The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
he went to Havre, formerly known as Havre de Grace, but then altered to
Havre Marat. It is awful to think what must have been the life of this
lonely stranger in Paris at such a time. Yet her letters to Imlay contain
hardly a reference to the events of the Revolution.
Mary, tired of waiting for Imlay's return to Paris, and sickened with the
"growing cruelties of Robespierre," joined him at Havre in January 1794,
and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory
of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence
throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one.
In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus
of little Fanny:
"I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to
fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She
does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and
though I am sure she has her father's quick temper and feelings, her good
humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing."
In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had
subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of
their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing.
The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in
which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris.
Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she
expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of
business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had
cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay
put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an
end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest
forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress
belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at
first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second
consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished
house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when
she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take
her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt
of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was
at this time engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy
representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that
the journey would restore Mary's health and spirits. She therefore
consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a
document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and
describing her as "Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife," and concluding:
"Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved
friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely
and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and
affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay."
The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were
issued in 1796, as "Letters from Sweden and Norway," one of her most
readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by
Godwin in his wife's posthumous works, and are given in the present
volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay
had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and
to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her
suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely
neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the
discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought
Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference
resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She
first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and
therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived
there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until
her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She
was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life
was saved.
Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last
sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when "he alighted
from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter
passed," she assured Godwin, "without producing in her any oppressive
emotion." Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from
Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to
be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor
interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not
known.
Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and
publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her
literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more
seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was
William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced
republicans of the time, the author of "Political Justice" and the novel
"Caleb Williams." They had met before, for the first time in November
1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the
naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although
they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became
friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him
extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of
the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb,
Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his
family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he
appears to the worst advantage--a kind of early Pecksniff--in his later
correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this
correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine
side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait
Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and
eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by
Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so
pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of
Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face
portrait of the philosopher--"he has large noble eyes, and a _nose_--oh,
most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the
effect of its downward elongation."
Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as "friendship melting into
love." They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty
doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his
theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family
happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning,
generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at
his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a
walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate
with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints
some of these; such as Godwin's:
"I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you
four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How
do you do?"
And Mary's: "Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I
wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I
shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie's; but should I not
find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give
Fanny butter with her pudding." This note is dated April 20, 1797, and
probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie.
On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional
clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed
bachelor habits.
Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at
Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being
witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered
diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a
mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent
to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly
for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs.
Reveley, two of Godwin's admirers, were so upset at the announcement of
his marriage that they shed tears.
An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey's
letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, "Of all the
lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's countenance is the
best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat
similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display--an expression
indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but
still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of
one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I
ever saw."
Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life
was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to
Staffordshire from June 3 to 20, and the correspondence between husband
and wife during this time, which Mr. Paul prints, is most delightful
reading, and shows how entirely in sympathy they were.
On August 30, Mary's child was born, not the William so much desired by
them both but Mary, who afterwards became Mrs. Shelley. All seemed well
with the mother until September 3, when alarming symptoms appeared. The
best medical advice was obtained, but after a week's illness, on Sunday
morning, the 10th, at twenty minutes to eight, she sank and died. During
her illness, when in great agony, an anodyne was administered, which gave
Mary some relief, when she exclaimed, "Oh, Godwin, I am in heaven." But,
as Mr. Kegan Paul says, "even at that moment Godwin declined to be
entrapped into the admission that heaven existed," and his instant reply
was: "You mean, my dear, that your physical sensations are somewhat
easier." Mary Godwin, however, did not share her husband's religious
doubts. Her sufferings had been great, but her death was a peaceful one.
Godwin's grief was very deep, as the letters that he wrote immediately
after her death, and his tribute to her memory in the "Memoirs" testify.
Mary Godwin was buried in Old St. Pancras churchyard on September 15, in
the presence of most of her friends. Godwin lived till 1836, when he was
laid beside her. Many years afterwards, at the same graveside, Shelley is