The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
of me, it will be the same thing to you.
MARY.
Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my
distracted mind.
LETTER LXXIII
_[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon._
Mr. ---- having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which
were left at the house, I have to request you to let ---- bring them to
----
I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from
coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think, and
feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I have any
criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously
treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the
grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my
child.--I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my
desperation.
Farewel.
MARY.
LETTER LXXIV
_London, November 27 [1795]._
The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you
returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters
aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.
My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with
anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for
me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to
expect much attention to my sufferings.
In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has
almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I
am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel
recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to
conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of
fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb,
where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, that I
shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But is
it not possible that _passion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does
mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so
"exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In
other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that
of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have
fostered, and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.--I know you are not what you
now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may
never be comforted by the change.--Even at Paris, my image will haunt
you.--You will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will
drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine.
I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your
_ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--Right or wrong, I am
miserable!
It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest
principles of justice and truth.--Yet, how wretched have my social
feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--I have loved with my
whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return--and that
existence is a burthen without it.
I do not perfectly understand you.--If, by the offer of your friendship,
you still only mean pecuniary support--I must again reject it.--Trifling
are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--God bless you!
MARY.
I have been treated ungenerously--if I understand what is generosity.--You
seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off--regardless whether
you dashed me to atoms by the fall.--In truth I have been rudely handled.
_Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those
capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the
most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.--You would
render mothers unnatural--and there would be no such thing as a
father!--If your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly
the most easy.--It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to
please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!
Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from
you--and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ----'s conduct--I am
convinced you will not always justify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your
mind, that you have acted ignobly--and condescended to subterfuge to
gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.--Do truth and principle
require such sacrifices?
LETTER LXXV
_London, December 8 [1795]._
Having just been informed that ---- is to return immediately to Paris, I
would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain
that my last, by Dover has reached you.
Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and I wished
to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light
of an enemy.
That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always
with the keen anguish I do at present--for I began even now to write
calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.
I am stunned!--Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful
dream.--Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little
address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--Principles are
sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity.
The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your
affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--Indeed, it seems to me,
when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.--Yet you
will not always forget me.--You will feel something like remorse, for
having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior
gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had
one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour
of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part
of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your
heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present
conduct. You do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my
esteem.
You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an
imaginary being.--I once thought that I knew you thoroughly--but now I am
obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared
up by time.
You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own
eyes.--I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed
in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have
afforded you equal pleasure.
Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I
thought your property in jeopardy.--When I went to [Sweden], I requested
you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and
some other people, whom I was interested about.--Money was lavished away,
yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not
discharged, that now come on me.--Was this friendship--or generosity? Will
you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for
you.--God bless you.
MARY.
LETTER LXXVI
_[London, Dec. 1795.]_
As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I
will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and
feeling ingenuity!
I know the soundness of your understanding--and know that it is impossible
for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with
the manly dictates of principle.
You tell me "that I torment you."--Why do I?----Because you cannot
estrange your heart entirely from me--and you feel that justice is on my
side. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."--It was not.--When
your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to
remove the impression!--and even before I returned to England, you took
great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the
effect of a worn-out constitution--and you concluded your letter with
these words, "Business alone has kept me from you.--Come to any port, and
I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."
With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I
wished? I might--and did think that you had a struggle with old
propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last
prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which
would enable you to conquer yourself.
Imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me
feelings of this kind.--You could restore me to life and hope, and the
satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.
In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce--and the time will
come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even
in the moment of passion, you cannot despise.--I would owe every thing to
your generosity--but, for God's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!--Let
me see you once more!--
LETTER LXXVII
_[London, Dec. 1795.]_
You must do as you please with respect to the child.--I could wish that it
might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is
now finished.--Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I
disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the
"forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.--It is however of no
consequence.--I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.
I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel.--Yet I flinch
not from the duties which tie me to life.
That there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it
matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet
your understanding or mine must be strangely warped--for what you term
"delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion
for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you
to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and
affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have
stood the brunt of your sarcasms.
The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will
survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections.
The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal
desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to
come.--Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.
It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction
forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
I part with you in peace.
_Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._
Footnotes:
[1] Dowden's "Life of Shelley."
[2] The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl,"
probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this
interview.--W. G.
[3] This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written
during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.--W. G.
[4] Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a
similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the
person to whom they were addressed.--W. G.
[5] Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre,
but he returned to Mary soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he
went to Paris, where he was followed by Mary. In September Imlay visited
London on business.
[6] The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a
considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny.--W. G.