The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the
British coast--your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions
extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine.--You desire me to
decide--I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine,
from ----, to the same purport, to consider.--In these, God knows! there
was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but
too faithfully pourtrayed!--What more then had I to say?--The negative was
to come from you.--You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting
me in the autumn--Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or
no?--Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am
accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity,
much less of friendship.--I only see a desire to heave a load off your
shoulders.
I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you
decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a
world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile,
I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I
am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you have
no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for
having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for
a momentary gratification.
I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your
tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On
this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I
leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off
a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly are
differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on
my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at
present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step,
till I see or hear from you.
Preparing myself for the worst--I have determined, if your next letter be
like the last, to write to Mr. ---- to procure me an obscure lodging, and
not to inform any body of my arrival.--There I will endeavour in a few
months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France--from you I will
not receive any more.--I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your
beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the
extent of it, will assist me to attain the object I have in view, the
independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a
great way in France--and I will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_
enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my
girl.--The assistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I
can get at an easy rate at Paris--I can introduce her to such society as
she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness,
which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity
which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp.
No poor temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at
his port.
MARY.
I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to
go to. Captain ---- will inform you where I am. It is needless to add,
that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that I wish to see
you, though it be for the last time.
LETTER LXVIII
_[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]._
I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th
of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ----; but, as we
sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received
it.
You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for
the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I
expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be
glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in
the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our
interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at
last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you
have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly request
you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require
of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle
about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at
landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious
that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable
sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the
description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming
flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her
account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my
situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me,
that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in
your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my
child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the
return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and
tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can
receive your letter on Wednesday morning.
Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human
being: my die is cast!--I have fortitude enough to determine to do my
duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling
heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up
by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my
life--but life will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you
will find me at ----. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately,
MARY.
LETTER LXIX
_[London, Nov. 1795]._
I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the
maid with ----, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ----, rue
----, section de ----. Should they be removed, ---- can give their
direction.
Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.
Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I
forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing
but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst
you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have
lived together.
I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let
my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you
receive this, my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.
Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene.
I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be
insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge
into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from
the death I seek.
God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me
endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to
your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall
appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
MARY.
LETTER LXX
_[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning._
I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was
inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is
not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic
attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I
am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation,
it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.
You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the
wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long
since.--But I forbear to comment.--If I am condemned to live longer, it is
a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on
principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would
have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have
any friendship for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing
sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more
damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death
could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity.--It is
happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.
Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to
contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance),
appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar
comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone,
you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not
shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any
direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I
have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own
reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value
money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do
much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am
dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you
again.--Adieu!
God bless you!
MARY.
LETTER LXXI
_[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning._
I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with
you, that
* * * * *
But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy.
I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary.
* * * * *
My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may
lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions;
but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly
free.--God bless you.
MARY.
LETTER LXXII
_[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night._
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be
dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or
tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my
feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.
I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually
offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new
house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will
sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the
moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary
supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and
misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.--
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be
necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see,
written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other
medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose,
that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing