Maria; Or, The Wrongs of Woman
“After leaving, what the law considers as my home, I was hunted like a
criminal from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and
demanded no maintenance—yet, as the laws sanction such proceeding, and
make women the property of their husbands, I forbear to animadvert.
After the birth of my daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a
very considerable property to myself and child, I was exposed to new
persecution; and, because I had, before arriving at what is termed
years of discretion, pledged my faith, I was treated by the world, as
bound for ever to a man whose vices were notorious. Yet what are the
vices generally known, to the various miseries that a woman may be
subject to, which, though deeply felt, eating into the soul, elude
description, and may be glossed over! A false morality is even
established, which makes all the virtue of women consist in chastity,
submission, and the forgiveness of injuries.
“I pardon my oppressor—bitterly as I lament the loss of my child, torn
from me in the most violent manner. But nature revolts, and my soul
sickens at the bare supposition, that it could ever be a duty to
pretend affection, when a separation is necessary to prevent my feeling
hourly aversion.
“To force me to give my fortune, I was imprisoned—yes; in a private
mad-house.—There, in the heart of misery, I met the man charged with
seducing me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever shall deem, myself
free. The death of my babe dissolved the only tie which subsisted
between me and my, what is termed, lawful husband.
“To this person, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myself, never
considering myself as any more bound to transgress the laws of moral
purity, because the will of my husband might be pleaded in my excuse,
than to transgress those laws to which [the policy of artificial
society has] annexed [positive] punishments.—While no command of a
husband can prevent a woman from suffering for certain crimes, she must
be allowed to consult her conscience, and regulate her conduct, in some
degree, by her own sense of right. The respect I owe to myself,
demanded my strict adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr.
Venables in the light of a husband, nor could it forbid me from
encouraging another. If I am unfortunately united to an unprincipled
man, am I for ever to be shut out from fulfilling the duties of a wife
and mother?—I wish my country to approve of my conduct; but, if laws
exist, made by the strong to oppress the weak, I appeal to my own sense
of justice, and declare that I will not live with the individual, who
has violated every moral obligation which binds man to man.
“I protest equally against any charge being brought to criminate the
man, whom I consider as my husband. I was six-and-twenty when I left
Mr. Venables’ roof; if ever I am to be supposed to arrive at an age to
direct my own actions, I must by that time have arrived at it.—I acted
with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford found me a forlorn and oppressed woman,
and promised the protection women in the present state of society
want.—But the man who now claims me—was he deprived of my society by
this conduct? The question is an insult to common sense, considering
where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables’ door was indeed open to
me—nay, threats and intreaties were used to induce me to return; but
why? Was affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive
into the recesses of the human heart—yet I presume to assert, [borne
out as I am by a variety of circumstances,] that he was merely
influenced by the most rapacious avarice.
“I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from
molestation, the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware
of the character of the man with whom I had to contend.—I appeal to the
justice and humanity of the jury—a body of men, whose private judgment
must be allowed to modify laws, that must be unjust, because definite
rules can never apply to indefinite circumstances—and I deprecate
punishment upon the man of my choice, freeing him, as I solemnly do,
from the charge of seduction.
“I did not put myself into a situation to justify a charge of adultery,
till I had, from conviction, shaken off the fetters which bound me to
Mr. Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to
sully what is termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my husband, I
never encouraged a lover; and preserved with scrupulous care, what is
termed my honour, at the expence of my peace, till he, who should have
been its guardian, laid traps to ensnare me. From that moment I
believed myself, in the sight of heaven, free—and no power on earth
shall force me to renounce my resolution.”
The judge, in summing up the evidence, alluded to “the fallacy of
letting women plead their feelings, as an excuse for the violation of
the marriage-vow. For his part, he had always determined to oppose all
innovation, and the newfangled notions which incroached on the good old
rules of conduct. We did not want French principles in public or
private life—and, if women were allowed to plead their feelings, as an
excuse or palliation of infidelity, it was opening a flood-gate for
immorality. What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was her
duty to love and obey the man chosen by her parents and relations, who
were qualified by their experience to judge better for her, than she
could for herself. As to the charges brought against the husband, they
were vague, supported by no witnesses, excepting that of imprisonment
in a private madhouse. The proofs of an insanity in the family, might
render that however a prudent measure; and indeed the conduct of the
lady did not appear that of a person of sane mind. Still such a mode of
proceeding could not be justified, and might perhaps entitle the lady
[in another court] to a sentence of separation from bed and board,
during the joint lives of the parties; but he hoped that no Englishman
would legalize adultery, by enabling the adulteress to enrich her
seducer. Too many restrictions could not be thrown in the way of
divorces, if we wished to maintain the sanctity of marriage; and,
though they might bear a little hard on a few, very few individuals, it
was evidently for the good of the whole.”
CONCLUSION
BY THE EDITOR[14]
[14] i.e., Godwin [Publisher’s note].
Very few hints exist respecting the plan of the remainder of the work.
I find only two detached sentences, and some scattered heads for the
continuation of the story. I transcribe the whole.
I. “Darnford’s letters were affectionate; but circumstances occasioned
delays, and the miscarriage of some letters rendered the reception of
wished-for answers doubtful: his return was necessary to calm Maria’s
mind.”
II. “As Darnford had informed her that his business was settled, his
delaying to return seemed extraordinary; but love to excess, excludes
fear or suspicion.”
The scattered heads for the continuation of the story, are as
follow.[15]
[15] To understand these minutes, it is necessary the reader should
consider each of them as setting out from the same point in the story,
viz. the point to which it is brought down in the preceding chapter.
[Godwin’s note]
I. “Trial for adultery—Maria defends herself—A separation from bed and
board is the consequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford
obtains a part of his property—Maria goes into the country.”
II. “A prosecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford sets out for
France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Mysterious
behaviour—Visit—Expectation—Discovery—Interview—Consequence.”
III. “Sued by her husband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed
and board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her
father—Is shunned—Returns to London—Expects to see her lover—The rack
of expectation—Finds herself again with child—Delighted—A discovery—A
visit—A miscarriage—Conclusion.”
IV. “Divorced by her husband—Her lover
unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miscarriage—Suicide.”
[The following passage appears in some respects to deviate from the
preceding hints. It is superscribed] “THE END.
“She swallowed the laudanum; her soul was calm—the tempest had
subsided—and nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herself—to
fly from the anguish she endured to escape from thought—from this hell
of disappointment.
“Still her eyes closed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity
followed another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied
to assail her, and prevent her sinking into the sleep of death.—Her
murdered child again appeared to her, mourning for the babe of which
she was the tomb.—‘And could it have a nobler?—Surely it is better to
die with me, than to enter on life without a mother’s care!—I cannot
live!—but could I have deserted my child the moment it was born?—thrown
it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to support it?’—She
looked up: ‘What have I not suffered!—may I find a father where I am
going!—Her head turned; a stupor ensued; a faintness—‘Have a little
patience,’ said Maria, holding her swimming head (she thought of her
mother), ‘this cannot last long; and what is a little bodily pain to
the pangs I have endured?’
“A new vision swam before her. Jemima seemed to enter—leading a little
creature, that, with tottering footsteps, approached the bed. The voice
of Jemima sounding as at a distance, called her—she tried to listen, to
speak, to look!
“‘Behold your child!’ exclaimed Jemima. Maria started off the bed, and
fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.
“When she was restored to life, Jemima addressed her with great
solemnity: ‘—— led me to suspect, that your husband and brother had
deceived you, and secreted the child. I would not torment you with
doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a fatal moment) to search for the
child!—I snatched her from misery—and (now she is alive again) would
you leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have endured?’
“Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulsed with emotion;
when the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered
the word ‘Mamma!’ She caught her to her bosom, and burst into a passion
of tears—then, resting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of
killing it,—she put her hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were the
agonizing struggle of her soul. She remained silent for five minutes,
crossing her arms over her bosom, and reclining her head,—then
exclaimed: ‘The conflict is over!—I will live for my child!’”
A few readers perhaps, in looking over these hints, will wonder how it
could have been practicable, without tediousness, or remitting in any
degree the interest of the story, to have filled, from these slight
sketches, a number of pages, more considerable than those which have
been already presented. But, in reality, these hints, simple as they
are, are pregnant with passion and distress. It is the refuge of barren
authors only, to crowd their fictions with so great a number of events,
as to suffer no one of them to sink into the reader’s mind. It is the
province of true genius to develop events, to discover their
capabilities, to ascertain the different passions and sentiments with
which they are fraught, and to diversify them with incidents, that give
reality to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of
taste, from which they can never be loosened. It was particularly the
design of the author, in the present instance, to make her story
subordinate to a great moral purpose, that “of exhibiting the misery
and oppression, peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws
and customs of society.—This view restrained her fancy.”[16] It was
necessary for her, to place in a striking point of view, evils that are