Mary Wollstonecraft - Mary
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Mary Wollstonecraft >> Mary
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"I have enquired concerning these strangers, and find that the one who
has the most dignity in her manners, is really a woman of fortune."
"Lord, mamma, how ill she dresses:" mamma went on; "She is a romantic
creature, you must not copy her, miss; yet she is an heiress of the
large fortune in ----shire, of which you may remember to have heard the
Countess speak the night you had on the dancing-dress that was so much
admired; but she is married."
She then told them the whole story as she heard it from her maid, who
picked it out of Mary's servant. "She is a foolish creature, and this
friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of
quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls.
"She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew. Henry sighed,
and strode across the room once or twice; then took up his violin, and
played the air which first struck Mary; he had often heard her praise
it.
The music was uncommonly melodious, "And came stealing on the senses
like the sweet south." The well-known sounds reached Mary as she sat by
her friend--she listened without knowing that she did--and shed tears
almost without being conscious of it. Ann soon fell asleep, as she had
taken an opiate. Mary, then brooding over her fears, began to imagine
she had deceived herself--Ann was still very ill; hope had beguiled many
heavy hours; yet she was displeased with herself for admitting this
welcome guest.--And she worked up her mind to such a degree of anxiety,
that she determined, once more, to seek medical aid.
No sooner did she determine, than she ran down with a discomposed look,
to enquire of the ladies who she should send for. When she entered the
room she could not articulate her fears--it appeared like pronouncing
Ann's sentence of death; her faultering tongue dropped some broken
words, and she remained silent. The ladies wondered that a person of her
sense should be so little mistress of herself; and began to administer
some common-place comfort, as, that it was our duty to submit to the
will of Heaven, and the like trite consolations, which Mary did not
answer; but waving her hand, with an air of impatience, she exclaimed,
"I cannot live without her!--I have no other friend; if I lose her, what
a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they,
"have you not a husband?"
Mary shrunk back, and was alternately pale and red. A delicate sense of
propriety prevented her replying; and recalled her bewildered
reason.--Assuming, in consequence of her recollection, a more composed
manner, she made the intended enquiry, and left the room. Henry's eyes
followed her while the females very freely animadverted on her strange
behaviour.
CHAP. XII.
The physician was sent for; his prescription afforded Ann a little
temporary relief; and they again joined the circle. Unfortunately, the
weather happened to be constantly wet for more than a week, and confined
them to the house. Ann then found the ladies not so agreeable; when they
sat whole hours together, the thread-bare topics were exhausted; and,
but for cards or music, the long evenings would have been yawned away in
listless indolence.
The bad weather had had as ill an effect on Henry as on Ann. He was
frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would
of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his
conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group. When she
conversed with him, all the faculties of her soul unfolded themselves;
genius animated her expressive countenance and the most graceful,
unaffected gestures gave energy to her discourse.
They frequently discussed very important subjects, while the rest were
singing or playing cards, nor were they observed for doing so, as Henry,
whom they all were pleased with, in the way of gallantry shewed them all
more attention than her. Besides, as there was nothing alluring in her
dress or manner, they never dreamt of her being preferred to them.
Henry was a man of learning; he had also studied mankind, and knew many
of the intricacies of the human heart, from having felt the infirmities
of his own. His taste was just, as it had a standard--Nature, which he
observed with a critical eye. Mary could not help thinking that in his
company her mind expanded, as he always went below the surface. She
increased her stock of ideas, and her taste was improved.
He was also a pious man; his rational religious sentiments received
warmth from his sensibility; and, except on very particular occasions,
kept it in proper bounds; these sentiments had likewise formed his
temper; he was gentle, and easily to be intreated. The ridiculous
ceremonies they were every day witness to, led them into what are termed
grave subjects, and made him explain his opinions, which, at other
times, he was neither ashamed of, nor unnecessarily brought forward to
notice.
CHAP. XIII.
When the weather began to clear up, Mary sometimes rode out alone,
purposely to view the ruins that still remained of the earthquake: or
she would ride to the banks of the Tagus, to feast her eyes with the
sight of that magnificent river. At other times she would visit the
churches, as she was particularly fond of seeing historical paintings.
One of these visits gave rise to the subject, and the whole party
descanted on it; but as the ladies could not handle it well, they soon
adverted to portraits; and talked of the attitudes and characters in
which they should wish to be drawn. Mary did not fix on one--when
Henry, with more apparent warmth than usual, said, "I would give the
world for your picture, with the expression I have seen in your face,
when you have been supporting your friend."
This delicate compliment did not gratify her vanity, but it reached her
heart. She then recollected that she had once sat for her picture--for
whom was it designed? For a boy! Her cheeks flushed with indignation, so
strongly did she feel an emotion of contempt at having been thrown
away--given in with an estate.
As Mary again gave way to hope, her mind was more disengaged; and her
thoughts were employed about the objects around her.
She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates
some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones. She
saw that religion does not consist in ceremonies; and that many prayers
may fall from the lips without purifying the heart.
They who imagine they can be religious without governing their tempers,
or exercising benevolence in its most extensive sense, must certainly
allow, that their religious duties are only practiced from selfish
principles; how then can they be called good? The pattern of all
goodness went about _doing_ good. Wrapped up in themselves, the nuns
only thought of inferior gratifications. And a number of intrigues were
carried on to accelerate certain points on which their hearts were
fixed:
Such as obtaining offices of trust or authority; or avoiding those that
were servile or laborious. In short, when they could be neither wives
nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish
creatures in the world: the passions that were curbed gave strength to
the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for
the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did
they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?
In these abodes the unhappy individual, who, in the first paroxysm of
grief flies to them for refuge, finds too late she took a wrong step.
The same warmth which determined her will make her repent; and sorrow,
the rust of the mind, will never have a chance of being rubbed off by
sensible conversation, or new-born affections of the heart.
She will find that those affections that have once been called forth and
strengthened by exercise, are only smothered, not killed, by
disappointment; and that in one form or other discontent will corrode
the heart, and produce those maladies of the imagination, for which
there is no specific.
The community at large Mary disliked; but pitied many of them whose
private distresses she was informed of; and to pity and relieve were the
same things with her.
The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and
dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but
never mean or cunning.
CHAP. XIV.
The Portuguese are certainly the most uncivilized nation in Europe. Dr.
Johnson would have said, "They have the least mind.". And can such serve
their Creator in spirit and in truth? No, the gross ritual of Romish
ceremonies is all they can comprehend: they can do penance, but not
conquer their revenge, or lust. Religion, or love, has never humanized
their hearts; they want the vital part; the mere body worships. Taste is
unknown; Gothic finery, and unnatural decorations, which they term
ornaments, are conspicuous in their churches and dress. Reverence for
mental excellence is only to be found in a polished nation.
Could the contemplation of such a people gratify Mary's heart? No: she
turned disgusted from the prospects--turned to a man of refinement.
Henry had been some time ill and low-spirited; Mary would have been
attentive to any one in that situation; but to him she was particularly
so; she thought herself bound in gratitude, on account of his constant
endeavours to amuse Ann, and prevent her dwelling on the dreary prospect
before her, which sometimes she could not help anticipating with a kind
of quiet despair.
She found some excuse for going more frequently into the room they all
met in; nay, she avowed her desire to amuse him: offered to read to him,
and tried to draw him into amusing conversations; and when she was full
of these little schemes, she looked at him with a degree of tenderness
that she was not conscious of. This divided attention was of use to her,
and prevented her continually thinking of Ann, whose fluctuating
disorder often gave rise to false hopes.
A trifling thing occurred now which occasioned Mary some uneasiness. Her
maid, a well-looking girl, had captivated the clerk of a neighbouring
compting-house. As the match was an advantageous one, Mary could not
raise any objection to it, though at this juncture it was very
disagreeable to her to have a stranger about her person. However, the
girl consented to delay the marriage, as she had some affection for her
mistress; and, besides, looked forward to Ann's death as a time of
harvest.
Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave
Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested
about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the
purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain.
The only visible return he made was not obvious to common observers. He
would sometimes fix his eyes on her, and take them off with a sigh that
was coughed away; or when he was leisurely walking into the room, and
did not expect to see her, he would quicken his steps, and come up to
her with eagerness to ask some trivial question. In the same style, he
would try to detain her when he had nothing to say--or said nothing.
Ann did not take notice of either his or Mary's behaviour, nor did she
suspect that he was a favourite, on any other account than his
appearing neither well nor happy. She had often seen that when a person
was unfortunate, Mary's pity might easily be mistaken for love, and,
indeed, it was a temporary sensation of that kind. Such it was--why it
was so, let others define, I cannot argue against instincts. As reason
is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may
have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius
evaporates."
CHAP. XV.
One morning they set out to visit the aqueduct; though the day was very
fine when they left home, a very heavy shower fell before they reached
it; they lengthened their ride, the clouds dispersed, and the sun came
from behind them uncommonly bright.
Mary would fain have persuaded Ann not to have left the carriage; but
she was in spirits, and obviated all her objections, and insisted on
walking, tho' the ground was damp. But her strength was not equal to her
spirits; she was soon obliged to return to the carriage so much
fatigued, that she fainted, and remained insensible a long time.
Henry would have supported her; but Mary would not permit him; her
recollection was instantaneous, and she feared sitting on the damp
ground might do him a material injury: she was on that account positive,
though the company did not guess the cause of her being so. As to
herself, she did not fear bodily pain; and, when her mind was agitated,
she could endure the greatest fatigue without appearing sensible of it.
When Ann recovered, they returned slowly home; she was carried to bed,
and the next morning Mary thought she observed a visible change for the
worse. The physician was sent for, who pronounced her to be in the most
imminent danger.
All Mary's former fears now returned like a torrent, and carried every
other care away; she even added to her present anguish by upbraiding
herself for her late tranquillity--it haunted her in the form of a
crime.
The disorder made the most rapid advances--there was no hope!--Bereft of
it, Mary again was tranquil; but it was a very different kind of
tranquillity. She stood to brave the approaching storm, conscious she
only could be overwhelmed by it.
She did not think of Henry, or if her thoughts glanced towards him, it
was only to find fault with herself for suffering a thought to have
strayed from Ann.--Ann!--this dear friend was soon torn from her--she
died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room.--The
first string was severed from her heart--and this "slow, sudden-death"
disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to
reflect, or even to feel her misery.
The body was stolen out of the house the second night, and Mary refused
to see her former companions. She desired her maid to conclude her
marriage, and request her intended husband to inform her when the first
merchantman was to leave the port, as the packet had just sailed, and
she determined not to stay in that hated place any longer than was
absolutely necessary.
She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a
parade of grief--her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to
admit of increase or softening. She was right; the sight of them did not
affect her, or turn the stream of her sullen sorrow; the black wave
rolled along in the same course, it was equal to her where she cast her
eyes; all was impenetrable gloom.
CHAP. XVI.
Soon after the ladies left her, she received a message from Henry,
requesting, as she saw company, to be permitted to visit her: she
consented, and he entered immediately, with an unassured pace. She ran
eagerly up to him--saw the tear trembling in his eye, and his
countenance softened by the tenderest compassion; the hand which pressed
hers seemed that of a fellow-creature. She burst into tears; and, unable
to restrain them, she hid her face with both her hands; these tears
relieved her, (she had before had a difficulty in breathing,) and she
sat down by him more composed than she had appeared since Ann's death;
but her conversation was incoherent.
She called herself "a poor disconsolate creature!"--"Mine is a selfish
grief," she exclaimed--"Yet; Heaven is my witness, I do not wish her
back now she has reached those peaceful mansions, where the weary rest.
Her pure spirit is happy; but what a wretch am I!"
Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you
friend?" said he in a hesitating voice. "I feel, dear girl, the tendered
interest in whatever concerns thee." His eyes spoke the rest. They were
both silent a few moments; then Henry resumed the conversation. "I have
also been acquainted with grief! I mourn the loss of a woman who was not
worthy of my regard. Let me give thee some account of the man who now
solicits thy friendship; and who, from motives of the purest
benevolence, wishes to give comfort to thy wounded heart."
"I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and
am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for
thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store."
"Impossible," replied she, in a peevish tone, as if he had insulted her
by the supposition; her feelings were so much in unison with his, that
she was in love with misery.
He smiled at her impatience, and went on. "My father died before I knew
him, and my mother was so attached to my eldest brother, that she took
very little pains to fit me for the profession to which I was destined:
and, may I tell thee, I left my family, and, in many different stations,
rambled about the world; saw mankind in every rank of life; and, in
order to be independent, exerted those talents Nature has given me:
these exertions improved my understanding; and the miseries I was
witness to, gave a keener edge to my sensibility. My constitution is
naturally weak; and, perhaps, two or three lingering disorders in my
youth, first gave me a habit of reflecting, and enabled me to obtain
some dominion over my passions. At least," added he, stifling a sigh,
"over the violent ones, though I fear, refinement and reflection only
renders the tender ones more tyrannic.
"I have told you already I have been in love, and disappointed--the
object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her! Yet this passion
has pervaded my whole soul, and mixed itself with all my affections and
pursuits.--I am not peacefully indifferent; yet it is only to my violin
I tell the sorrows I now confide with thee. The object I loved forfeited
my esteem; yet, true to the sentiment, my fancy has too frequently
delighted to form a creature that I could love, that could convey to my
soul sensations which the gross part of mankind have not any conception
of."
He stopped, as Mary seemed lost in thought; but as she was still in a
listening attitude, continued his little narrative. "I kept up an
irregular correspondence with my mother; my brother's extravagance and
ingratitude had almost broken her heart, and made her feel something
like a pang of remorse, on account of her behaviour to me. I hastened to
comfort her--and was a comfort to her.
"My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but
I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not
having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness.
But, do not imagine I have always been a die-away swain. No: I have
frequented the cheerful haunts of men, and wit!--enchanting wit! has
made many moments fly free from care. I am too fond of the elegant arts;
and woman--lovely woman! thou hast charmed me, though, perhaps, it would
not be easy to find one to whom my reason would allow me to be constant.
"I have now only to tell you, that my mother insisted on my spending
this winter in a warmer climate; and I fixed on Lisbon, as I had before
visited the Continent." He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with
the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her
friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that
the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the
fate of a darling child, than he did in her's."
Such a crowd of thoughts all at once rushed into Mary's mind, that she
in vain attempted to express the sentiments which were most predominant.
Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it:
accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if
not engrossed by a particular affection.
Henry saw her distress, and not to increase it, left the room. He had
exerted himself to turn her thoughts into a new channel, and had
succeeded; she thought of him till she began to chide herself for
defrauding the dead, and, determining to grieve for Ann, she dwelt on
Henry's misfortunes and ill health; and the interest he took in her fate
was a balm to her sick mind. She did not reason on the subject; but she
felt he was attached to her: lost in this delirium, she never asked
herself what kind of an affection she had for him, or what it tended to;
nor did she know that love and friendship are very distinct; she thought
with rapture, that there was one person in the world who had an
affection for her, and that person she admired--had a friendship for.
He had called her his dear girl; the words might have fallen from him by
accident; but they did not fall to the ground. My child! His child,
what an association of ideas! If I had had a father, such a father!--She
could not dwell on the thoughts, the wishes which obtruded themselves.
Her mind was unhinged, and passion unperceived filled her whole soul.
Lost, in waking dreams, she considered and reconsidered Henry's account
of himself; till she actually thought she would tell Ann--a bitter
recollection then roused her out of her reverie; and aloud she begged
forgiveness of her.
By these kind of conflicts the day was lengthened; and when she went to
bed, the night passed away in feverish slumbers; though they did not
refresh her, she was spared the labour of thinking, of restraining her
imagination; it sported uncontrouled; but took its colour from her
waking train of thoughts. One instant she was supporting her dying
mother; then Ann was breathing her last, and Henry was comforting her.
The unwelcome light visited her languid eyes; yet, I must tell the
truth, she thought she should see Henry, and this hope set her spirits
in motion: but they were quickly depressed by her maid, who came to tell
her that she had heard of a vessel on board of which she could be
accommodated, and that there was to be another female passenger on
board, a vulgar one; but perhaps she would be more useful on that
account--Mary did not want a companion.
As she had given orders for her passage to be engaged in the first
vessel that sailed, she could not now retract; and must prepare for the
lonely voyage, as the Captain intended taking advantage of the first
fair wind. She had too much strength of mind to waver in her
determination but to determine wrung her very heart, opened all her old
wounds, and made them bleed afresh. What was she to do? where go? Could
she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to
love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her--her
soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock
heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!"
There is a solemnity in the shortest ejaculation, which, for a while,
stills the tumult of passion. Mary's mind had been thrown off its poise;
her devotion had been, perhaps, more fervent for some time past; but
less regular. She forgot that happiness was not to be found on earth,
and built a terrestrial paradise liable to be destroyed by the first
serious thought: when, she reasoned she became inexpressibly sad, to
render life bearable she gave way to fancy--this was madness.
In a few days she must again go to sea; the weather was very
tempestuous--what of that, the tempest in her soul rendered every other
trifling--it was not the contending elements, but _herself_ she feared!
CHAP. XVII.
In order to gain strength to support the expected interview, she went
out in a carriage. The day was fine; but all nature was to her a
universal blank; she could neither enjoy it, nor weep that she could
not. She passed by the ruins of an old monastery on a very high hill she
got out to walk amongst the ruins; the wind blew violently, she did not
avoid its fury, on the contrary, wildly bid it blow on, and seemed glad
to contend with it, or rather walk against it. Exhausted she returned to
the carriage was soon at home, and in the old room.
Henry started at the sight of her altered appearance; the day before her
complexion had been of the most pallid hue; but now her cheeks were
flushed, and her eyes enlivened with a false vivacity, an unusual fire.
He was not well, his illness was apparent in his countenance, and he
owned he had not closed his eyes all night; this roused her dormant
tenderness, she forgot they were so soon to part-engrossed by the
present happiness of seeing, of hearing him.
Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to
depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow;
should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she
thought, and insensibly grew more calm. The Ladies prevailed on her to
spend the evening with them; but she retired very early to rest, and sat
on the side of her bed several hours, then threw herself on it, and
waited for the dreaded to-morrow.
CHAP. XVIII.
The ladies heard that her servant was to be married that day, and that
she was to sail in the vessel which was then clearing out at the
Custom-house. Henry heard, but did not make any remarks; and Mary called
up all her fortitude to support her, and enable her to hide from the
females her internal struggles. She durst not encounter Henry's glances
when she found he had been informed of her intention; and, trying to
draw a veil over her wretched state of mind, she talked incessantly, she
knew not what; flashes of wit burst from her, and when she began to
laugh she could not stop herself.
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