The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Part 9

_[Paris] Feb. 19 [1795]._

When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow.

Society fatigues me inexpressibly--So much so, that finding fault with every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take any pains to recover my health.

As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough.

Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the necessity of keeping the mind tranquil--and, my G.o.d! how has mine be harra.s.sed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my bosom.

What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!--But I will not go over this ground--I want to tell you that I do not understand you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here--and I know that it will be necessary--nay, is. I cannot explain myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!

Why is it so necessary that I should return?--brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.

In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or affectionate emotions.--With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.

Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.--Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.--Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking--you must guess why--Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have sacrificed my peace--not remembering--but I will be silent for ever.----

LETTER x.x.xVIII

_[Havre] April 7 [1795]._

Here I am at Havre, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart--You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride--Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual.

I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea--and tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.--I have indeed been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity.--Enough of this--lie still, foolish heart!--But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.

Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I weaned her, about ten days ago.--I am however glad I conquered my repugnance.--It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met.--It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw over my shoulder.--I wished to endure it alone, in short--Yet, after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!

I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity for your coming to me.--Pray inform Mr. ----, that I have his little friend with me.--My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some inconvenience----and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, as you. G.o.d bless you!

Yours truly MARY.

LETTER x.x.xIX

_Brighthelmstone, Sat.u.r.day, April 11 [1795]._

Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.--I shall drive to ----'s hotel, where ---- tells me you have been--and, if you have left it, I hope you will take care to be there to receive us.

I have brought with me Mr. ----'s little friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our little darling--not on the way, for that fell to my share.--But why do I write about trifles?--or any thing?--Are we not to meet soon?--What does your heart say?

Yours truly MARY.

I have weaned my f.a.n.n.y, and she is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL

_[26 Charlotte Street, Rathbone Place]

London, Friday, May 22 [1795]._

I have just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think that I have added to your embarra.s.sments at this troublesome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was something relative to the circ.u.mstance you have mentioned, which made ---- request to see me to-day, to _converse about a matter of great importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as distressing, as the two former had been.

I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me--Still I find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different from the resignation of despair!--I am however no longer angry with you--nor will I ever utter another complaint--there are arguments which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.--We have had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.--Let the subject never be revived!

It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of being happy.--Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.--My soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.--I have gone out--and sought for dissipation, if not amus.e.m.e.nt, merely to fatigue still more, I find, my irritable nerves----

My friend--my dear friend--examine yourself well--I am out of the question; for, alas! I am nothing--and discover what you wish to do--what will render you most comfortable--or, to be more explicit--whether you desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!--for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.

I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to a.s.sume a cheerful face to greet you--at any rate I will avoid conversations, which only tend to harra.s.s your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours,

MARY.

LETTER XLI

_[May 27, 1795] Wednesday._

I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning--not because I am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.--I shall make every effort to calm my mind--yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically a.s.sures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.

G.o.d bless you!

Yours sincerely, MARY.

LETTER XLII

_[Hull] Wednesday, Two o'Clock [May 27, 1795]._

We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.

I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.--It is even now too full to allow me to write with composure.--Imlay,--dear Imlay,--am I always to be tossed about thus?--shall I never find an asylum to rest _contented_ in?

How can you love to fly about continually--dropping down, as it were, in a new world--cold and strange!--every other day? Why do you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?--This alone is affection--every thing else is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.