Wollstonecraft Mary
The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay

LETTER XXXII

[Paris] January 9 [1795].

I just now received one of your hasty notes; for business so entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought, to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.

Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure, for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only spontaneous enjoyment can give. – Why have you so soon dissolved the charm.

I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and – ’s never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness – but you are mistaken – I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to my feelings, appears to me unnecessary – and therefore I have not firmness to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and still wish, to retire with you to a farm – My God! any thing, but these continual anxieties – any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and roots out affection from the heart.

I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences – yet I will simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose only, is indispensible – The want of wood, has made me catch the most violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to recollect myself. – This however is one of the common evils which must be borne with – bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the spirits.

Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child. – It is too soon for her to begin to divide sorrow! – And as one has well said, “despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.

This is not a caprice of the moment – for your absence has given new weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you left me. – I do not chuse to be a secondary object. – If your feelings were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary prospects of future advantage.

MARY.

LETTER XXXIII

[Paris] Jan. 15 [1795].

I was just going to begin my letter with the fag end of a song, which would only have told you, what I may as well say simply, that it is pleasant to forgive those we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can scarcely conceive the effect some of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of suspense, I have seen a superscription written by you. – Promising myself pleasure, and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the person who brought it, left the room – when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen hasty lines, that have damped all the rising affection of my soul.

Well, now for business —

********

My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the business. I gave her a crust to assist the cutting of her teeth; and now she has two, she makes good use of them to gnaw a crust, biscuit, &c. You would laugh to see her; she is just like a little squirrel; she will guard a crust for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for some time, dart on it with an aim as sure as a bird of prey – nothing can equal her life and spirits. I suffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us – and come soon to tell us that you do.

MARY.

LETTER XXXIV

[Paris] Jan. 30 [1795].

From the purport of your last letters, I should suppose that this will scarcely reach you; and I have already written so many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleasant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the same ground again. If you have received them, and are still detained by new projects, it is useless for me to say any more on the subject. I have done with it for ever; yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary interest suffers by your absence.

********

For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have sometimes burst out. I therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to stay at home, lest I should have uttered unseasonable truths.

My child is well, and the spring will perhaps restore me to myself. – I have endured many inconveniences this winter, which should I be ashamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. “The secondary pleasures of life,” you say, “are very necessary to my comfort:” it may be so; but I have ever considered them as secondary. If therefore you accuse me of wanting the resolution necessary to bear the common⁹ evils of life; I should answer, that I have not fashioned my mind to sustain them, because I would avoid them, cost what it would —

Adieu!

MARY.

LETTER XXXV

[Paris] February 9 [1795].

The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. – , convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got, were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the sight of the superscriptions excited.

I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.

You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long. – God preserve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!

But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this. – I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better fate. My soul is weary – I am sick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of every charm.

You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour. – Indeed, I scarcely understand you. – You request me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.

When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. – I would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of trouble on which you are entering. – I have certain principles of action: I know what I look for to found my happiness on. – It is not money. – With you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life – as it is, less will do. – I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life for my child, and she does not want more at present. – I have two or three plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that, neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you! – No; I would sooner submit to menial service. – I wanted the support of your affection – that gone, all is over! – I did not think, when I complained of – ’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he would have dragged you into his schemes.

I cannot write. – I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after your departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was written. – You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment. – Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.

Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.

MARY.

LETTER XXXVI

[Paris] Feb. 10 [1795].

You talk of “permanent views and future comfort” – not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from – , and I shall take one more, to pay my servant’s wages, &c. and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.

– and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.

When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary to you than you imagined – more necessary than an uncorrupted heart – For a year or two, you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered with regret – I was going to say with remorse, but checked my pen.

As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them – I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!

MARY.

This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could forget my misery – so that my head or heart would be still. —

LETTER XXXVII

[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 God! how has mine be harrassed! 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 XXXVIII

[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. God bless you!

Yours truly

MARY.

LETTER XXXIX

Brighthelmstone, Saturday, 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 Fanny, 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 embarrassments 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 circumstance 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 amusement, 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 assume a cheerful face to greet you – at any rate I will avoid conversations, which only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours,

MARY.