Wollstonecraft Mary
The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay

LETTER XXIV

[Paris] Evening, Sept. 23, [1794].

I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my bosom, she looked so like you (entre nous, your best looks, for I do not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began to think that there was something in the assertion of man and wife being one – for you seemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you excited.

Have I any thing more to say to you? No; not for the present – the rest is all flown away; and, indulging tenderness for you, I cannot now complain of some people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days past.

[Paris, 1794] Morning.

Yesterday B – sent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me before; and I like him better than I did – that is, I have the same opinion of his understanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderness and real delicacy of feeling with respect to women, than are commonly to be met with. His manner too of speaking of his little girl, about the age of mine, interested me. I gave him a letter for my sister, and requested him to see her.

I have been interrupted. Mr. – I suppose will write about business. Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and truth; and this liberty of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.

I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I suppose, that I am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and – is waiting to carry this to Mr. – ’s. I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you adieu.

I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face – or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could wish for.

I was going to tell you of two or three things which displease me here; but they are not of sufficient consequence to interrupt pleasing sensations. I have received a letter from Mr. – . I want you to bring – with you. Madame S – is by me, reading a German translation of your letters – she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you say of the negroes.

Yours most affectionately,

MARY.

LETTER XXV

Paris, Sept. 28 [1794].

I have written to you three or four letters; but different causes have prevented my sending them by the persons who promised to take or forward them. The inclosed is one I wrote to go by B – ; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have set out on your return, I inclose it to you, and shall give it in charge to – , as Mr. – is detained, to whom I also gave a letter.

I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harrass you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances. – I have had so many little plagues here, that I have almost lamented that I left Havre. – , who is at best a most helpless creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use to me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave to the child. – She indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother’s fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she has an astonishing degree of sensibility and observation. The other day by B – ’s child, a fine one, she looked like a little sprite. – She is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool – I will swear.

I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart. – I did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost too sacred to be alluded to.

Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you wish to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother.

I have received, for you, letters from – . I want to hear how that affair finishes, though I do not know whether I have most contempt for his folly or knavery.

Your own

MARY.

LETTER XXVI

[Paris] October 1 [1794].

It is a heartless task to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you. – I have given two to – , who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. Tant mieux! you will say, and I will not say nay; for I should be sorry that the contents of a letter, when you are so far away, should damp the pleasure that the sight of it would afford – judging of your feelings by my own. I just now stumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your last absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.

After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be so immersed in business, as during the last three or four months past – for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the mind. – These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, than at present – for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind – and every emotion is on the same side as my reason, which always was on yours. – Separated, it would be almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character. – I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will seek it no where else.

My little darling grows every day more dear to me – and she often has a kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart.

I have been interrupted – and must send off my letter. The liberty of the press will produce a great effect here – the cry of blood will not be vain! – Some more monsters will perish – and the Jacobins are conquered. – Yet I almost fear the last flap of the tail of the beast.

I have had several trifling teazing inconveniences here, which I shall not now trouble you with a detail of. – I am sending – back; her pregnancy rendered her useless. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child.

I long to hear from you. – Bring a copy of – and – with you.

– is still here: he is a lost man. – He really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiscriminate hospitality and social feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that destroys his health, as well as renders his person disgusting. – If his wife had more sense, or delicacy, she might restrain him: as it is, nothing will save him.

Yours most truly and affectionately

MARY.

LETTER XXVII

[Paris] October 26 [1794].

My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before she was born, and when she is sucking, were pleasant; but they do not deserve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the street, or after a short absence. She has now the advantage of having two good nurses, and I am at present able to discharge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.

I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of – , and am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also made some new acquaintance. I have almost charmed a judge of the tribunal, R – , who, though I should not have thought it possible, has humanity, if not beaucoup d’esprit. But let me tell you, if you do not make haste back, I shall be half in love with the author of the Marseillaise, who is a handsome man, a little too broad-faced or so, and plays sweetly on the violin.

What do you say to this threat? – why, entre nous, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleased with you. “The devil,” you know, is proverbially said to be “in a good humour, when he is pleased.” Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best.

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My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner, that it will not be necessary for you to leave us soon again, or to make exertions which injure your constitution.

Yours most truly and tenderly,

MARY.

P.S. You would oblige me by delivering the inclosed to Mr. – , and pray call for an answer. – It is for a person uncomfortably situated.

LETTER XXVIII

[Paris] Dec. 26 [1794].

I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form – I had been expecting you daily – and I heard that many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale. – Well, I now see your letter – and find that you are safe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing.

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Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which – has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are safe – and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, husband, father of my child! – All these fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes. – With you an independence is desirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us – without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted my dreams.

My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of “dalliance;” but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the most despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness – yes; I love her more than I thought I should. When I have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced her as my only comfort – when pleased with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would be no end to these details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

Yours,

MARY.

LETTER XXIX

[Paris] December 28 [1794].

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I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your disappointments. – Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me.

– , I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune, rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet, we will discuss this subject – You will listen to reason, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in preparing to live.

Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your departure? Is it not possible to enter into business, as an employment necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection out of the heart?

I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to forward it with – ’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what he has doubtless recommended most warmly.

Stay, my friend, whilst it is absolutely necessary. – I will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment the settling the present objects permit. —I do not consent to your taking any other journey – or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes – so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you. – I will only tell you, that I long to see you – and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays. – Having suffered so much in life, do not be surprised if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture.

My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs – She wants you to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing her, and yet she is not satisfied – she wants you to thank her mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.

Yours truly,

MARY.

LETTER XXX

[Paris] December 29 [1794].

Though I suppose you have later intelligence, yet, as – has just informed me that he has an opportunity of sending immediately to you, I take advantage of it to inclose you

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How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this wearisome labyrinth? – I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty? – I am contented to do my part; and, even here, sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project also – and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourselves; we will not accept any of your cold kindness – your distant civilities – no; not we.

This is but half jesting, for I am really tormented by the desire which – manifests to have you remain where you are. – Yet why do I talk to you? – If he can persuade you – let him! – for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wishes do not make you throw aside these eternal projects, I am above using any arguments, though reason as well as affection seems to offer them – if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you – and you will act accordingly.

Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have heard me speak. Her first child died in the month; but she has another, about the age of my Fanny, a fine little creature. They are still but contriving to live – earning their daily bread – yet, though they are but just above poverty, I envy them. – She is a tender, affectionate mother – fatigued even by her attention. – However she has an affectionate husband in her turn, to render her care light, and to share her pleasure.

I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached! – These appear to me to be true pleasures – and still you suffer them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy. – It is your own maxim to “live in the present moment.” —If you do– stay, for God’s sake; but tell me the truth – if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow sick at heart.

Adieu! I am a little hurt. – I must take my darling to my bosom to comfort me.

MARY.

LETTER XXXI

[Paris] December 30 [1794].

Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occasion, that one out of three of my epistles may reach your hands, and inform you that I am not of – ’s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the necessity of your staying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude – and, entre nous, I am determined to try to earn some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourself – for the little girl and I will live without your assistance, unless you are with us. I may be termed proud – Be it so – but I will never abandon certain principles of action.

The common run of men have such an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and prostitute their persons, following perhaps a gust of inebriation, they suppose the wife, slave rather, whom they maintain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the sultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiscuous amours during his absence.

I consider fidelity and constancy as two distinct things; yet the former is necessary, to give life to the other – and such a degree of respect do I think due to myself, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return! – for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you – there is an end of all my hopes of happiness – I could not forgive it, if I would.

I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl. – I am sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.

You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the strongest proof of affection I can give, to dread to lose you. – has taken such pains to convince me that you must and ought to stay, that it has inconceivably depressed my spirits – You have always known my opinion – I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long separated. – If certain things are more necessary to you than me – search for them – Say but one word, and you shall never hear of me more. – If not – for God’s sake, let us struggle with poverty – with any evil, but these continual inquietudes of business, which I have been told were to last but a few months, though every day the end appears more distant! This is the first letter in this strain that I have determined to forward to you; the rest lie by, because I was unwilling to give you pain, and I should not now write, if I did not think that there would be no conclusion to the schemes, which demand, as I am told, your presence.

MARY.⁸