Kitabı oku: «The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay», sayfa 7

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LETTER LXIII

[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795].

Five of your letters have been sent after me from – . One, dated the 14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my affection. —

My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope – I mean, I and my girl. – I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate.

Yours sincerely
MARY.

LETTER LXIV

[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795].

I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.

I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so termed. —

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You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced. – Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend – or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion – a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free – I will not torment, when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, that you will try to cherish tenderness for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I shall not remain at – , living expensively. But be not alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more.

Adieu! I am agitated – my whole frame is convulsed – my lips tremble, as if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins.

God bless you.

MARY.

LETTER LXV

[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795].

I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life – to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me – and repose on the idea that I am happy.

Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility – and the lively sympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind. – They are the agonies of a broken heart – pleasure and I have shaken hands.

I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality.

I am weary of travelling – yet seem to have no home – no resting-place to look to. – I am strangely cast off. – How often, passing through the rocks, I have thought, “But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!” With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature – I have never met with one, softer than the stone that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle – and, when I am conscious that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, “Why am I thus abandoned?”

You say now

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I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write more explicitly – and determine on some mode of conduct. – I cannot endure this suspense – Decide – Do you fear to strike another blow? We live together, or eternally part! – I shall not write to you again, till I receive an answer to this. I must compose my tortured soul, before I write on indifferent subjects.

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I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is disturbed. But this you ought to pardon – for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out what you mean to say – You write, I suppose, at Mr. – ’s after dinner, when your head is not the clearest – and as for your heart, if you have one, I see nothing like the dictates of affection, unless a glimpse when you mention the child – Adieu!

LETTER LXVI

[Hamburg] September 25 [1795].

I have just finished a letter, to be given in charge to captain – . In that I complained of your silence, and expressed my surprise that three mails should have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I closed it, I hear of another, and still no letter. – I am labouring to write calmly – this silence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain – remained a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I to do here? I have repeatedly written to you fully. Do you do the same – and quickly. Do not leave me in suspense. I have not deserved this of you. I cannot write, my mind is so distressed. Adieu!

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

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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.

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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.