Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman Part 17

I hate commerce. How differently must ------'s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. "I am fallen," as Milton said, "on evil days;" for I really believe that Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!

Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," where "things rank and vile" flourish best.

If you do not return soon--or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of it--I will throw your slippers out at window, and be off--n.o.body knows where.

Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ----s, simply that I was with child: and let them stare! and ------, and ------, nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care!--Yet I wish to avoid ------'s coa.r.s.e jokes.

Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a _natural right_, to belong to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!--Are these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.--A man is a tyrant!

You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing away with some honest fellows in L--n. The casual exercise of social sympathy would not be sufficient for me--I should not think such an heartless life worth preserving.--It is necessary to be in good-humour with you, to be pleased with the world.

Thursday Morning.

I WAS very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes absence easy to you.--And, why should I mince the the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it.--I do not want to be loved like a G.o.ddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. G.o.d bless you[27-A]!

LETTER XI.

Monday Night.

I HAVE just received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with shame for my folly.--I would hide it in your bosom, if you would again open it to me, and nestle closely till you bade my fluttering heart be still, by saying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing with tears, and in the humblest att.i.tude, I intreat 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 H----. 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.

G.o.d 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

LETTER XII.

Wednesday Morning.

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 ----. I know the quickness of your feelings--and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, a.s.sure 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 meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled, yet most affectionate

LETTER XIII.

Thursday Night.

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 ----; 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 H--, 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

LETTER XIV.

Sat.u.r.day Morning.

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 H--, 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 circ.u.mstances direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will hasten to your * * * *, 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

I need not desire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

LETTER XV.

Sunday Morning.