The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
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.
* * * * *