The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes
overflowing with tears, and in the humblest attitude, I entreat you.--Do
not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very
wretched, since the night I was so cruelly hurt by thinking that you had
no confidence in me----
It is time for me to grow more reasonable, a few more of these caprices
of sensibility would destroy me. I have, in fact, been very much
indisposed for a few days past, and the notion that I was tormenting, or
perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and
tender, now I feel it alive, made me worse. My bowels have been dreadfully
disordered, and every thing I ate or drank disagreed with my stomach;
still I feel intimations of its existence, though they have been fainter.
Do you think that the creature goes regularly to sleep? I am ready to ask
as many questions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue
to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already smiling through my
tears--You have lightened my heart, and my frozen spirits are melting into
playfulness.
Write the moment you receive this. I shall count the minutes. But drop not
an angry word--I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deserve a
scolding (it does not admit of a question, I grant), wait till you come
back--and then, if you are angry one day, I shall be sure of seeing you
the next.
---- did not write to you, I suppose, because he talked of going to Havre.
Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it
was some words that he incautiously let fall, which rendered me so.
God bless you, my love; do not shut your heart against a return of
tenderness; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my
support.--Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did
writing it, and you will make happy your
MARY.
LETTER XII
_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Jan. 1794]._
I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are separated. Yesterday, my
love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling, as
seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a little
pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days
past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will you not be
glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a child of me,
and that I want to be soothed to peace.
One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear to
me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness would
be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me almost a
duty to stifle them, when I imagine _that I am treated with coldness_.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own [Imlay]. I know the quickness of
your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you, there
is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness wholly
depends on you--and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I look
forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
affords--with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
at me, when we work again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
yet most affectionate
MARY.
LETTER XIII
_Thursday Night [Paris, Jan. 1794]._
I have been wishing the time away, my kind love, unable to rest till I
knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand--and this afternoon,
when your tender epistle of Tuesday gave such exquisite pleasure to your
poor sick girl, her heart smote her to think that you were still to
receive another cold one.--Burn it also, my [Imlay]; yet do not forget
that even those letters were full of love; and I shall ever recollect,
that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me
again to your heart.
I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey,
because I have been seriously alarmed and angry with myself, dreading
continually the fatal consequence of my folly.--But, should you think it
right to remain at Havre, I shall find some opportunity, in the course of
a fortnight, or less perhaps, to come to you, and before then I shall be
strong again.--Yet do not be uneasy! I am really better, and never took
such care of myself, as I have done since you restored my peace of mind.
The girl is come to warm my bed--so I will tenderly say, good-night! and
write a line or two in the morning.
_Morning._
I wish you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your absence
shall not prevent me. I have stayed at home too much; though, when I was
so dreadfully out of spirits, I was careless of every thing.
I will now sally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether
this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had,
before I so inconsiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels,
and gave a turn to my whole system.
Yours truly
MARY IMLAY.
LETTER XIV
_Saturday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._
The two or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love,
will serve as an answer to your explanatory one. I cannot but respect your
motives and conduct. I always respected them; and was only hurt, by what
seemed to me a want of confidence, and consequently affection.--I thought
also, that if you were obliged to stay three months at Havre, I might as
well have been with you.--Well! well, what signifies what I brooded
over--Let us now be friends!
I shall probably receive a letter from you to-day, sealing my pardon--and
I will be careful not to torment you with my querulous humours, at least,
till I see you again. Act as circumstances direct, and I will not enquire
when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to
your Mary, when you have attained (or lost sight of) the object of your
journey.
What a picture have you sketched of our fire-side! Yes, my love, my fancy
was instantly at work, and I found my head on your shoulder, whilst my
eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your
knees. I did not absolutely determine that there should be six--if you
have not set your heart on this round number.
I am going to dine with Mrs. ----. I have not been to visit her since the
first day she came to Paris. I wish indeed to be out in the air as much as
I can; for the exercise I have taken these two or three days past, has
been of such service to me, that I hope shortly to tell you, that I am
quite well. I have scarcely slept before last night, and then not
much.--The two Mrs. ----s have been very anxious and tender.
Yours truly
MARY.
I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.
LETTER XV
_Sunday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._
I wrote to you yesterday, my [Imlay]; but, finding that the colonel is
still detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I
am not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my Yorkshire
phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions of childhood
into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go badly with
me_.--And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you; for I am
urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born
tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater
part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the
fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of illness. I have
promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cherish it,
will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, since I could
not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my heart.--I am afraid to
read over this prattle--but it is only for your eye.
I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
uneasiness.--If you can make any of your plans answer--it is well, I do
not think a _little_ money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
struggle cheerfully together--drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for
I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals into
them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours sincerely
MARY.
LETTER XVI
_Tuesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._
I seize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to set out on Thursday
with Mr. ----, and hope to tell you soon (on your lips) how glad I shall
be to see you. I have just got my passport, for I do not foresee any
impediment to my reaching Havre, to bid you good-night next Friday in my
new apartment--where I am to meet you and love, in spite of care, to smile
me to sleep--for I have not caught much rest since we parted.
You have, by your tenderness and worth, twisted yourself more artfully
round my heart, than I supposed possible.--Let me indulge the thought,
that I have thrown out some tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wish
to be supported.--This is talking a new language for me!--But, knowing
that I am not a parasite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of
affection, that every pulse replies to, when I think of being once more in
the same house with you. God bless you!
Yours truly
MARY.
LETTER XVII
_Wednesday Morning [Paris, Feb. 1794]._
I only send this as an _avant-coureur_, without jack-boots, to tell you,
that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you
receive it. I shall find you well, and composed, I am sure; or, more
properly speaking, cheerful.--What is the reason that my spirits are not
as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your
temper is even, though I have promised myself, in order to obtain my own
forgiveness, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time--I am afraid
to say never.
Farewell for a moment!--Do not forget that I am driving towards you in
person! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long since, or rather has
never left you.
I am well, and have no apprehension that I shall find the journey too
fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.--With my face turned to
Havre my spirits will not sink--and my mind has always hitherto enabled my
body to do whatever I wished.
Yours affectionately,
MARY.
LETTER XVIII
_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._
We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when I knew that you were to stay
such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not
sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of
the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about;
but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast,
though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am, wishing you a
finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of
your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over
your relaxing features.
But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So God bless you! Take
care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate
MARY.
LETTER XIX
_[Havre, March, 1794]._