The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
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]._