Mary Wollstonecraft - Mary
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Mary Wollstonecraft >> Mary
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6 Transcriber's note: The author is Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-1797).
MARY,
A Fiction
L'exercice des plus sublimes vertus eleve et nourrit le genie.
ROUSSEAU.
London,
Printed for J. Johnson, St. Paul's Church-Yard.
MDCCLXXXVIII
ADVERTISEMENT.
In delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to
develop a character different from those generally portrayed. This woman
is neither a Clarissa, a Lady G----, nor a[A] Sophie.--It would be vain
to mention the various modifications of these models, as it would to
remark, how widely artists wander from nature, when they copy the
originals of great masters. They catch the gross parts; but the subtile
spirit evaporates; and not having the just ties, affectation disgusts,
when grace was expected to charm.
Those compositions only have power to delight, and carry us willing
captives, where the soul of the author is exhibited, and animates the
hidden springs. Lost in a pleasing enthusiasm, they live in the scenes
they represent; and do not measure their steps in a beaten track,
solicitous to gather expected flowers, and bind them in a wreath,
according to the prescribed rules of art.
These chosen few, wish to speak for themselves, and not to be an
echo--even of the sweetest sounds--or the reflector of the most sublime
beams. The[B] paradise they ramble in, must be of their own creating--or
the prospect soon grows insipid, and not varied by a vivifying
principle, fades and dies.
In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has
thinking powers is displayed. The female organs have been thought too
weak for this arduous employment; and experience seems to justify the
assertion. Without arguing physically about _possibilities_--in a
fiction, such a being may be allowed to exist; whose grandeur is derived
from the operations of its own faculties, not subjugated to opinion; but
drawn by the individual from the original source.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: Rousseau.]
[Footnote B: I here give the Reviewers an opportunity of being very
witty about the Paradise of Fools, &c.]
MARY
CHAP. I.
Mary, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who
married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in
her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues,
indeed, were all of that stamp. She carefully attended to the _shews_ of
things, and her opinions, I should have said prejudices, were such as
the generality approved of. She was educated with the expectation of a
large fortune, of course became a mere machine: the homage of her
attendants made a great part of her puerile amusements, and she never
imagined there were any relative duties for her to fulfil: notions of
her own consequence, by these means, were interwoven in her mind, and
the years of youth spent in acquiring a few superficial accomplishments,
without having any taste for them. When she was first introduced into
the polite circle, she danced with an officer, whom she faintly wished
to be united to; but her father soon after recommending another in a
more distinguished rank of life, she readily submitted to his will, and
promised to love, honour, and obey, (a vicious fool,) as in duty bound.
While they resided in London, they lived in the usual fashionable style,
and seldom saw each other; nor were they much more sociable when they
wooed rural felicity for more than half the year, in a delightful
country, where Nature, with lavish hand, had scattered beauties around;
for the master, with brute, unconscious gaze, passed them by unobserved,
and sought amusement in country sports. He hunted in the morning, and
after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this
seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then
visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow
of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not
enliven, it is not necessary to say which a _gourmand_ would give the
preference to. Their vulgar dance of spirits were infinitely more
agreeable to his fancy than her sickly, die-away languor. Her voice was
but the shadow of a sound, and she had, to complete her delicacy, so
relaxed her nerves, that she became a mere nothing.
Many such noughts are there in the female world! yet she had a good
opinion of her own merit,--truly, she said long prayers,--and sometimes
read her Week's Preparation: she dreaded that horrid place vulgarly
called _hell_, the regions below; but whether her's was a mounting
spirit, I cannot pretend to determine; or what sort of a planet would
have been proper for her, when she left her _material_ part in this
world, let metaphysicians settle; I have nothing to say to her unclothed
spirit.
As she was sometimes obliged to be alone, or only with her French
waiting-maid, she sent to the metropolis for all the new publications,
and while she was dressing her hair, and she could turn her eyes from
the glass, she ran over those most delightful substitutes for bodily
dissipation, novels. I say bodily, or the animal soul, for a rational
one can find no employment in polite circles. The glare of lights, the
studied inelegancies of dress, and the compliments offered up at the
shrine of false beauty, are all equally addressed to the senses.
When she could not any longer indulge the caprices of fancy one way, she
tried another. The Platonic Marriage, Eliza Warwick, and some other
interesting tales were perused with eagerness. Nothing could be more
natural than the developement of the passions, nor more striking than
the views of the human heart. What delicate struggles! and uncommonly
pretty turns of thought! The picture that was found on a bramble-bush,
the new sensitive-plant, or tree, which caught the swain by the
upper-garment, and presented to his ravished eyes a portrait.--Fatal
image!--It planted a thorn in a till then insensible heart, and sent a
new kind of a knight-errant into the world. But even this was nothing to
the catastrophe, and the circumstance on which it hung, the hornet
settling on the sleeping lover's face. What a _heart-rending_ accident!
She planted, in imitation of those susceptible souls, a rose bush; but
there was not a lover to weep in concert with her, when she watered it
with her tears.--Alas! Alas!
If my readers would excuse the sportiveness of fancy, and give me credit
for genius, I would go on and tell them such tales as would force the
sweet tears of sensibility to flow in copious showers down beautiful
cheeks, to the discomposure of rouge, &c. &c. Nay, I would make it so
interesting, that the fair peruser should beg the hair-dresser to
settle the curls himself, and not interrupt her.
She had besides another resource, two most beautiful dogs, who shared
her bed, and reclined on cushions near her all the day. These she
watched with the most assiduous care, and bestowed on them the warmest
caresses. This fondness for animals was not that kind of
_attendrissement_ which makes a person take pleasure in providing for
the subsistence and comfort of a living creature; but it proceeded from
vanity, it gave her an opportunity of lisping out the prettiest French
expressions of ecstatic fondness, in accents that had never been attuned
by tenderness.
She was chaste, according to the vulgar acceptation of the word, that
is, she did not make any actual _faux pas_; she feared the world, and
was indolent; but then, to make amends for this seeming self-denial, she
read all the sentimental novels, dwelt on the love-scenes, and, had she
thought while she read, her mind would have been contaminated; as she
accompanied the lovers to the lonely arbors, and would walk with them by
the clear light of the moon. She wondered her husband did not stay at
home. She was jealous--why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze
her hand, and look unutterable things? Gentle reader, I will tell thee;
they neither of them felt what they could not utter. I will not pretend
to say that they always annexed an idea to a word; but they had none of
those feelings which are not easily analyzed.
CHAP. II.
In due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following
year a daughter. After the mother's throes she felt very few sentiments
of maternal tenderness: the children were given to nurses, and she
played with her dogs. Want of exercise prevented the least chance of her
recovering strength; and two or three milk-fevers brought on a
consumption, to which her constitution tended. Her children all died in
their infancy, except the two first, and she began to grow fond of the
son, as he was remarkably handsome. For years she divided her time
between the sofa, and the card-table. She thought not of death, though
on the borders of the grave; nor did any of the duties of her station
occur to her as necessary. Her children were left in the nursery; and
when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the
awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a house
without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school, and she
scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about the garden,
admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old house-keeper told her
stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read. Her mother
talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would permit; and,
in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French. As she had
learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that came in her
way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own
mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and
learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and that angels
sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood in the park,
and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and sing them to
tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes wild were sweet
and touching.
Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was glad
that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself
about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a
fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still
expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband was
very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when
inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten
her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness,
and exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a
match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart
through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's
faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her
own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when she
was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so exceedingly
painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of anger and
impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse.
Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with devotional
sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of
praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or
pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble through the
gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds assumed, and listen
to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering spirits, which she
imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her constant friends and
confidants. She began to consider the Great First Cause, formed just
notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on his wisdom and
goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother, had they returned
her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have sought out a new
world.
Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth
it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the
apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite
pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness
for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious
distress.
She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her
feet; and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded
animals had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice
of man; but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after
year rolled on, her mother still vegetating.
A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great
attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her
mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child
while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium
stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal
account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every
night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the
first began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if
she was ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every
part of it. The impression that this accident made was indelible.
As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who did
not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was only
grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on to
exert herself, her health would soon be re-established. In general he
treated her with indifference; but when her illness at all interfered
with his pleasures, he expostulated in the most cruel manner, and
visibly harassed the invalid. Mary would then assiduously try to turn
his attention to something else; and when sent out of the room, would
watch at the door, until the storm was over, for unless it was, she
could not rest. Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her
mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her
with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden
tears would flow. She was miserable when beggars were driven from the
gate without being relieved; if she could do it unperceived, she would
give them her own breakfast, and feel gratified, when, in consequence of
it, she was pinched by hunger.
She had once, or twice, told her little secrets to her mother; they were
laughed at, and she determined never to do it again. In this manner was
she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they
by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and
permanent. Her understanding was strong and clear, when not clouded by
her feelings; but she was too much the creature of impulse, and the
slave of compassion.
CHAP. III.
Near her father's house lived a poor widow, who had been brought up in
affluence, but reduced to great distress by the extravagance of her
husband; he had destroyed his constitution while he spent his fortune;
and dying, left his wife, and five small children, to live on a very
scanty pittance. The eldest daughter was for some years educated by a
distant relation, a Clergyman. While she was with him a young gentleman,
son to a man of property in the neighbourhood, took particular notice of
her. It is true, he never talked of love; but then they played and sung
in concert; drew landscapes together, and while she worked he read to
her, cultivated her taste, and stole imperceptibly her heart. Just at
this juncture, when smiling, unanalyzed hope made every prospect bright,
and gay expectation danced in her eyes, her benefactor died. She
returned to her mother--the companion of her youth forgot her, they took
no more sweet counsel together. This disappointment spread a sadness
over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of
solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her
natural disposition was very different.
She was several years older than Mary, yet her refinement, her taste,
caught her eye, and she eagerly sought her friendship: before her return
she had assisted the family, which was almost reduced to the last ebb;
and now she had another motive to actuate her.
As she had often occasion to send messages to Ann, her new friend,
mistakes were frequently made; Ann proposed that in future they should
be written ones, to obviate this difficulty, and render their
intercourse more agreeable. Young people are mostly fond of scribbling;
Mary had had very little instruction; but by copying her friend's
letters, whose hand she admired, she soon became a proficient; a little
practice made her write with tolerable correctness, and her genius gave
force to it. In conversation, and in writing, when she felt, she was
pathetic, tender and persuasive; and she expressed contempt with such
energy, that few could stand the flash of her eyes.
As she grew more intimate with Ann, her manners were softened, and she
acquired a degree of equality in her behaviour: yet still her spirits
were fluctuating, and her movements rapid. She felt less pain on
account of her mother's partiality to her brother, as she hoped now to
experience the pleasure of being beloved; but this hope led her into new
sorrows, and, as usual, paved the way for disappointment. Ann only felt
gratitude; her heart was entirely engrossed by one object, and
friendship could not serve as a substitute; memory officiously retraced
past scenes, and unavailing wishes made time loiter.
Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these
consequences produced. When her friend was all the world to her, she
found she was not as necessary to her happiness; and her delicate mind
could not bear to obtrude her affection, or receive love as an alms, the
offspring of pity. Very frequently has she ran to her with delight, and
not perceiving any thing of the same kind in Ann's countenance, she has
shrunk back; and, falling from one extreme into the other, instead of a
warm greeting that was just slipping from her tongue, her expressions
seemed to be dictated by the most chilling insensibility.
She would then imagine that she looked sickly or unhappy, and then all
her tenderness would return like a torrent, and bear away all
reflection. In this manner was her sensibility called forth, and
exercised, by her mother's illness, her friend's misfortunes, and her
own unsettled mind.
CHAP. IV.
Near to her father's house was a range of mountains; some of them were,
literally speaking, cloud-capt, for on them clouds continually rested,
and gave grandeur to the prospect; and down many of their sides the
little bubbling cascades ran till they swelled a beautiful river.
Through the straggling trees and bushes the wind whistled, and on them
the birds sung, particularly the robins; they also found shelter in the
ivy of an old castle, a haunted one, as the story went; it was situated
on the brow of one of the mountains, and commanded a view of the sea.
This castle had been inhabited by some of her ancestors; and many tales
had the old house-keeper told her of the worthies who had resided there.
When her mother frowned, and her friend looked cool, she would steal to
this retirement, where human foot seldom trod--gaze on the sea, observe
the grey clouds, or listen to the wind which struggled to free itself
from the only thing that impeded its course. When more cheerful, she
admired the various dispositions of light and shade, the beautiful tints
the gleams of sunshine gave to the distant hills; then she rejoiced in
existence, and darted into futurity.
One way home was through the cavity of a rock covered with a thin layer
of earth, just sufficient to afford nourishment to a few stunted shrubs
and wild plants, which grew on its sides, and nodded over the summit. A
clear stream broke out of it, and ran amongst the pieces of rocks
fallen into it. Here twilight always reigned--it seemed the Temple of
Solitude; yet, paradoxical as the assertion may appear, when the foot
sounded on the rock, it terrified the intruder, and inspired a strange
feeling, as if the rightful sovereign was dislodged. In this retreat she
read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
At a little distance from it were the huts of a few poor fishermen, who
supported their numerous children by their precarious labour. In these
little huts she frequently rested, and denied herself every childish
gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants.
Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had
relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
In these pursuits she learned the luxury of doing good; and the sweet
tears of benevolence frequently moistened her eyes, and gave them a
sparkle which, exclusive of that, they had not; on the contrary, they
were rather fixed, and would never have been observed if her soul had
not animated them. They were not at all like those brilliant ones which
look like polished diamonds, and dart from every superfice, giving more
light to the beholders than they receive themselves.
Her benevolence, indeed, knew no bounds; the distress of others carried
her out of herself; and she rested not till she had relieved or
comforted them. The warmth of her compassion often made her so diligent,
that many things occurred to her, which might have escaped a less
interested observer.
In like manner, she entered with such spirit into whatever she read,
and the emotions thereby raised were so strong, that it soon became a
part of her mind.
Enthusiastic sentiments of devotion at this period actuated her; her
Creator was almost apparent to her senses in his works; but they were
mostly the grand or solemn features of Nature which she delighted to
contemplate. She would stand and behold the waves rolling, and think of
the voice that could still the tumultuous deep.
These propensities gave the colour to her mind, before the passions
began to exercise their tyrannic sway, and particularly pointed out
those which the soil would have a tendency to nurse.
Years after, when wandering through the same scenes, her imagination has
strayed back, to trace the first placid sentiments they inspired, and
she would earnestly desire to regain the same peaceful tranquillity.
Many nights she sat up, if I may be allowed the expression, _conversing_
with the Author of Nature, making verses, and singing hymns of her own
composing. She considered also, and tried to discern what end her
various faculties were destined to pursue; and had a glimpse of a truth,
which afterwards more fully unfolded itself.
She thought that only an infinite being could fill the human soul, and
that when other objects were followed as a means of happiness, the
delusion led to misery, the consequence of disappointment. Under the
influence of ardent affections, how often has she forgot this
conviction, and as often returned to it again, when it struck her with
redoubled force. Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her
ecstacies arose from genius.
She was now fifteen, and she wished to receive the holy sacrament; and
perusing the scriptures, and discussing some points of doctrine which
puzzled her, she would sit up half the night, her favourite time for
employing her mind; she too plainly perceived that she saw through a
glass darkly; and that the bounds set to stop our intellectual
researches, is one of the trials of a probationary state.
But her affections were roused by the display of divine mercy; and she
eagerly desired to commemorate the dying love of her great benefactor.
The night before the important day, when she was to take on herself her
baptismal vow, she could not go to bed; the sun broke in on her
meditations, and found her not exhausted by her watching.
The orient pearls were strewed around--she hailed the morn, and sung
with wild delight, Glory to God on high, good will towards men. She was
indeed so much affected when she joined in the prayer for her eternal
preservation, that she could hardly conceal her violent emotions; and
the recollection never failed to wake her dormant piety when earthly
passions made it grow languid.
These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the
luxuriant shoots restrained by culture. The servants and the poor adored
her.
In order to be enabled to gratify herself in the highest degree, she
practiced the most rigid oeconomy, and had such power over her
appetites and whims, that without any great effort she conquered them
so entirely, that when her understanding or affections had an object,
she almost forgot she had a body which required nourishment.
This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the
passions.
We will now enter on the more active field of life.
CHAP. V.
A few months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was
attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the
school.
She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of
consequence, and did not call her _the child_. Proper masters were sent
for; she was taught to dance, and an extraordinary master procured to
perfect her in that most necessary of all accomplishments.
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