The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Part 15

I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you decide.

The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the princ.i.p.al mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for a momentary gratification.

I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step, till I see or hear from you.

Preparing myself for the worst--I have determined, if your next letter be like the last, to write to Mr. ---- to procure me an obscure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.--There I will endeavour in a few months to obtain the sum necessary to take me to France--from you I will not receive any more.--I am not yet sufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.

Some people, whom my unhappiness has interested, though they know not the extent of it, will a.s.sist me to attain the object I have in view, the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in France--and I will borrow a sum, which my industry _shall_ enable me to pay at my leisure, to purchase a small estate for my girl.--The a.s.sistance I shall find necessary to complete her education, I can get at an easy rate at Paris--I can introduce her to such society as she will like--and thus, securing for her all the chance for happiness, which depends on me, I shall die in peace, persuaded that the felicity which has. .h.i.therto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my grasp.

No poor temptest-tossed mariner ever more earnestly longed to arrive at his port.

MARY.

I shall not come up in the vessel all the way, because I have no place to go to. Captain ---- will inform you where I am. It is needless to add, that I am not in a state of mind to bear suspense--and that I wish to see you, though it be for the last time.

LETTER LXVIII

_[Dover] Sunday, October 4 [1795]._

I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of last month, had determined me to set out with captain ----; but, as we sailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.

You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in: for you cannot run about for ever.

From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friends.h.i.+p you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle about a mere form.

I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.

I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.

Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is cast!--I have fort.i.tude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life--but life will have an end!

Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ----. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.

Yours affectionately, MARY.

LETTER LXIX

_[London, Nov. 1795]._

I write to you now on my knees; imploring you to send my child and the maid with ----, to Paris, to be consigned to the care of Madame ----, rue ----, section de ----. Should they be removed, ---- can give their direction.

Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.

Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you a.s.sured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived together.

I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.

Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene.

I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being s.n.a.t.c.hed from the death I seek.

G.o.d bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rect.i.tude.

MARY.

LETTER LXX

_[London, Nov. 1795] Sunday Morning._

I have only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circ.u.mstances that I should be dishonoured.

You say, "that you know not how to extricate ourselves out of the wretchedness into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long since.--But I forbear to comment.--If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.

It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have any friends.h.i.+p for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity.--It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.

Your continually a.s.serting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary a.s.sistance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.

I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you again.--Adieu!

G.o.d bless you!

MARY.

LETTER LXXI

_[London, Nov. 1795] Monday Morning._

I am compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that

But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy.

I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary.