Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman Part 23

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

LETTER XLII.

--, Wednesday, Two o'Clock.

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.--*****,--dear *****, --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.

I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely and affectionately

------ is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----Adieu!

LETTER XLIII.

Thursday.

A LADY has just sent to offer to take me to ------. I have then only a moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give information -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this painful string--G.o.d bless you!

Yours truly,

LETTER XLIV.

Friday, June 12.

I HAVE just received yours dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.

The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appet.i.tes, must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never lends its magic wand, to convert appet.i.te into love, cemented by according reason.--Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions, over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begeters_, certainly have no idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me:--I consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to their senses.

Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of const.i.tution, and purity of feeling--which would open your heart to me.--I would fain rest there!

Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.

Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, without agony, think of your bosom's being continually contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child and I are forced to stray from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.--These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fort.i.tude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment.

Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something-like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term "the zest of life;" and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!

The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I must take a walk, to rouse and calm my mind. But first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.

The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I cannot yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to depart.

Sat.u.r.day Morning.

Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong, in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the gloom of despair--Yes; with less affection, I should have been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ----, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown on you[133-A].

I am harra.s.sed by your embarra.s.sments, and shall certainly use all my efforts, to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am engaged.

My friend--my dearest friend--I feel my fate united to yours by the most sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of--yes, I will say it--a true, unsophisticated heart.

Yours most truly

If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ----'s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great civilities, will send them after me.

Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word--Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?--I shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will draw us more closely together. One more adieu!

LETTER XLV.

Sunday, June 14.

I RATHER expected to hear from you to-day--I wish you would not fail to write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well--Whether I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling--and, in spite of all my efforts, the child--every thing--fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amus.e.m.e.nt.

Mr. ---- forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather interesting man.--They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor ------ was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.

They took me in their carriage to ------, and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.--The town did not please me quite so well as formerly--It appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, s.n.a.t.c.hing at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much improved; but it is astonis.h.i.+ng what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.

The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to linger--When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of mind.--Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of being free, does not over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me?

Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you--or why should we meet again?--but, the moment after, despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.----G.o.d bless you!

Yours sincerely and affectionately