The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
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