Mary Wollstonecraft - Mary
M >>
Mary Wollstonecraft >> Mary
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6
Henry smiled at some of her sallies, and looked at her with such
benignity and compassion, that he recalled her scattered thoughts; and,
the ladies going to dress for dinner, they were left alone; and remained
silent a few moments: after the noisy conversation it appeared solemn.
Henry began. "You are going, Mary, and going by yourself; your mind is
not in a state to be left to its own operations--yet I cannot, dissuade
you; if I attempted to do it, I should ill deserve the title I wish to
merit. I only think of your happiness; could I obey the strongest
impulse of my heart, I should accompany thee to England; but such a step
might endanger your future peace."
Mary, then, with all the frankness which marked her character, explained
her situation to him and mentioned her fatal tie with such disgust that
he trembled for her. "I cannot see him; he is not the man formed for me
to love!" Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her
husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry. Did she
not fix on Lisbon rather than France on purpose to avoid him? and if Ann
had been in tolerable health she would have flown with her to some
remote corner to have escaped from him.
"I intend," said Henry, "to follow you in the next packet; where shall I
hear of your health?" "Oh! let me hear of thine," replied Mary. "I am
well, very well; but thou art very ill--thy health is in the most
precarious state." She then mentioned her intention of going to Ann's
relations. "I am her representative, I have duties to fulfil for her:
during my voyage I have time enough for reflection; though I think I
have already determined."
"Be not too hasty, my child," interrupted Henry; "far be it from me to
persuade thee to do violence to thy feelings--but consider that all thy
future life may probably take its colour from thy present mode of
conduct. Our affections as well as our sentiments are fluctuating; you
will not perhaps always either think or feel as you do at present: the
object you now shun may appear in a different light." He paused. "In
advising thee in this style, I have only thy good at heart, Mary."
She only answered to expostulate. "My affections are involuntary--yet
they can only be fixed by reflection, and when they are they make quite
a part of my soul, are interwoven in it, animate my actions, and form
my taste: certain qualities are calculated to call forth my sympathies,
and make me all I am capable of being. The governing affection gives its
stamp to the rest--because I am capable of loving one, I have that kind
of charity to all my fellow-creatures which is not easily provoked.
Milton has asserted, That earthly love is the scale by which to heavenly
we may ascend."
She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not
wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude
were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface
them but death--No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be
created afresh, and not improved. Yet a little while am I parted from
my Ann--I could not exist without the hope of seeing her again--I could
not bear to think that time could wear away an affection that was
founded on what is not liable to perish; you might as well attempt to
persuade me that my soul is matter, and that its feelings arose from
certain modifications of it."
"Dear enthusiastic creature," whispered Henry, "how you steal into my
soul." She still continued. "The same turn of mind which leads me to
adore the Author of all Perfection--which leads me to conclude that he
only can fill my soul; forces me to admire the faint image-the shadows
of his attributes here below; and my imagination gives still bolder
strokes to them. I knew I am in some degree under the influence of a
delusion--but does not this strong delusion prove that I myself 'am _of
subtiler essence than the trodden clod_' these flights of the
imagination point to futurity; I cannot banish them. Every cause in
nature produces an effect; and am I an exception to the general rule?
have I desires implanted in me only to make me miserable? will they
never be gratified? shall I never be happy? My feelings do not accord
with the notion of solitary happiness. In a state of bliss, it will be
the society of beings we can love, without the alloy that earthly
infirmities mix with our best affections, that will constitute great
part of our happiness.
"With these notions can I conform to the maxims of worldly wisdom? can
I listen to the cold dictates of worldly prudence and bid my tumultuous
passions cease to vex me, be still, find content in grovelling pursuits,
and the admiration of the misjudging crowd, when it is only one I wish
to please--one who could be all the world to me. Argue not with me, I am
bound by human ties; but did my spirit ever promise to love, or could I
consider when forced to bind myself--to take a vow, that at the awful
day of judgment I must give an account of. My conscience does not smite
me, and that Being who is greater than the internal monitor, may approve
of what the world condemns; sensible that in Him I live, could I brave
His presence, or hope in solitude to find peace, if I acted contrary to
conviction, that the world might approve of my conduct--what could the
world give to compensate for my own esteem? it is ever hostile and armed
against the feeling heart!
"Riches and honours await me, and the cold moralist might desire me to
sit down and enjoy them--I cannot conquer my feelings, and till I do,
what are these baubles to me? you may tell me I follow a fleeting good,
an _ignis fatuus_; but this chase, these struggles prepare me for
eternity--when I no longer see through a glass darkly I shall not reason
about, but _feel_ in what happiness consists."
Henry had not attempted to interrupt her; he saw she was determined, and
that these sentiments were not the effusion of the moment, but well
digested ones, the result of strong affections, a high sense of honour,
and respect for the source of all virtue and truth. He was startled, if
not entirely convinced by her arguments; indeed her voice, her gestures
were all persuasive.
Some one now entered the room; he looked an answer to her long harangue;
it was fortunate for him, or he might have been led to say what in a
cooler moment he had determined to conceal; but were words necessary to
reveal it? He wished not to influence her conduct--vain precaution; she
knew she was beloved; and could she forget that such a man loved her, or
rest satisfied with any inferior gratification. When passion first
enters the heart, it is only a return of affection that is sought after,
and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out.
CHAP. XIX.
Two days passed away without any particular conversation; Henry, trying
to be indifferent, or to appear so, was more assiduous than ever. The
conflict was too violent for his present state of health; the spirit was
willing, but the body suffered; he lost his appetite, and looked
wretchedly; his spirits were calmly low--the world seemed to fade
away--what was that world to him that Mary did not inhabit; she lived
not for him.
He was mistaken; his affection was her only support; without this dear
prop she had sunk into the grave of her lost--long-loved friend;--his
attention snatched her from despair. Inscrutable are the ways of
Heaven!
The third day Mary was desired to prepare herself; for if the wind
continued in the same point, they should set sail the next evening. She
tried to prepare her mind, and her efforts were not useless she appeared
less agitated than could have been expected, and talked of her voyage
with composure. On great occasions she was generally calm and collected,
her resolution would brace her unstrung nerves; but after the victory
she had no triumph; she would sink into a state of moping melancholy,
and feel ten-fold misery when the heroic enthusiasm was over.
The morning of the day fixed on for her departure she was alone with
Henry only a few moments, and an awkward kind of formality made them
slip away without their having said much to each other. Henry was
afraid to discover his passion, or give any other name to his regard but
friendship; yet his anxious solicitude for her welfare was ever breaking
out-while she as artlessly expressed again and again, her fears with
respect to his declining health.
"We shall soon meet," said he, with a faint smile; Mary smiled too; she
caught the sickly beam; it was still fainter by being reflected, and not
knowing what she wished to do, started up and left the room. When she
was alone she regretted she had left him so precipitately. "The few
precious moments I have thus thrown away may never return," she
thought-the reflection led to misery.
She waited for, nay, almost wished for the summons to depart. She could
not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and
the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her
more than can be well conceived.
The summons came, and the whole party attended her to the vessel. For a
while the remembrance of Ann banished her regret at parting with Henry,
though his pale figure pressed on her sight; it may seem a paradox, but
he was more present to her when she sailed; her tears then were all his
own.
"My poor Ann!" thought Mary, "along this road we came, and near this
spot you called me your guardian angel--and now I leave thee here! ah!
no, I do not--thy spirit is not confined to its mouldering tenement!
Tell me, thou soul of her I love, tell me, ah! whither art thou fled?"
Ann occupied her until they reached the ship.
The anchor was weighed. Nothing can be more irksome than waiting to say
farewel. As the day was serene, they accompanied her a little way, and
then got into the boat; Henry was the last; he pressed her hand, it had
not any life in it; she leaned over the side of the ship without looking
at the boat, till it was so far distant, that she could not see the
countenances of those that were in it: a mist spread itself over her
sight--she longed to exchange one look--tried to recollect the
last;--the universe contained no being but Henry!--The grief of parting
with him had swept all others clean away. Her eyes followed the keel of
the boat, and when she could no longer perceive its traces: she looked
round on the wide waste of waters, thought of the precious moments
which had been stolen from the waste of murdered time.
She then descended into the cabin, regardless of the surrounding
beauties of nature, and throwing herself on her bed in the little hole
which was called the state-room--she wished to forget her existence. On
this bed she remained two days, listening to the dashing waves, unable
to close her eyes. A small taper made the darkness visible; and the
third night, by its glimmering light, she wrote the following fragment.
"Poor solitary wretch that I am; here alone do I listen to the whistling
winds and dashing waves;--on no human support can I rest--when not lost
to hope I found pleasure in the society of those rough beings; but now
they appear not like my fellow creatures; no social ties draw me to
them. How long, how dreary has this day been; yet I scarcely wish it
over--for what will to-morrow bring--to-morrow, and to-morrow will only
be marked with unvaried characters of wretchedness.--Yet surely, I am
not alone!"
Her moistened eyes were lifted up to heaven; a crowd of thoughts darted
into her mind, and pressing her hand against her forehead, as if to bear
the intellectual weight, she tried, but tried in vain, to arrange them.
"Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish it to
be composed--to forget my Henry?" the _my_, the pen was directly drawn
across in an agony.
CHAP. XX.
The mate of the ship, who heard her stir, came to offer her some
refreshment; and she, who formerly received every offer of kindness or
civility with pleasure, now shrunk away disgusted: peevishly she desired
him not to disturb her; but the words were hardly articulated when her
heart smote her, she called him back, and requested something to drink.
After drinking it, fatigued by her mental exertions, she fell into a
death-like slumber, which lasted some hours; but did not refresh her, on
the contrary, she awoke languid and stupid.
The wind still continued contrary; a week, a dismal week, had she
struggled with her sorrows; and the struggle brought on a slow fever,
which sometimes gave her false spirits.
The winds then became very tempestuous, the Great Deep was troubled, and
all the passengers appalled. Mary then left her bed, and went on deck,
to survey the contending elements: the scene accorded with the present
state of her soul; she thought in a few hours I may go home; the
prisoner may be released. The vessel rose on a wave and descended into a
yawning gulph--Not slower did her mounting soul return to earth,
for--Ah! her treasure and her heart was there. The squalls rattled
amongst the sails, which were quickly taken down; the wind would then
die away, and the wild undirected waves rushed on every side with a
tremendous roar. In a little vessel in the midst of such a storm she
was not dismayed; she felt herself independent.
Just then one of the crew perceived a signal of distress; by the help of
a glass he could plainly discover a small vessel dismasted, drifted
about, for the rudder had been broken by the violence of the storm.
Mary's thoughts were now all engrossed by the crew on the brink of
destruction. They bore down to the wreck; they reached it, and hailed
the trembling wretches; at the sound of the friendly greeting, loud
cries of tumultuous joy were mixed with the roaring of the waves, and
with ecstatic transport they leaped on the shattered deck, launched
their boat in a moment, and committed themselves to the mercy of the
sea. Stowed between two casks, and leaning on a sail, she watched the
boat, and when a wave intercepted it from her view--she ceased to
breathe, or rather held her breath until it rose again.
At last the boat arrived safe along-side the ship, and Mary caught the
poor trembling wretches as they stumbled into it, and joined them in
thanking that gracious Being, who though He had not thought fit to still
the raging of the sea, had afforded them unexpected succour.
Amongst the wretched crew was one poor woman, who fainted when she was
hauled on board: Mary undressed her, and when she had recovered, and
soothed her, left her to enjoy the rest she required to recruit her
strength, which fear had quite exhausted. She returned again to view the
angry deep; and when she gazed on its perturbed state, she thought of
the Being who rode on the wings of the wind, and stilled the noise of
the sea; and the madness of the people--He only could speak peace to
her troubled spirit! she grew more calm; the late transaction had
gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself.
One of the sailors, happening to say to another, "that he believed the
world was going to be at an end;" this observation led her into a new
train of thoughts: some of Handel's sublime compositions occurred to
her, and she sung them to the grand accompaniment. The Lord God
Omnipotent reigned, and would reign for ever, and ever!--Why then did
she fear the sorrows that were passing away, when she knew that He would
bind up the broken-hearted, and receive those who came out of great
tribulation. She retired to her cabin; and wrote in the little book that
was now her only confident. It was after midnight.
"At this solemn hour, the great day of judgment fills my thoughts; the
day of retribution, when the secrets of all hearts will be revealed;
when all worldly distinctions will fade away, and be no more seen. I
have not words to express the sublime images which the bare
contemplation of this awful day raises in my mind. Then, indeed, the
Lord Omnipotent will reign, and He will wipe the tearful eye, and
support the trembling heart--yet a little while He hideth his face, and
the dun shades of sorrow, and the thick clouds of folly separate us from
our God; but when the glad dawn of an eternal day breaks, we shall know
even as we are known. Here we walk by faith, and not by sight; and we
have this alternative, either to enjoy the pleasures of life which are
but for a season, or look forward to the prize of our high calling, and
with fortitude, and that wisdom which is from above, endeavour to bear
the warfare of life. We know that many run the race; but he that
striveth obtaineth the crown of victory. Our race is an arduous one! How
many are betrayed by traitors lodged in their own breasts, who wear the
garb of Virtue, and are so near akin; we sigh to think they should ever
lead into folly, and slide imperceptibly into vice. Surely any thing
like happiness is madness! Shall probationers of an hour presume to
pluck the fruit of immortality, before they have conquered death? it is
guarded, when the great day, to which I allude, arrives, the way will
again be opened. Ye dear delusions, gay deceits, farewel! and yet I
cannot banish ye for ever; still does my panting soul push forward, and
live in futurity, in the deep shades o'er which darkness hangs.--I try
to pierce the gloom, and find a resting-place, where my thirst of
knowledge will be gratified, and my ardent affections find an object to
fix them. Every thing material must change; happiness and this
fluctating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and
happiness,--what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting
conceptions ye create?"
After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the
Father of Spirits; and slept in peace.
CHAP. XXI.
Mary rose early, refreshed by the seasonable rest, and went to visit the
poor woman, whom she found quite recovered: and, on enquiry, heard that
she had lately buried her husband, a common sailor; and that her only
surviving child had been washed over-board the day before. Full of her
own danger, she scarcely thought of her child till that was over; and
then she gave way to boisterous emotions.
Mary endeavoured to calm her at first, by sympathizing with her; and she
tried to point out the only solid source of comfort but in doing this
she encountered many difficulties; she found her grossly ignorant, yet
she did not despair: and as the poor creature could not receive comfort
from the operations of her own mind, she laboured to beguile the hours,
which grief made heavy, by adapting her conversation to her capacity.
There are many minds that only receive impressions through the medium of
the senses: to them did Mary address herself; she made her some
presents, and promised to assist her when they should arrive in England.
This employment roused her out of her late stupor, and again set the
faculties of her soul in motion; made the understanding contend with the
imagination, and the heart throbbed not so irregularly during the
contention. How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was
descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor.--She was to visit
and comfort the mother of her lost friend--And where then should she
take up her residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her
understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming
apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude.
CHAP. XXII.
In England then landed the forlorn wanderer. She looked round for some
few moments--her affections were not attracted to any particular part of
the Island. She knew none of the inhabitants of the vast city to which
she was going: the mass of buildings appeared to her a huge body without
an informing soul. As she passed through the streets in an
hackney-coach, disgust and horror alternately filled her mind. She met
some women drunk; and the manners of those who attacked the sailors,
made her shrink into herself, and exclaim, are these my fellow
creatures!
Detained by a number of carts near the water-side, for she came up the
river in the vessel, not having reason to hasten on shore, she saw
vulgarity, dirt, and vice--her soul sickened; this was the first time
such complicated misery obtruded itself on her sight.--Forgetting her
own griefs, she gave the world a much indebted tear; mourned for a world
in ruins. She then perceived, that great part of her comfort must arise
from viewing the smiling face of nature, and be reflected from the view
of innocent enjoyments: she was fond of seeing animals play, and could
not bear to see her own species sink below them.
In a little dwelling in one of the villages near London, lived the
mother of Ann; two of her children still remained with her; but they did
not resemble Ann. To her house Mary directed the coach, and told the
unfortunate mother of her loss. The poor woman, oppressed by it, and her
many other cares, after an inundation of tears, began to enumerate all
her past misfortunes, and present cares. The heavy tale lasted until
midnight, and the impression it made on Mary's mind was so strong, that
it banished sleep till towards morning; when tired nature sought
forgetfulness, and the soul ceased to ruminate about many things.
She sent for the poor woman they took up at sea, provided her a lodging,
and relieved her present necessities. A few days were spent in a kind of
listless way; then the mother of Ann began to enquire when she thought
of returning home. She had hitherto treated her with the greatest
respect, and concealed her wonder at Mary's choosing a remote room in
the house near the garden, and ordering some alterations to be made, as
if she intended living in it.
Mary did not choose to explain herself; had Ann lived, it is probable
she would never have loved Henry so fondly; but if she had, she could
not have talked of her passion to any human creature. She deliberated,
and at last informed the family, that she had a reason for not living
with her husband, which must some time remain a secret--they stared--Not
live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not
answer; she had only about eighty pounds remaining, of the money she
took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more?
I will work, she cried, do any thing rather than be a slave.
CHAP. XXIII.
Unhappy, she wandered about the village, and relieved the poor; it was
the only employment that eased her aching heart; she became more
intimate with misery--the misery that rises from poverty and the want of
education. She was in the vicinity of a great city; the vicious poor in
and about it must ever grieve a benevolent contemplative mind.
One evening a man who stood weeping in a little lane, near the house she
resided in, caught her eye. She accosted him; in a confused manner, he
informed her, that his wife was dying, and his children crying for the
bread he could not earn. Mary desired to be conducted to his
habitation; it was not very distant, and was the upper room in an old
mansion-house, which had been once the abode of luxury. Some tattered
shreds of rich hangings still remained, covered with cobwebs and filth;
round the ceiling, through which the rain drop'd, was a beautiful
cornice mouldering; and a spacious gallery was rendered dark by the
broken windows being blocked up; through the apertures the wind forced
its way in hollow sounds, and reverberated along the former scene of
festivity.
It was crowded with inhabitants: som were scolding, others swearing, or
singing indecent songs. What a sight for Mary! Her blood ran cold; yet
she had sufficient resolution to mount to the top of the house. On the
floor, in one corner of a very small room, lay an emaciated figure of a
woman; a window over her head scarcely admitted any light, for the
broken panes were stuffed with dirty rags. Near her were five children,
all young, and covered with dirt; their sallow cheeks, and languid eyes,
exhibited none of the charms of childhood. Some were fighting, and
others crying for food; their yells were mixed with their mother's
groans, and the wind which rushed through the passage. Mary was
petrified; but soon assuming more courage, approached the bed, and,
regardless of the surrounding nastiness, knelt down by the poor wretch,
and breathed the most poisonous air; for the unfortunate creature was
dying of a putrid fever, the consequence of dirt and want.
Their state did not require much explanation. Mary sent the husband for
a poor neighbour, whom she hired to nurse the woman, and take care of
the children; and then went herself to buy them some necessaries at a
shop not far distant. Her knowledge of physic had enabled her to
prescribe for the woman; and she left the house, with a mixture of
horror and satisfaction.
She visited them every day, and procured them every comfort; contrary to
her expectation, the woman began to recover; cleanliness and wholesome
food had a wonderful effect; and Mary saw her rising as it were from the
grave. Not aware of the danger she ran into, she did not think of it
till she perceived she had caught the fever. It made such an alarming
progress, that she was prevailed on to send for a physician; but the
disorder was so violent, that for some days it baffled his skill; and
Mary felt not her danger, as she was delirious. After the crisis, the
symptoms were more favourable, and she slowly recovered, without
regaining much strength or spirits; indeed they were intolerably low:
she wanted a tender nurse.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 | 4 |
5 |
6