The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
Do not call me stupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I
was to inclose.--This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter
of business.--You know, you say, they will not chime together.--I had got
you by the fire-side, with the _gigot_ smoking on the board, to lard your
poor bare ribs--and behold, I closed my letter without taking the paper
up, that was directly under my eyes! What had I got in them to render me
so blind?--I give you leave to answer the question, if you will not scold;
for I am,
Yours most affectionately,
MARY.
LETTER XX
_[Havre] Sunday, August 17 [1794]._
* * * * *
I have promised ---- to go with him to his country-house, where he is now
permitted to dine--I, and the little darling, to be sure[6]--whom I cannot
help kissing with more fondness, since you left us. I think I shall enjoy
the fine prospect, and that it will rather enliven, than satiate my
imagination.
I have called on Mrs. ----. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a
dash of the easy French coquetry, which renders her _piquante_.--But
_Monsieur_ her husband, whom nature never dreamed of casting in either the
mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the
foreground of the picture.
The H----s are very ugly, without doubt--and the house smelt of commerce
from top to toe--so that his abortive attempt to display taste, only
proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a
room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the _pendule_--A
nymph was offering up her vows before a smoking altar, to a fat-bottomed
Cupid (saving your presence), who was kicking his heels in the air.--Ah!
kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the
loves and graces, that streak with the rosy beams of infant fancy the
_sombre_ day of life--whilst the imagination, not allowing us to see
things as they are, enables us to catch a hasty draught of the running
stream of delight, the thirst for which seems to be given only to
tantalize us.
But I am philosophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me severe, and bid me
let the square-headed money-getters alone.--Peace to them! though none of
the social sprites (and there are not a few of different descriptions, who
sport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to restrain
my pen.
I have been writing on, expecting poor ---- to come; for, when I began, I
merely thought of business; and, as this is the idea that most naturally
associates with your image, I wonder I stumbled on any other.
Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is scarcely worth having, even with a
_gigot_ every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to
cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the sentiments
in your heart, which may be termed romantic, because, the offspring of the
senses and the imagination, they resemble the mother more than the
father,[7] when they produce the suffusion I admire.--In spite of icy age,
I hope still to see it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink,
and be stupidly useful to the stupid--
Yours,
MARY.
LETTER XXI
_Havre, August 19 [1794] Tuesday._
I received both your letters to-day--I had reckoned on hearing from you
yesterday, therefore was disappointed, though I imputed your silence to
the right cause. I intended answering your kind letter immediately, that
you might have felt the pleasure it gave me; but ---- came in, and some
other things interrupted me; so that the fine vapour has evaporated--yet,
leaving a sweet scent behind, I have only to tell you, what is
sufficiently obvious, that the earnest desire I have shown to keep my
place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a sure proof how necessary
your affection is to my happiness.--Still I do not think it false
delicacy, or foolish pride, to wish that your attention to my happiness
should arise _as much_ from love, which is always rather a selfish
passion, as reason--that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by seeking
your own.--For, whatever pleasure it may give me to discover your
generosity of soul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the
very quality I most admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which
demand my affection; but, unless the attachment appears to me clearly
mutual, I shall labour only to esteem your character, instead of
cherishing a tenderness for your person.
I write in a hurry, because the little one, who has been sleeping a long
time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am sad, I lament that all
my affections grow on me, till they become too strong for my peace, though
they all afford me snatches of exquisite enjoyment--This for our little
girl was at first very reasonable--more the effect of reason, a sense of
duty, than feeling--now, she has got into my heart and imagination, and
when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.
You too have somehow clung round my heart--I found I could not eat my
dinner in the great room--and, when I took up the large knife to carve for
myself, tears rushed into my eyes.--Do not however suppose that I am
melancholy--for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find
fault with you--but how I can doubt your affection.
I will not mix any comments on the inclosed (it roused my indignation)
with the effusion of tenderness, with which I assure you, that you are the
friend of my bosom, and the prop of my heart.
MARY.
LETTER XXII
_Havre, August 20 [1794]._
I want to know what steps you have taken respecting ----. Knavery always
rouses my indignation--I should be gratified to hear that the law had
chastised ---- severely; but I do not wish you to see him, because the
business does not now admit of peaceful discussion, and I do not exactly
know how you would express your contempt.
Pray ask some questions about Tallien--I am still pleased with the dignity
of his conduct.--The other day, in the cause of humanity, he made use of
a degree of address, which I admire--and mean to point out to you, as one
of the few instances of address which do credit to the abilities of the
man, without taking away from that confidence in his openness of heart,
which is the true basis of both public and private friendship.
Do not suppose that I mean to allude to a little reserve of temper in you,
of which I have sometimes complained! You have been used to a cunning
woman, and you almost look for cunning--Nay, in _managing_ my happiness,
you now and then wounded my sensibility, concealing yourself, till honest
sympathy, giving you to me without disguise, lets me look into a heart,
which my half-broken one wishes to creep into, to be revived and
cherished.--You have frankness of heart, but not often exactly that
overflowing (_épanchement de coeur_), which becoming almost childish,
appears a weakness only to the weak.
But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewise whether, as
a member declared in the convention, Robespierre really maintained a
_number_ of mistresses.--Should it prove so, I suspect that they rather
flattered his vanity than his senses.
Here is a chatting, desultory epistle! But do not suppose that I mean to
close it without mentioning the little damsel--who has been almost
springing out of my arm--she certainly looks very like you--but I do not
love her the less for that, whether I am angry or pleased with you.
Yours affectionately,
MARY.
LETTER XXIII[8]
_[Paris] September 22 [1794]._
I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and
which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely
write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had
left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me
why you did not write a longer--and you will want to be told, over and
over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her--to
ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud
music--yesterday, at the _fête_, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to
honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever
had round her--and why not?--for I have always been half in love with him.
Well, this you will say is trifling--shall I talk about alum or soap?
There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then
rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you
coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.--With what pleasure do I
recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,
regarding the waving corn!
Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the
imagination--I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of
sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the
passions--animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more
exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,
appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if
you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the
imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold
creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to
rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of
leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which
would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you are
embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life--Bring me then back
your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl;
and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be
dear to me; for I am yours truly,
MARY.
LETTER XXIV
_[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794]._
I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I
cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my
bosom, she looked so like you (_entre nous_, your best looks, for I do not
admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch,
and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and
wife being one--for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the
beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited.
Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present--the rest is
all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain
of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days
past.
_[Paris, 1794] Morning._
Yesterday B---- sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me
before; and I like him better than I did--that is, I have the same opinion
of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and
real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be
met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of
mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him
to see her.
I have been interrupted. Mr. ---- I suppose will write about business.
Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now
with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow
the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.
I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at
night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am
alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into
reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.
This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you,