part +of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your +heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present +conduct. You do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my +esteem. + +You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an +imaginary being.--I once thought that I knew you thoroughly--but now I am +obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared +up by time. + +You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own +eyes.--I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed +in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have +afforded you equal pleasure. + +Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I +thought your property in jeopardy.--When I went to [Sweden], I requested +you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and +some other people, whom I was interested about.--Money was lavished away, +yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not +discharged, that now come on me.--Was this friendship--or generosity? Will +you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for +you.--God bless you. + + MARY. + + + + +LETTER LXXVI + +_[London, Dec. 1795.]_ + +As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I +will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and +feeling ingenuity! + +I know the soundness of your understanding--and know that it is impossible +for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with +the manly dictates of principle. + +You tell me "that I torment you."--Why do I?----Because you cannot +estrange your heart entirely from me--and you feel that justice is on my +side. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."--It was not.--When +your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to +remove the impression!--and even before I returned to England, you took +great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the +effect of a worn-out constitution--and you concluded your letter with +these words, "Business alone has kept me from you.--Come to any port, and +I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own." + +With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I +wished? I might--and did think that you had a struggle with old +propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last +prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which +would enable you to conquer yourself. + +Imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me +feelings of this kind.--You could restore me to life and hope, and the +satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you. + +In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce--and the time will +come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even +in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.--I would owe every thing to +your generosity--but, for God's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!--Let +me see you once more!-- + + + + +LETTER LXXVII + + +_[London, Dec. 1795.]_ + +You must do as you please with respect to the child.--I could wish that it +might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is +now finished.--Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I +disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the +"forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.--It is however of no +consequence.--I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct. + +I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.--Yet I flinch +not from the duties which tie me to life. + +That there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it +matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet +your understanding or mine must be strangely warped--for what you term +"delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion +for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you +to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and +affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have +stood the brunt of your sarcasms. + +The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will +survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. +The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal +desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to +come.--Whether you will always think so, I shall never know. + +It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction +forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be. + +I part with you in peace. + + +_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._ + + + + +Footnotes: + +[1] Dowden's "Life of Shelley." + +[2] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," +probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this +interview.--W. G. + +[3] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written +during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.--W. G. + +[4] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a +similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the +person to whom they were addressed.--W. G. + +[5] Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre, +but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he +went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited +London on business. + +[6] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a +considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.--W. G. + +[7] She means, "the latter more than the former."--W. G. + +[8] This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation +of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent +from Paris, and bear the address of London.--W. G. + +[9] The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], was about this +time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was +recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of +business now accumulated upon him.--W. G. + +[10] This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] the person to +whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, +things upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different +appellation.--W. G. + +[11] This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, +and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.--W. G. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + +The word "an" was corrected to "am" on page 151. + +The unmatched closing quotation mark on page 167 is presented as in the +original text. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Love Letters of Mary +Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay, by Mary Wollstonecraft and Roger Ingpen + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE LETTERS OF MARY *** + +***** This file should be named 34413.txt or 34413.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/4/1/34413/ + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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