The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
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