Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman Part 26

LETTER LVII.

July 7.

I COULD not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at ------was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.

I shall not however complain--There are misfortunes so great, as to silence the usual expressions of sorrow--Believe me, there is such a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some pa.s.sion, cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.

Still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--My G.o.d! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful sensations?--But it cannot--it shall not last long.

The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be wounded to the soul by a negative.--My brain seems on fire, I must go into the air.

LETTER LVIII.

July 14.

I AM now on my journey to ------. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I should--and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--I asked myself how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?

Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "G.o.d will temper the winds to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded, when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm?

Yes; I could add, with poor Lear--What is the war of elements to the pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!

All is not right somewhere!--When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.

I could still confide--for I opened my heart to you--of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first object. Strange want of judgment!

I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel, that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been just.--I mean not to allude to fact.i.tious principles of morality; but to the simple basis of all rect.i.tude.--However I did not intend to argue--Your not writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by constant wretchedness.

Poor ------ would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually afraid of some accident--But it would have injured the child this warm season, as she is cutting her teeth.

I hear not of your having written to me at ----. Very well! Act as you please--there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply.

LETTER LIX.

July 18.

I AM here in ----, separated from my child--and here I must remain a month at least, or I might as well never have come. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

I have begun -------- which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.--I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it sooner.

I shall make no further comments on your silence. G.o.d bless you!

LETTER LX.

July 30.

I HAVE just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.

Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, G.o.d knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.

I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can never be healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing.

When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set me free.

Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings antic.i.p.ate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with these subjects.

I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ----; yet I never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe, and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The child, ------informs me, is well. I long to be with her.

Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.

Yours most affectionately

I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to yours.

LETTER LXI.

August 5.

EMPLOYMENT and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so const.i.tuted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am afraid not without a pa.s.sion--and I feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my own bosom--tenderness, rather than pa.s.sion, has made me sometimes overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. G.o.d bless you!

LETTER LXII.

August 7.

AIR, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.--I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have s.n.a.t.c.hed some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the rocks.

This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am sensible that I acted foolishly--but I was wretched--when we were together--Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip from me. I cannot live with you--I ought not--if you form another attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to me--if I am to have no other--and only know me as her support.--I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are only to correspond.--No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--You must determine--examine yourself--But, for G.o.d's sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty!--I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain.

Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions, yet I scarcely know what new form of misery I have to dread.