The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay

MARY.

LETTER LXVII

[Hamburg] September 27 [1795].

When you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the British coast – your letter of the 18th decided me.

By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my questions extraordinary and unnecessary, I cannot determine. – You desire me to decide – I had decided. You must have had long ago two letters of mine, from – , to the same purport, to consider. – In these, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a distracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed! – What more then had I to say? – The negative was to come from you. – You had perpetually recurred to your promise of meeting me in the autumn – Was it extraordinary that I should demand a yes, or no? – Your letter is written with extreme harshness, coldness I am accustomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderness of humanity, much less of friendship. – I only see a desire to heave a load off your shoulders.

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 principal 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 assist 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 assistance 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 hitherto 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 friendship 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 fortitude 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 assured 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 snatched from the death I seek.

God 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 rectitude.

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 circumstances 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 friendship 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 asserting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), 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!

God 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.

********

My child may have to blush for her mother’s want of prudence – and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness. – You are now perfectly free. – God bless you.

MARY.

LETTER LXXII

[London, Nov. 1795] Saturday Night.

I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me. – You ask “If I am well or tranquil?” – They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by. – I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance – and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you – and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind. —

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk – of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself – for I will not receive it through any other medium – that the affair is finished. – It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

MARY.

Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.

LETTER LXXIII

[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon.

Mr. – having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, I have to request you to let – bring them to —

I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business. – And, whatever I may think, and feel – you need not fear that I shall publicly complain – No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child. – I only mean by this to say, that you have nothing to fear from my desperation.

Farewel.MARY.

LETTER LXXIV

London, November 27 [1795].

The letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till just now. – I had thrown the letters aside – I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.

My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger – under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my sufferings.

In fact, “the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling,” has almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured – I scarcely know where I am, or what I do. – The grief I cannot conquer (for some cruel recollections never quit me, banishing almost every other) I labour to conceal in total solitude. – My life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch – and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.

But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain. – You tell me, that I shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence.” But is it not possible that passion clouds your reason, as much as it does mine? – and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so “exalted,” as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the expectations you have excited?

My affection for you is rooted in my heart. – I know you are not what you now seem – nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change. – Even at Paris, my image will haunt you. – You will see my pale face – and sometimes the tears of anguish will drop on your heart; which you have forced from mine.

I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious arguments; but my head is confused. – Right or wrong, I am miserable!

It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest principles of justice and truth. – Yet, how wretched have my social feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me! – I have loved with my whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return – and that existence is a burthen without it.

I do not perfectly understand you. – If, by the offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary support – I must again reject it. – Trifling are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes. – God bless you!

MARY.

I have been treated ungenerously – if I understand what is generosity. – You seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off – regardless whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall. – In truth I have been rudely handled. Do you judge coolly, and I trust you will not continue to call those capricious feelings “the most refined,” which would undermine not only the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind. – You would render mothers unnatural – and there would be no such thing as a father! – If your theory of morals is the most “exalted,” it is certainly the most easy. – It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!

Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from you – and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss – ’s conduct – I am convinced you will not always justify your own.

Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your mind, that you have acted ignobly – and condescended to subterfuge to gloss over the conduct you could not excuse. – Do truth and principle require such sacrifices?

LETTER LXXV

London, December 8 [1795].

Having just been informed that – is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain that my last, by Dover has reached you.

Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me – and I wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.

That I have not been used well I must ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish I do at present – for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.

I am stunned! – Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream. – Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you? – Principles are sacred things – and we never play with truth, with impunity.

The expectation (I have too fondly nourished it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter. – Indeed, it seems to me, when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more. – Yet you will not always forget me. – You will feel something like remorse, for having lived only for yourself – and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come – and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present conduct. You do, you must, respect me – and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem.

You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an imaginary being. – I once thought that I knew you thoroughly – but now I am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared up by time.

You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes. – I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleasure.

Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I thought your property in jeopardy. – When I went to [Sweden], I requested you, if you could conveniently, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was interested about. – Money was lavished away, yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not discharged, that now come on me. – Was this friendship – or generosity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for you. – God bless you.

MARY.

LETTER LXXVI

[London, Dec. 1795.]

As the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!

I know the soundness of your understanding – and know that it is impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.

You tell me “that I torment you.” – Why do I? – Because you cannot estrange your heart entirely from me – and you feel that justice is on my side. You urge, “that your conduct was unequivocal.” – It was not. – When your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to remove the impression! – and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the effect of a worn-out constitution – and you concluded your letter with these words, “Business alone has kept me from you. – Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own.”

With these assurances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I wished? I might – and did think that you had a struggle with old propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourself.

Imlay, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind. – You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.

In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce – and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of passion, you cannot despise. – I would owe every thing to your generosity – but, for God’s sake, keep me no longer in suspense! – Let me see you once more! —

LETTER LXXVII

[London, Dec. 1795.]

You must do as you please with respect to the child. – I could wish that it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finished. – Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendship, I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the “forbearance” talked of, has not been very delicate. – It is however of no consequence. – I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.

I now solemnly assure you, that this is an eternal farewel. – Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.

That there is “sophistry” on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped – for what you term “delicacy,” appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.

The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come. – Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.

It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.

I part with you in peace.

1

The child is in a subsequent letter called the “barrier girl,” probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview. – W. G.

2

This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a separation of several months; the date, Paris. – W. G.

3

Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person to whom they were addressed. – W. G.

4

Imlay went to Paris on March 11, after spending a fortnight at Havre, but he returned to MARY soon after the date of Letter XIX. In August he went to Paris, where he was followed by MARY. In September Imlay visited London on business.

5

The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a considerable time. She was born, May 14, 1794, and was named Fanny. – W. G.

6

She means, “the latter more than the former.” – W. G.

7

This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London. – W. G.

8

The person to whom the letters are addressed [Imlay], was about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon him. – W. G.

9

This probably alludes to some expression of [Imlay] the person to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter-writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation. – W. G.