The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay
add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes
---- so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of
action), I will not importune you.--I will only tell you, that I long to
see you--and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made
angry, by delays.--Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if
I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all
a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because
remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture.
My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs--She wants you to
bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing
her, and yet she is not satisfied--she wants you to thank her mother for
taking such care of her, as you only can.
Yours truly,
MARY.
LETTER XXX
_[Paris] December 29 [1794]._
Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as ---- has just
informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I
take advantage of it to inclose you
* * * * *
How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which
obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be
content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this
wearisome labyrinth?--I know very well that you have imperceptibly been
drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give
place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty?--I am
contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from
wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my
project also--and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will
take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness--your
distant civilities--no; not we.
This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which
---- manifests to have you remain where you are.--Yet why do I talk to
you?--If he can persuade you--let him!--for, if you are not happier with
me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal
projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as
affection seems to offer them--if our affection be mutual, they will occur
to you--and you will act accordingly.
Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have
heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another,
about the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but
contriving to live--earning their daily bread--yet, though they are but
just above poverty, I envy them.--She is a tender, affectionate
mother--fatigued even by her attention.--However she has an affectionate
husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure.
I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I
grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to
observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes
attached!--These appear to me to be true pleasures--and still you suffer
them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.--It is your own
maxim to "live in the present moment."--_If you do_--stay, for God's sake;
but tell me the truth--if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and
let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.
Adieu! I am a little hurt.--I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort
me.
MARY.
LETTER XXXI
_[Paris] December 30 [1794]._
Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have
written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife
you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my
epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of ----'s
opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your
staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual
inquietude--and, _entre nous_, I am determined to try to earn some money
here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the
world to get a fortune, it is for yourself--for the little girl and I will
live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I may be termed
proud--Be it so--but I will never abandon certain principles of action.
The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they
debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a
gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they
maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan,
whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been
polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.
I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former
is necessary, to give life to the other--and such a degree of respect do I
think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its
place, brings you back, never return!--for, if a wandering of the heart,
or even a caprice of the imagination detains you--there is an end of all
my hopes of happiness--I could not forgive it, if I would.
I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of
men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it
is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient
delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my
little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.--I am sorry to have a
tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.
You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the
strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. ---- has
taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it
has inconceivably depressed my spirits--You have always known my
opinion--I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together,
ought not to be long separated.--If certain things are more necessary to
you than me--search for them--Say but one word, and you shall never hear
of me more.--If not--for God's sake, let us struggle with poverty--with
any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been
told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more
distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to
forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain,
and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no
conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence.
MARY.[9]
LETTER XXXII
_[Paris] January 9 [1795]._
I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely
occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to
write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and
schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb
your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.
Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain
independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which
I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from
passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life
were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I
have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed
some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous
enjoyment can give.--Why have you so soon dissolved the charm.
I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ----'s
never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness--but you
are mistaken--I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of
action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to
my feelings, appears to me unnecessary--and therefore I have not firmness
to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and
still wish, to retire with you to a farm--My God! any thing, but these
continual anxieties--any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and
roots out affection from the heart.
I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences----yet I will
simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the
arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the
necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose
only, is indispensible--The want of wood, has made me catch the most
violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual
coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to
recollect myself.--This however is one of the common evils which must be
borne with----bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the
spirits.
Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have
determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.--It is too
soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!--And as one has well said,
"despair is a freeman," we will go and seek our fortune together.
This is not a caprice of the moment--for your absence has given new
weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you
left me.--I do not chuse to be a secondary object.--If your feelings were
in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
prospects of future advantage.
MARY.
LETTER XXXIII
_[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795]._
I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which
would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is
pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated
the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely
conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After
longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have
seen a superscription written by you.--Promising myself pleasure, and
feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it,
left the room--when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen
hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.
Well, now for business--
* * * * *
My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing
the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and
now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c.
You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will
guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for
some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey--nothing can
equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect
her. Adieu! do not forget to love us--and come soon to tell us that you
do.
MARY.
LETTER XXXIV
_[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795]._
From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will
scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you
have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it
pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground
again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects,
it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it
for ever; yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers
by your absence.
* * * * *
For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make
money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore
was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest I
should have uttered unseasonable truths.