The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay

LETTER XXXVIII

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!

LETTER XXXIX

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?

I have weaned my Fanny, and she is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL

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,

LETTER XLI

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 assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.

God bless you!

LETTER XLII

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. – Imlay, – dear Imlay, – 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

Fanny 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

A lady has just sent to offer to take me to Beverley. 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 – God bless you!

LETTER XLIV

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 appetites, must have variety to banish ennui, because the imagination never lends its magic wand, to convert appetite 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 constitution, 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 fortitude 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.

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.10

I am harrassed by your embarrassments, 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.

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. Once more adieu!

LETTER XLV

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 amusement.

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 Fanny was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.

They took me in their carriage to Beverley, 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, snatching at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much improved; but it is astonishing 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 overbalance 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. – God bless you!

LETTER XLVI

I want to know how you have settled with respect to – . In short, be very particular in your account of all your affairs – let our confidence, my dear, be unbounded. – The last time we were separated, was a separation indeed on your part – Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive – yet should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the world again. Accuse me not of pride – yet sometimes, when nature has opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher value on my heart.

Receive a kiss from Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours

The wind still continues in the same quarter.

LETTER XLVII

The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the course of a few hours. – I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you – Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.

My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why – The quitting England seems to be a fresh parting. – Surely you will not forget me. – A thousand weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better – whilst here, bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading away – perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties.

The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. – It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment, – having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. – Well, let it come – I care not! – what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! God bless you – I am most affectionately and sincerely yours

LETTER XLVIII

I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles.

You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance – yet it was even so – for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long.

The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.

What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within me! – Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and feelings? – Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. – Will you not endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I saying? – Rather forget me, if you can – if other gratifications are dearer to you. – How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? What a world is this! – They only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial enjoyments. – Adieu!

Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark. – I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,

LETTER XLIX

Here I am still – and I have just received your letter of Monday by the pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind. – It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going forward. – I have a violent headache – yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because – is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at anchor.

These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind – compared with the sinking of a broken heart. – To tell you the truth, I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits – from despair. – I do not sleep – or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of countenance.

I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings – and will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it – at present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these continual struggles – yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort – and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you – when we meet again – surely we are to meet! – it must be to part no more. I mean not to have seas between us – it is more than I can support.

The pilot is hurrying me – God bless you.

In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of – “When the mind’s free, the body’s delicate;” – mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.

LETTER L

This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart.

How am I altered by disappointment! – When going to Lisbon, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness – and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of sunbeams! – Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to frown – or rather mourn with me. – Every thing is cold – cold as my expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these North east chillers, I could not help exclaiming – Give me, gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom – compelling life to linger there.

I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk – after which I hope to sleep – for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness – only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power.

Poor – still continues sick, and – grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.

I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you – are you not tired of this lingering adieu?

LETTER LI

The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to – to pass to-day. We had a troublesome sail – and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed.

I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate – you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service – But why do I foolishly continue to look for them?