Mary Wollstonecraft Part 15

Truly, her ways were not as those of the Philistines around her.

The following extract from a letter written from Gothenburg gives a good idea of the impression made upon her by the moral ugliness and natural beauty which she met wherever she went. The pa.s.sage is characteristic, since its themes are the two to which she most frequently recurs:--

"... Every day, before dinner and supper, even whilst the dishes are cooling on the table, men and women repair to a side-table, and, to obtain an appet.i.te, eat bread and b.u.t.ter, cheese, raw salmon or anchovies, drinking a gla.s.s of brandy. Salt fish or meat then immediately follows, to give a further whet to the stomach. As the dinner advances,--pardon me for taking up a few minutes to describe what, alas! has detained me two or three hours on the stretch, observing,--dish after dish is changed, in endless rotation, and handed round with solemn pace to each guest; but should you happen not to like the first dishes, which was often my case, it is a gross breach of politeness to ask for part of any other till its turn comes. But have patience, and there will be eating enough. Allow me to run over the acts of a visiting day, not overlooking the interludes.

"Prelude, a luncheon; then a succession of fish, flesh, and fowl for two hours; during which time the dessert--I was sorry for the strawberries and cream--rests on the table to be impregnated by the fumes of the viands. Coffee immediately follows in the drawing-room, but does not preclude punch, ale, tea and cakes, raw salmon, etc. A supper brings up the rear, not forgetting the introductory luncheon, almost equalling in removes the dinner. A day of this kind you would imagine sufficient--but a to-morrow and a to-morrow. A never-ending, still-beginning feast may be bearable, perhaps, when stern Winter frowns, shaking with chilling aspect his h.o.a.ry locks; but during a summer sweet as fleeting, let me, my kind strangers, escape sometimes into your fir groves, wander on the margin of your beautiful lakes, or climb your rocks to view still others in endless perspective; which, piled by more than giant's hand, scale the heavens to intercept its rays, or to receive the parting tinge of lingering day,--day that, scarcely softened into twilight, allows the freshening breeze to wake, and the moon to burst forth in all her glory to glide with solemn elegance through the azure expanse.

"The cow's bell has ceased to tinkle the herd to rest; they have all paced across the heath. Is not this the witching time of night? The waters murmur, and fall with more than mortal music, and spirits of peace walk abroad to calm the agitated breast. Eternity is in these moments; worldly cares melt into the airy stuff that dreams are made of; and reveries, mild and enchanting as the first hopes of love, or the recollection of lost enjoyment, carry the hapless wight into futurity, who, in bustling life, has vainly strove to throw off the grief which lies heavy at the heart. Good-night! A crescent hangs out in the vault before, which wooes me to stray abroad: it is not a silvery reflection of the sun, but glows with all its golden splendor. Who fears the falling dew? It only makes the mown gra.s.s smell more fragrant."

As might be expected, judging from Mary's natural benevolence, the poverty and misery she saw during her journey awakened feelings of deep compa.s.sion. She describes in tones of pity the wretched condition of the lower cla.s.ses in Sweden. Servants, she writes, are no better than slaves.

They are beaten and maltreated by their masters, and are paid so little that they cannot afford to wear sufficient clothing or to eat decent food. Laborers live in huts wretched beyond belief, and herd together like animals. They have so accustomed themselves to a stifling atmosphere, that fresh air is never let into their houses even in summer, and the mere idea of cleanliness is beyond their comprehension. Indolence is their failing as well as that of their superiors in rank. Many in their brutishness refuse to exert themselves save to find the food absolutely necessary to support life, and are too sluggish to be curious.

It is pleasant to know that they have at least one good quality, in the exercise of which they surpa.s.s the rich. This is politeness, the national virtue. Mary observes:--

"The Swedes pique themselves on their politeness; but far from being the polish of a cultivated mind, it consists merely of tiresome forms and ceremonies. So far indeed from entering immediately into your character, and making you feel instantly at your ease, like the well-bred French, their over-acted civility is a continual restraint on all your actions. The sort of superiority which a fortune gives when there is no superiority of education, excepting what consists in the observance of senseless forms, has a contrary effect than what is intended; so that I could not help reckoning the peasantry the politest people of Sweden, who, only aiming at pleasing you, never think of being admired for their behavior."

Mary found the condition of the Norwegians somewhat better. The lower cla.s.ses were freer, more industrious, and more opulent. She describes their inns as comfortable, whereas those of the Swedes had not been even inhabitable. The upper cla.s.ses, though, like the Swedes, over-fond of the pleasures of the table, narrow in their range of ideas, and wholly without imagination, at least gave some signs of better days in their dawning interest in culture. She writes:--

"The Norwegians appear to me a sensible, shrewd people, with little scientific knowledge, and still less taste for literature; but they are arriving at the epoch which precedes the introduction of the arts and sciences.

"Most of the towns are seaports, and seaports are not favorable to improvement. The captains acquire a little superficial knowledge by travelling, which their indefatigable attention to the making of money prevents their digesting; and the fortune that they thus laboriously acquire is spent, as it usually is in towns of this description, in show and good living. They love their country, but have not much public spirit. Their exertions are, generally speaking, only for their families; which I conceive will always be the case, till politics, becoming a subject of discussion, enlarges the heart by opening the understanding. The French Revolution will have this effect. They sing at present, with great glee, many republican songs, and seem earnestly to wish that the republic may stand; yet they appear very much attached to their prince royal; and, as far as rumor can give an idea of character, he appears to merit their attachment."

She remained in Copenhagen and Hamburg but a short time. Imlay's unkindness and indecision had, by the time she reached Holland, so increased her melancholy that the good effect of the bracing northern air was partially destroyed. She lost her interest in the novelty of her surroundings, and as she says in one of her last letters, stayed much at home. But her perceptive faculties were not wholly deadened. She notes with her usual precision the indolence and dulness of the Danes, and the unwavering devotion of the Hamburgers to commerce, and describes the towns of Hamburg and Copenhagen with graphic force. These descriptions are well worth reading.

It was always impossible for Mary not to reflect and moralize upon what pa.s.sed around her. She not only wanted to examine and record phenomena and events, but to discover a reason for their existence. She invariably sought for the primal causes and the final results of the facts in which she was interested. The civilization of the northern countries through which she travelled, so different from the culture of England and France, gave her ample food for thought. The reflections it aroused found their way into her letters. Some of them are really remarkable, as for example, the following:--

"Arriving at Sleswick, the residence of Prince Charles of Hesse-Ca.s.sel, the sight of the soldiers recalled all the unpleasing ideas of German despotism, which imperceptibly vanished as I advanced into the country. I viewed, with a mixture of pity and horror, these beings training to be sold to slaughter, or be slaughtered, and fell into reflections on an old opinion of mine, that it is the preservation of the species, not of individuals, which appears to be the design of the Deity throughout the whole of nature. Blossoms come forth only to be blighted; fish lay their sp.a.w.n where it will be devoured; and what a large portion of the human race are born merely to be swept prematurely away! Does not this waste of budding life emphatically a.s.sert, that it is not men, but man, whose preservation is so necessary to the completion of the grand plan of the universe? Children peep into existence, suffer, and die; men play like moths about a candle, and sink into the flame; war and the 'thousand ills which flesh is heir to' mow them down in shoals, whilst the more cruel prejudices of society palsy existence, introducing not less sure, though slower decay."

Had Mary Wollstonecraft lived in the present time, she too would have written hymns to Man. This is another of the many strange instances in her writings of the resemblance between theories which she evolved for herself and those of modern philosophers. She lived a century too soon.

The "Letters" were published in the same year, 1796, in Wilmington, Delaware. A few years later, extracts from them, translated into Portuguese, together with a brief sketch of their author, were published in Lisbon, while a German edition appeared in Hamburg and Altona. The book is now not so well known as it deserves to be. Mary's descriptions of the physical characteristics of Norway and Sweden are equal to any written by more recent English travellers to Scandinavia; and her account of the people is valuable as an unprejudiced record of the manners and customs existing among them towards the end of the eighteenth century.

But though so little known, it is still true that, as her self-appointed defender said in 1803, "Letters so replete with correctness of remark, delicacy of feeling, and pathos of expression, will cease to exist only with the language in which they were written."

Shortly after her death, G.o.dwin published in four volumes all Mary's unprinted writings, unfinished as well as finished. This collection, which is called simply "Posthumous Works of Mary Wollstonecraft G.o.dwin,"

may most appropriately be noticed here in connection with the more complete productions of her last years.

Of the "Letters to Imlay," which fill the third and a part of the fourth volume, nothing more need be said. They have been fully explained, and sufficient extracts from them have been made in the account of that period of her life during which they were written. The next in importance of these writings is "Maria; or, The Wrongs of Woman," a novel. It is but a fragment. Mary intended to revise the first chapters carefully, and of the last she had written nothing but the headings and a few detached hints and pa.s.sages. G.o.dwin, in his Preface, says, "So much of it as is here given to the public, she was far from considering as finished; and in a letter to a friend directly written on this subject, she says, 'I am perfectly aware that some of the incidents ought to be transposed and heightened by more luminous shading; and I wished in some degree to avail myself of criticism before I began to adjust my events into a story, the outline of which I had sketched in my mind.'" It therefore must be more gently criticised than such of her books as were published during her life-time, and considered by her ready to be given to the public. But, as the last work upon which she was engaged, and as one which engrossed her thoughts for months, and to which she devoted, for her, an unusual amount of labor, it must be read with interest.

The incidents of the story are, in a large measure, drawn from real life.

Her own experience, that of her sister, and events which had come within her actual knowledge, are the materials which she used. These served her purpose as well as, if not better than, any she could have invented. The only work of her imagination is the manner in which she grouped them together to form her plot. The story is, briefly, as follows: Maria, the heroine, whose home-life seems to be a description of the interior of the Wollstonecraft household, marries to secure her freedom, rather than from affection for her lover, as was probably the case with "poor Bess." Her husband, who even in the days of courtship had been a dissolute rascal, but hypocrite enough to conceal the fact, throws off his mask after marriage. He speculates rashly, drinks, and indulges in every low vice.

All this she bears until he, calculating upon her endurance, seeks to sell her to a friend, that her dishonor may be his gain financially. Then he learns that he has gone too far. She flies from his house, to which she refuses, on any consideration, to return. All attempts to bring her back having failed, he, by a successful stratagem, seizes her as she is on her way to Dover with her child, and, taking possession of the latter, has his wife confined in an insane asylum. Here, after days of horror, Maria succeeds in softening the heart of her keeper, Jemima by name, and through her makes the acquaintance of Henry Darnford, a young man who, like her, has been made a prisoner under the false charge of lunacy.

Jemima's friendship is so completely won that she allows these two companions in misery to see much of each other. She even tells them her story, which, as a picture of degradation, equals that of some of Defoe's heroines. Darnford then tells his, and the reader at once recognizes in him another Imlay. Finally, by a lucky accident the two prisoners make their escape, and Jemima accompanies them. The latter part of the story consists of sketches and the barest outlines; but these indicate the succession of its events and its conclusion. Maria and Darnford live together as husband and wife in London. The former believes that she is right in so doing, and cares nothing for the condemnation of society. She endures neglect and contumely because she is supported by confidence in the rect.i.tude of her conduct. Her husband now has her lover tried for adultery and seduction, and in his absence Maria undertakes his defence.

Her separation from her husband is the consequence, but her fortune is thrown into chancery. She refuses to leave Darnford, but he, after a few years, during which she has borne him two children, proves unfaithful. In her despair, she attempts to commit suicide, but fails. When consciousness and reason return, she resolves to live for her child.

"Maria" is a story with a purpose. Its aim is the reformation of the evils which result from the established relations of the s.e.xes. Certain rights are to be vindicated by a full exposition of the wrongs which their absence causes. Mary wished, as her Preface sets forth, to exhibit the misery and oppression peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and customs of society. "Maria," in fact, was to be a forcible proof of the necessity of those social changes which she had urged in the "Vindication of the Rights of Women." In the career of the heroine the wrongs women suffer from matrimonial despotism and cruelty are demonstrated; while that of Jemima shows how impossible it is for poor or degraded women to find employment. The princ.i.p.al interest in the book arises from the fact that in it Mary explains more definitely than she had in any previous work, her views about the laws and restrictions of matrimony. Otherwise the principles laid down in it do not differ from those which she had already stated in print. Her justification of Maria's conduct is in reality a declaration of her belief that cruelty, depravity, and infidelity in a man are sufficient reasons for his wife to separate herself from him, this separation requiring no legal permit; and that a pure honest love sanctifies the union of two people which may not have been confirmed by a civil or religious ceremony. The following pa.s.sage is a partial statement of these views, which proved very exasperating to her contemporaries. It is the advice given to Maria, after her flight, by a friendly uncle:--

"The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally speaking, can be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a woman, once married, ought to consider the engagement as indissoluble (especially if there be no children to reward her for sacrificing her feelings) in case her husband merits neither her love nor esteem. Esteem will often supply the place of love, and prevent a woman from being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a sacrifice ought always to bear some proportion to the utility in view; and for a woman to live with a man for whom she can cherish neither affection nor esteem, or even be of any use to him, excepting in the light of a housekeeper, is an abjectness of condition, the enduring of which no concurrence of circ.u.mstances can ever make a duty in the sight of G.o.d or just men.

If indeed she submits to it merely to be maintained in idleness, she has no right to complain bitterly of her fate; or to act, as a person of independent character might, as if she had a t.i.tle to disregard general rules.

"But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance, and forfeit their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The situation of a woman separated from her husband is undoubtedly very different from that of a man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity, has shaken off a clog; and the allowing her food and raiment is thought sufficient to secure his reputation from taint. And, should she have been inconsiderate, he will be celebrated for his generosity and forbearance. Such is the respect paid to the master-key of property! A woman, on the contrary, resigning what is termed her natural protector (though he never was so but in name), is despised and shunned for a.s.serting the independence of mind distinctive of a rational being, and spurning at slavery."

The incidents selected by Mary to prove her case are, it must be admitted, disagreeable, and the minor details too frequently revolting.

The stories of Maria, Darnford, and Jemima are records of shame, crime, and human b.e.s.t.i.a.lity little less unpleasant than the realism of a Zola.

It is an astonishing production, even for an age when Fielding and Smollett were not considered coa.r.s.e. But, as was the case in the "Rights of Women," this plainness of speech was due not to a delight in impurity and uncleanness for their own sakes, but to Mary's certainty that by the proper use of subjects vile in themselves, she could best establish principles of purity. Whatever may be thought of her moral creed and of her manner of promulgating it, no reader of her books can deny her the respect which her courage and sincerity evoke. One may mistrust the mission of a Savonarola, and yet admire his inexorable adherence to it.

Mary Wollstonecraft's faith in, and devotion to, the doctrines she preached was as firm and unflinching as those of any religiously inspired prophet.

This story gives little indication of literary merit. The style is stilted, and there is no attempt at delineation of character. It is wholly without dramatic action; for this, Mary explains, would have interfered with her main object. But then its straightforward statement of facts, by concentrating the attention upon them, adds very strongly to the impression they produce. Maria is as complete a departure from the conventional heroine of the day, as, at a later period, Charlotte Bronte's Rochester was from the heroes of contemporary novelists. And the book contains at least one description which should find a place here.

This is the account Maria gives of a visit she makes to her country home a few years after her marriage and realization of its bitterness, and is really a record of the sentiments awakened in her when she visited Beverly, her early home, just before she left England for Sweden. The pa.s.sage, in its contrast to the oppressive narrative which it interrupts, is as refreshing as a cool sea-breeze after the suffocating sirocco of the desert:--

"This was the first time I had visited my native village since my marriage. But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a heavy weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to scenes that whispered recollections of joy and hope most eloquently to my heart! The first scent of the wild-flowers from the heath thrilled through my veins, awakening every sense to pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my bosom; and, forgetting my husband, the nurtured visions of a romantic mind, bursting on me with all their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as sweet realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow or knew care in the country; while a transient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy sky of despondency. The picturesque forms of several favorite trees, and the porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were recognized with the gladsome playfulness of childish vivacity. I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported on it. I gazed with delight on the wind-mill, and thought it lucky that it should be in motion at the moment I pa.s.sed by: and entering the dear green lane which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active soul, which only served to heighten the l.u.s.tre of the luxuriant scenery. But spying, as I advanced, the spire peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the church-yard; and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I wandered through the church in fancy as I used sometimes to do on a Sat.u.r.day evening. I recollected with what fervor I addressed the G.o.d of my youth; and once more with rapturous love looked above my sorrows to the Father of nature. I pause, feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing; and (reminded, as I register my sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt when, in some tremendous solitude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe) I insensibly breathe softly, hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to sully with a sigh a contentment so ecstatic."

"Maria" seemed to many of its readers an unanswerable proof of the charge of immorality brought against its auth.o.r.ess. Mrs. West, in her "Letters to a Young Man," pointed to it as evidence of Mary's unfitness for the world beyond the grave. The "Biographical Dictionary" undoubtedly referred to it when it declared that much of the four volumes of Mary's posthumous writings "had better been suppressed, as ill calculated to excite sympathy for one who seems to have rioted in sentiments alike repugnant to religion, sense, and decency." Modern readers have been kinder. The following is Miss Mathilde Blind's criticism, which, though a little too enthusiastic perhaps, shows a keen appreciation of the redeeming merits of the book:--

"For originality of invention, tragic incident, and a certain fiery eloquence of style, this is certainly the most remarkable and mature of her works, although one may object that for a novel the moral purpose is far too obvious, the manner too generalized, and many of the situations revolting to the taste of a modern reader.

But, with all its faults, it is a production that, in the implacable truth with which it lays open the festering sores of society, in the unshrinking courage with which it drags into the light of day the wrongs the feeble have to suffer at the hands of the strong, in the fiery enthusiasm with which it lifts up its voice for the voiceless outcasts, may be said to resemble 'Les Miserables,' by Victor Hugo."

The other contents of these four volumes are as follows: a series of lessons in spelling and reading, which, because prepared especially for her "unfortunate child," f.a.n.n.y Imlay, are an interesting relic; the "Letters on the French Nation," mentioned in a previous chapter; a fragment and list of proposed "Letters on the Management of Infants;"

several letters to Mr. Johnson, the most important of which have been already given; the "Cave of Fancy," an Oriental tale, as G.o.dwin calls it,--the story of an old philosopher who lives in a desolate sea-coast district and there seeks to educate a child, saved from a shipwreck, by means of the spirits under his command (the few chapters G.o.dwin thought proper to print were written in 1787, and then put aside, never to be finished); an "Essay on Poetry, and Our Relish for the Beauties of Nature," a short discussion of the difference between the poetry of the ancients, who recorded their own impressions from nature, and that of the moderns, who are too apt to express sentiments borrowed from books (this essay was published in the "Monthly Magazine" for April, 1797); and finally, to conclude the list of contents, the book contains some "Hints"

which were to have been incorporated in the second part of the "Rights of Women" which Mary intended to write.

These fragments and works are intrinsically of small value. The "Cave of Fancy" contains an interesting definition of sensibility, in which Mary, perhaps unconsciously, gives an excellent a.n.a.lysis of her own sensitive nature. This quality, the old sage says, is the

"result of acute senses, finely fashioned nerves, which vibrate at the slightest touch, and convey such clear intelligence to the brain, that it does not require to be arranged by the judgment.

Such persons instantly enter into the character of others, and instinctively discern what will give pain to every human being; their own feelings are so varied that they seem to contain in themselves not only all the pa.s.sions of the species, but their various modifications. Exquisite pain and pleasure is their portion; nature wears for them a different aspect than is displayed to common mortals. One moment it is a paradise: all is beautiful; a cloud arises, an emotion receives a sudden damp, darkness invades the sky, and the world is an unweeded garden."

Of the "Hints," one on a subject which has of late years been very eloquently discussed is valuable as demonstrating her opinion of the relation of religion to morals. It is as follows:--

"Few can walk alone. The staff of Christianity is the necessary support of human weakness. An acquaintance with the nature of man and virtue, with just sentiments on the attributes, would be sufficient, without a voice from heaven, to lead some to virtue, but not the mob."

CHAPTER XI.

RETROSPECTIVE.

1794-1796.

Mary's torture of suspense was now over. The reaction from it would probably have been serious, if she had not had the distraction of work.

Activity was, as it had often been before, the tonic which restored her to comparative health. She had no money, and f.a.n.n.y, despite Imlay's promises, was entirely dependent upon her. Her exertions to maintain herself and her child obliged her to stifle at least the expression of misery. One of her last outbursts of grief found utterance in a letter to Mr. Archibald Hamilton Rowan, who in France had been the witness of her happiness. Shortly after her final farewell to Imlay, she wrote to this friend:--

LONDON, Jan. 26, 1796.

MY DEAR SIR,--Though I have not heard from you, I should have written to you, convinced of your friendship, could I have told you anything of myself that could have afforded you pleasure. I am unhappy. I have been treated with unkindness, and even cruelty, by the person from whom I had every reason to expect affection. I write to you with an agitated hand. I cannot be more explicit. I value your good opinion, and you know how to feel for me. I looked for something like happiness in the discharge of my relative duties, and the heart on which I leaned has pierced mine to the quick. I have not been used well, and live but for my child; for I am weary of myself. I still think of settling in France, because I wish to leave my little girl there. I have been very ill, have taken some desperate steps; but I am now writing for independence.

I wish I had no other evil to complain of than the necessity of providing for myself and my child. Do not mistake me. Mr. Imlay would be glad to supply all my pecuniary wants; but unless he returns to himself, I would perish first. Pardon the incoherence of my style. I have put off writing to you from time to time, because I could not write calmly. Pray write to me. I will not fail, I was going to say, when I have anything good to tell you. But for me there is nothing good in store. My heart is broken! I am yours, etc.,

MARY IMLAY.

Outwardly she became much calmer. She resumed her old tasks; Mr. Johnson now, as ever, practically befriending her by providing her with work. She had nothing so much at heart as her child's interests, and these seemed to demand her abjuration of solitude and her return to social life. Her existence externally was, save for the presence of f.a.n.n.y, exactly the same as it had been before her departure for France. Another minor change was that she was now known as Mrs. Imlay. Imlay had asked her to retain his name; and to prevent the awkwardness and misunderstandings that otherwise would have arisen, she consented to do so.