The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Part 5

_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._

We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when I knew that you were to stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.

But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So G.o.d bless you! Take care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate

MARY.

LETTER XIX

_[Havre, March, 1794]._

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 f.a.g-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 a.s.sociates 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 pa.s.sion, 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 a.s.sure 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 (_epanchement 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 _fete_, 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 pa.s.sions--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, pa.s.sions, 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.