Mary Wollstonecraft - Mary
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Mary Wollstonecraft >> Mary
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For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same
respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were
expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the
woman who came out of the ship. Mary had hitherto supported her; as her
finances were growing low, she hinted to her, that she ought to try to
earn her own subsistence: the woman in return loaded her with abuse.
Two months were elapsed; she had not seen, or heard from Henry. He was
sick--nay, perhaps had forgotten her; all the world was dreary, and all
the people ungrateful.
She sunk into apathy, and endeavouring to rouse herself out of it, she
wrote in her book another fragment:
"Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude,
disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel
joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly
susceptible of misery? It is true, I have experienced the most rapturous
emotions--short-lived delight!--ethereal beam, which only serves to shew
my present misery--yet lie still, my throbbing heart, or burst; and my
brain--why dost thou whirl about at such a terrifying rate? why do
thoughts so rapidly rush into my mind, and yet when they disappear
leave such deep traces? I could almost wish for the madman's happiness,
and in a strong imagination lose a sense of woe.
"Oh! reason, thou boasted guide, why desert me, like the world, when I
most need thy assistance! Canst thou not calm this internal tumult, and
drive away the death-like sadness which presses so sorely on me,--a
sadness surely very nearly allied to despair. I am now the prey of
apathy--I could wish for the former storms! a ray of hope sometimes
illumined my path; I had a pursuit; but now _it visits not my haunts
forlorn_. Too well have I loved my fellow creatures! I have been wounded
by ingratitude; from every one it has something of the serpent's tooth.
"When overwhelmed by sorrow, I have met unkindness; I looked for some
one to have pity on me; but found none!--The healing balm of sympathy is
denied; I weep, a solitary wretch, and the hot tears scald my cheeks. I
have not the medicine of life, the dear chimera I have so often chased,
a friend. Shade of my loved Ann! dost thou ever visit thy poor Mary?
Refined spirit, thou wouldst weep, could angels weep, to see her
struggling with passions she cannot subdue; and feelings which corrode
her small portion of comfort!"
She could not write any more; she wished herself far distant from all
human society; a thick gloom spread itself over her mind: but did not
make her forget the very beings she wished to fly from. She sent for the
poor woman she found in the garret; gave her money to clothe herself
and children, and buy some furniture for a little hut, in a large
garden, the master of which agreed to employ her husband, who had been
bred a gardener. Mary promised to visit the family, and see their new
abode when she was able to go out.
CHAP. XXIV.
Mary still continued weak and low, though it was spring, and all nature
began to look gay; with more than usual brightness the sun shone, and a
little robin which she had cherished during the winter sung one of his
best songs. The family were particularly civil this fine morning, and
tried to prevail on her to walk out. Any thing like kindness melted her;
she consented.
Softer emotions banished her melancholy, and she directed her steps to
the habitation she had rendered comfortable.
Emerging out of a dreary chamber, all nature looked cheerful; when she
had last walked out, snow covered the ground, and bleak winds pierced
her through and through: now the hedges were green, the blossoms adorned
the trees, and the birds sung. She reached the dwelling, without being
much exhausted and while she rested there, observed the children
sporting on the grass, with improved complexions. The mother with tears
thanked her deliverer, and pointed out her comforts. Mary's tears flowed
not only from sympathy, but a complication of feelings and recollections
the affections which bound her to her fellow creatures began again to
play, and reanimated nature. She observed the change in herself, tried
to account for it, and wrote with her pencil a rhapsody on sensibility.
"Sensibility is the most exquisite feeling of which the human soul is
susceptible: when it pervades us, we feel happy; and could it last
unmixed, we might form some conjecture of the bliss of those
paradisiacal days, when the obedient passions were under the dominion of
reason, and the impulses of the heart did not need correction.
"It is this quickness, this delicacy of feeling, which enables us to
relish the sublime touches of the poet, and the painter; it is this,
which expands the soul, gives an enthusiastic greatness, mixed with
tenderness, when we view the magnificent objects of nature; or hear of a
good action. The same effect we experience in the spring, when we hail
the returning sun, and the consequent renovation of nature; when the
flowers unfold themselves, and exhale their sweets, and the voice of
music is heard in the land. Softened by tenderness; the soul is
disposed to be virtuous. Is any sensual gratification to be compared to
that of feelings the eves moistened after having comforted the
unfortunate?
"Sensibility is indeed the foundation of all our happiness; but these
raptures are unknown to the depraved sensualist, who is only moved by
what strikes his gross senses; the delicate embellishments of nature
escape his notice; as do the gentle and interesting affections.--But it
is only to be felt; it escapes discussion."
She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was
rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of
life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit. He endeavoured to draw Mary
out, and succeeded; she entered into conversation, and some of her
artless flights of genius struck him with surprise; he found she had a
capacious mind, and that her reason was as profound as her imagination
was lively. She glanced from earth to heaven, and caught the light of
truth. Her expressive countenance shewed what passed in her mind, and
her tongue was ever the faithful interpreter of her heart; duplicity
never threw a shade over her words or actions. Mary found him a man of
learning; and the exercise of her understanding would frequently make
her forget her griefs, when nothing else could, except benevolence.
This man had known the mistress of the house in her youth; good nature
induced him to visit her; but when he saw Mary he had another
inducement. Her appearance, and above all, her genius, and cultivation
of mind, roused his curiosity; but her dignified manners had such an
effect on him, he was obliged to suppress it. He knew men, as well as
books; his conversation was entertaining and improving. In Mary's
company he doubted whether heaven was peopled with spirits masculine;
and almost forgot that he had called the sex "the pretty play things
that render life tolerable."
He had been the slave of beauty, the captive of sense; love he ne'er had
felt; the mind never rivetted the chain, nor had the purity of it made
the body appear lovely in his eyes. He was humane, despised meanness;
but was vain of his abilities, and by no means a useful member of
society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any
solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or
rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to
hunt down pleasure, he was discontented.
Mary observed his character, and wrote down a train of reflections,
which these observations led her to make; these reflections received a
tinge from her mind; the present state of it, was that kind of painful
quietness which arises from reason clouded by disgust; she had not yet
learned to be resigned; vague hopes agitated her.
"There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you
dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings
concerning happiness; till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle,
_That it hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive in what it
could consist_, or how satiety could be prevented. Man seems formed for
action, though the passions are seldom properly managed; they are
either so languid as not to serve as a spur, or else so violent, as to
overleap all bounds.
"Every individual has its own peculiar trials; and anguish, in one shape
or other, visits every heart. Sensibility produces flights of virtue;
and not curbed by reason, is on the brink of vice talking, and even
thinking of virtue.
"Christianity can only afford just principles to govern the wayward
feelings and impulses of the heart: every good disposition runs wild, if
not transplanted into this soil; but how hard is it to keep the heart
diligently, though convinced that the issues of life depend on it.
"It is very difficult to discipline the mind of a thinker, or reconcile
him to the weakness, the inconsistency of his understanding; and a
still more laborious task for him to conquer his passions, and learn to
seek content, instead of happiness. Good dispositions, and virtuous
propensities, without the light of the Gospel, produce eccentric
characters: comet-like, they are always in extremes; while revelation
resembles the laws of attraction, and produces uniformity; but too often
is the attraction feeble; and the light so obscured by passion, as to
force the bewildered soul to fly into void space, and wander in
confusion."
CHAP. XXV.
A few mornings after, as Mary was sitting ruminating, harassed by
perplexing thoughts, and fears, a letter was delivered to her: the
servant waited for an answer. Her heart palpitated; it was from Henry;
she held it some time in her hand, then tore it open; it was not a long
one; and only contained an account of a relapse, which prevented his
sailing in the first packet, as he had intended. Some tender enquiries
were added, concerning her health, and state of mind; but they were
expressed in rather a formal style: it vexed her, and the more so, as it
stopped the current of affection, which the account of his arrival and
illness had made flow to her heart--it ceased to beat for a moment--she
read the passage over again; but could not tell what she was hurt
by--only that it did not answer the expectations of her affection. She
wrote a laconic, incoherent note in return, allowing him to call on her
the next day--he had requested permission at the conclusion of his
letter.
Her mind was then painfully active; she could not read or walk; she
tried to fly from herself, to forget the long hours that were yet to run
before to-morrow could arrive: she knew not what time he would come;
certainly in the morning, she concluded; the morning then was anxiously
wished for; and every wish produced a sigh, that arose from expectation
on the stretch, damped by fear and vain regret.
To beguile the tedious time, Henry's favorite tunes were sung; the books
they read together turned over; and the short epistle read at least a
hundred times.--Any one who had seen her, would have supposed that she
was trying to decypher Chinese characters.
After a sleepless night, she hailed the tardy day, watched the rising
sun, and then listened for every footstep, and started if she heard the
street door opened. At last he came, and she who had been counting the
hours, and doubting whether the earth moved, would gladly have escaped
the approaching interview.
With an unequal, irresolute pace, she went to meet him; but when she
beheld his emaciated countenance, all the tenderness, which the
formality of his letter had damped, returned, and a mournful
presentiment stilled the internal conflict. She caught his hand, and
looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!"
"I am very far from well; but it matters not," added he with a smile of
resignation; "my native air may work wonders, and besides, my mother is
a tender nurse, and I shall sometimes see thee."
Mary felt for the first time in her life, envy; she wished
involuntarily, that all the comfort he received should be from her. She
enquired about the symptoms of his disorder; and heard that he had been
very ill; she hastily drove away the fears, that former dear bought
experience suggested: and again and again did she repeat, that she was
sure he would soon recover. She would then look in his face, to see if
he assented, and ask more questions to the same purport. She tried to
avoid speaking of herself, and Henry left her, with, a promise of
visiting her the next day.
Her mind was now engrossed by one fear--yet she would not allow herself
to think that she feared an event she could not name. She still saw his
pale face; the sound of his voice still vibrated on her ears; she tried
to retain it; she listened, looked round, wept, and prayed.
Henry had enlightened the desolate scene: was this charm of life to fade
away, and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck
behind? These thoughts disturbed her reason, she shook her head, as if
to drive them out of it; a weight, a heavy one, was on her heart; all
was not well there.
Out of this reverie she was soon woke to keener anguish, by the arrival
of a letter from her husband; it came to Lisbon after her departure:
Henry had forwarded it to her, but did not choose to deliver it
himself, for a very obvious reason; it might have produced a
conversation he wished for some time to avoid; and his precaution took
its rise almost equally from benevolence and love.
She could not muster up sufficient resolution to break the seal: her
fears were not prophetic, for the contents gave her comfort. He informed
her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master,
and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to
visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared
childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground,
where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the
masquerades, and such burlesque amusements.
These instances of folly relieved Mary, in some degree reconciled her
to herself added fuel to the devouring flame--and silenced something
like a pang, which reason and conscience made her feel, when she
reflected, that it is the office of Religion to reconcile us to the
seemingly hard dispensations of providence; and that no inclination,
however strong, should oblige us to desert the post assigned us, or
force us to forget that virtue should be an active principle; and that
the most desirable station, is the one that exercises our faculties,
refines our affections, and enables us to be useful.
One reflection continually wounded her repose; she feared not poverty;
her wants were few; but in giving up a fortune, she gave up the power of
comforting the miserable, and making the sad heart sing for joy.
Heaven had endowed her with uncommon humanity, to render her one of His
benevolent agents, a messenger of peace; and should she attend to her
own inclinations?
These suggestions, though they could not subdue a violent passion,
increased her misery. One moment she was a heroine, half determined to
bear whatever fate should inflict; the next, her mind would recoil--and
tenderness possessed her whole soul. Some instances of Henry's
affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only
a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her.
CHAP. XXVI.
Henry came the next day, and once or twice in the course of the
following week; but still Mary kept up some little formality, a certain
consciousness restrained her; and Henry did not enter on the subject
which he found she wished to avoid. In the course of conversation,
however, she mentioned to him, that she earnestly desired to obtain a
place in one of the public offices for Ann's brother, as the family were
again in a declining way.
Henry attended, made a few enquiries, and dropped the subject; but the
following week, she heard him enter with unusual haste; it was to inform
her, that he had made interest with a person of some consequence, whom
he had once obliged in a very disagreeable exigency, in a foreign
country; and that he had procured a place for her friend, which would
infallibly lead to something better, if he behaved with propriety. Mary
could not speak to thank him; emotions of gratitude and love suffused
her face; her blood eloquently spoke. She delighted to receive benefits
through the medium of her fellow creatures; but to receive them from
Henry was exquisite pleasure.
As the summer advanced, Henry grew worse; the closeness of the air, in
the metropolis, affected his breath; and his mother insisted on his
fixing on some place in the country, where she would accompany him. He
could not think of going far off, but chose a little village on the
banks of the Thames, near Mary's dwelling: he then introduced her to his
mother.
They frequently went down the river in a boat; Henry would take his
violin, and Mary would sometimes sing, or read, to them. She pleased his
mother; she inchanted him. It was an advantage to Mary that friendship
first possessed her heart; it opened it to all the softer sentiments of
humanity:--and when this first affection was torn away, a similar one
sprung up, with a still tenderer sentiment added to it.
The last evening they were on the water, the clouds grew suddenly black,
and broke in violent showers, which interrupted the solemn stillness
that had prevailed previous to it. The thunder roared; and the oars
plying quickly, in order to reach the shore, occasioned a not
unpleasing sound. Mary drew still nearer Henry; she wished to have
sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving
him.--She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind--he felt
them; threw his arm round her waist--and they enjoyed the luxury of
wretchedness.--As they touched the shore, Mary perceived that Henry was
wet; with eager anxiety she cried, What shall I do!--this day will kill
thee, and I shall not die with thee!
This accident put a stop to their pleasurable excursions; it had injured
him, and brought on the spitting of blood he was subject to--perhaps it
was not the cold that he caught, that occasioned it. In vain did Mary
try to shut her eyes; her fate pursued her! Henry every day grew worse
and worse.
CHAP. XXVII.
Oppressed by her foreboding fears, her sore mind was hurt by new
instances of ingratitude: disgusted with the family, whose misfortunes
had often disturbed her repose, and lost in anticipated sorrow, she
rambled she knew not where; when turning down a shady walk, she
discovered her feet had taken the path they delighted to tread. She saw
Henry sitting in his garden alone; he quickly opened the garden-gate,
and she sat down by him.
"I did not," said he, "expect to see thee this evening, my dearest Mary;
but I was thinking of thee. Heaven has endowed thee with an uncommon
portion of fortitude, to support one of the most affectionate hearts in
the world. This is not a time for disguise; I know I am dear to
thee--and my affection for thee is twisted with every fibre of my
heart.--I loved thee ever since I have been acquainted with thine: thou
art the being my fancy has delighted to form; but which I imagined
existed only there! In a little while the shades of death will encompass
me--ill-fated love perhaps added strength to my disease, and smoothed
the rugged path. Try, my love, to fulfil thy destined course--try to add
to thy other virtues patience. I could have wished, for thy sake, that
we could have died together--or that I could live to shield thee from
the assaults of an unfeeling world! Could I but offer thee an asylum in
these arms--a faithful bosom, in which thou couldst repose all thy
griefs--" He pressed her to it, and she returned the pressure--he felt her
throbbing heart. A mournful silence ensued! when he resumed the
conversation. "I wished to prepare thee for the blow--too surely do I
feel that it will not be long delayed! The passion I have nursed is so
pure, that death cannot extinguish it--or tear away the impression thy
virtues have made on my soul. I would fain comfort thee--"
"Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee
and Ann--while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!"--She grasped
his hand.
"There we shall meet, my love, my Mary, in our Father's--" His voice
faultered; he could not finish the sentence; he was almost
suffocated--they both wept, their tears relieved them; they walked
slowly to the garden-gate (Mary would not go into the house); they could
not say farewel when they reached it--and Mary hurried down the lane; to
spare Henry the pain of witnessing her emotions.
When she lost sight of the house she sat down on the ground, till it
grew late, thinking of all that had passed. Full of these thoughts, she
crept along, regardless of the descending rain; when lifting up her eyes
to heaven, and then turning them wildly on the prospects around, without
marking them; she only felt that the scene accorded with her present
state of mind. It was the last glimmering of twilight, with a full moon,
over which clouds continually flitted. Where am I wandering, God of
Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a
labyrinth am I lost! What miseries have I already encountered--and what
a number lie still before me.
Her thoughts flew rapidly to something. I could be happy listening to
him, soothing his cares.--Would he not smile upon me--call me his own
Mary? I am not his--said she with fierceness--I am a wretch! and she
heaved a sigh that almost broke her heart, while the big tears rolled
down her burning cheeks; but still her exercised mind, accustomed to
think, began to observe its operation, though the barrier of reason was
almost carried away, and all the faculties not restrained by her, were
running into confusion. Wherefore am I made thus? Vain are my
efforts--I cannot live without loving--and love leads to madness.--Yet
I will not weep; and her eyes were now fixed by despair, dry and
motionless; and then quickly whirled about with a look of distraction.
She looked for hope; but found none--all was troubled waters.--No where
could she find rest. I have already paced to and fro in the earth; it is
not my abiding place--may I not too go home! Ah! no. Is this complying
with my Henry's request, could a spirit thus disengaged expect to
associate with his? Tears of tenderness strayed down her relaxed
countenance, and her softened heart heaved more regularly. She felt the
rain, and turned to her solitary home.
Fatigued by the tumultuous emotions she had endured, when she entered
the house she ran to her own room, sunk on the bed; and exhausted
nature soon closed her eyes; but active fancy was still awake, and a
thousand fearful dreams interrupted her slumbers.
Feverish and languid, she opened her eyes, and saw the unwelcome sun
dart his rays through a window, the curtains of which she had forgotten
to draw. The dew hung on the adjacent trees, and added to the lustre;
the little robin began his song, and distant birds joined. She looked;
her countenance was still vacant--her sensibility was absorbed by one
object.
Did I ever admire the rising sun, she slightly thought, turning from the
Window, and shutting her eyes: she recalled to view the last night's
scene. His faltering voice, lingering step, and the look of tender woe,
were all graven on her heart; as were the words "Could these arms
shield thee from sorrow--afford thee an asylum from an unfeeling world."
The pressure to his bosom was not forgot. For a moment she was happy;
but in a long-drawn sigh every delightful sensation evaporated.
Soon--yes, very soon, will the grave again receive all I love! and the
remnant of my days--she could not proceed--Were there then days to come
after that?
CHAP. XXVIII.
Just as she was going to quit her room, to visit Henry, his mother
called on her.
"My son is worse to-day," said she, "I come to request you to spend not
only this day, but a week or two with me.--Why should I conceal any
thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and,
in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend--when I shall
be childless. I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked
thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a
widow--may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?"
This new instance of Henry's disinterested affection, Mary felt most
forcibly; and striving to restrain the complicated emotions, and sooth
the wretched mother, she almost fainted: when the unhappy parent forced
tears from her, by saying, "I deserve this blow; my partial fondness
made me neglect him, when most he wanted a mother's care; this neglect,
perhaps, first injured his constitution: righteous Heaven has made my
crime its own punishment; and now I am indeed a mother, I shall loss my
child--my only child!"
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