Read Ebook: Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Wollstonecraft Mary Godwin William Editor

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Page Letters 1 Letter on the Present Character of the French Nation 39 Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants 55 Letters to Mr. Johnson 61 Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale 99 On Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature 159 Hints 179

ERRATA.

LETTERS.

September 27.

WHEN you receive this, I shall either have landed, or be hovering on the British coast--your letter of the 18th decided me.

I am above disputing about words.--It matters not in what terms you decide.

The tremendous power who formed this heart, must have foreseen that, in a world in which self-interest, in various shapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of escaping misery.--To the fiat of fate I submit.--I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.--Of me you have no cause to complain, but for having had too much regard for you--for having expected a degree of permanent happiness, when you only sought for a momentary gratification.

I am strangely deficient in sagacity.--Uniting myself to you, your tenderness seemed to make me amends for all my former misfortunes.--On this tenderness and affection with what confidence did I rest!--but I leaned on a spear, that has pierced me to the heart.--You have thrown off a faithful friend, to pursue the caprices of the moment.--We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been stamped on my soul by sorrow, I can scarcely believe it possible. It depends at present on you, whether you will see me or not.--I shall take no step, till I see or hear from you.

Sunday, October 4.

You say, I must decide for myself.--I had decided, that it was most for the interest of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, some years hence, when the tumult of business was over, to repose in the society of an affectionate friend, and mark the progress of our interesting child, whilst endeavouring to be of use in the circle you at last resolved to rest in; for you cannot run about for ever.

From the tenour of your last letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed some new attachment.--If it be so, let me earnestly request you to see me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendship you profess for me. I will then decide, since you boggle about a mere form.

I am labouring to write with calmness--but the extreme anguish I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conscious that the friend whom I most wish to see, will feel a disagreeable sensation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the description of common misery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of sorrow--and the playfulness of my child distresses me.--On her account, I wished to remain a few days here, comfortless as is my situation.--Besides, I did not wish to surprise you. You have told me, that you would make any sacrifice to promote my happiness--and, even in your last unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.--Tell me, that you wish it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.

I now most earnestly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the post. Direct your letter to be left at the post-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wednesday morning.

Do not keep me in suspense.--I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is cast!--I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raise my depressed spirits, or calm my trembling heart.--That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propensity to affection which has been the torment of my life--but life will have an end!

Yours affectionately

Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction.

Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confession which I forced from her--a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet, whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived together.

I shall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.

I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos; yet I am serene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be insulted by an endeavour to recal my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.

God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart; and, in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.

Sunday Morning.

I HAVE only to lament, that, when the bitterness of death was past, I was inhumanly brought back to life and misery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by disappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmest acts of reason. In this respect, I am only accountable to myself. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumstances that I should be dishonoured.

It appears to me, that you lay much more stress on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to discover what sentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your visiting a wretched friend--if indeed you have any friendship for me.--But since your new attachment is the only thing sacred in your eyes, I am silent--Be happy! My complaints shall never more damp your enjoyment--perhaps I am mistaken in supposing that even my death could, for more than a moment.--This is what you call magnanimity--It is happy for yourself, that you possess this quality in the highest degree.

Your continually asserting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort , appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.--I want not such vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart--That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I should not shrink from life.--Forgive me then, if I say, that I shall consider any direct or indirect attempt to supply my necessities, as an insult which I have not merited--and as rather done out of tenderness for your own reputation, than for me. Do not mistake me; I do not think that you value money though I do much less, because certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, respect for yourself will make you take care of the child.

I write with difficulty--probably I shall never write to you again.--Adieu!

God bless you!

Monday Morning.

I AM compelled at last to say that you treat me ungenerously. I agree with you, that-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

But let the obliquity now fall on me.--I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the task of writing--and explanations are not necessary.-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- My child may have to blush for her mother's want of prudence--and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but she shall not despise me for meanness.--You are now perfectly free.--God bless you.

Saturday Night.

I HAVE been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderness to me.--You ask "If I am well or tranquil?"--They who think me so, must want a heart to estimate my feelings by.--I chuse then to be the organ of my own sentiments.

I must tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary assistance--and, considering your going to the new house, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will sooner perish than receive any thing from you--and I say this at the moment when I am disappointed in my first attempt to obtain a temporary supply. But this even pleases me; an accumulation of disappointments and misfortunes seems to suit the habit of my mind.--

Have but a little patience, and I will remove myself where it will not be necessary for you to talk--of course, not to think of me. But let me see, written by yourself--for I will not receive it through any other medium--that the affair is finished.--It is an insult to me to suppose, that I can be reconciled, or recover my spirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the same thing to you.

Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind.

Thursday Afternoon.

I shall go this evening to the lodging; so you need not be restrained from coming here to transact your business.--And, whatever I may think, and feel--you need not fear that I shall publicly complain--No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been most ungenerously treated: but, wishing now only to hide myself, I shall be silent as the grave in which I long to forget myself. I shall protect and provide for my child.--I only mean by this to say, that you having nothing to fear from my desperation.

Farewel.

London, November 27.

THE letter, without an address, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till just now.--I had thrown the letters aside--I did not wish to look over a register of sorrow.

My not having seen it, will account for my having written to you with anger--under the impression your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my sufferings.

In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me so unfeeling," has almost overturned my reason; my mind is injured--I scarcely know where I am, or what I do.--The grief I cannot conquer I labour to conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.

My affection for you is rooted in my heart.--I know you are not what you now seem--nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.--Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.--You will see my pale face--and sometimes the tears of anguish will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.

It seems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the strictest principles of justice and truth.--Yet, how wretched have my social feelings, and delicacy of sentiment rendered me!--I have loved with my whole soul, only to discover that I had no chance of a return--and that existence is a burthen without it.

I do not perfectly understand you.--If, by the offer of your friendship, you still only mean pecuniary support--I must again reject it.--Trifling are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--God bless you!

Beware of the deceptions of passion! It will not always banish from your mind, that you have acted ignobly--and condescended to subterfuge to gloss over the conduct you could not excuse.--Do truth and principle require such sacrifices?

London, December 8.

Resentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me--and I wished to tell you so, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.

I am stunned!--Your late conduct still appears to me a frightful dream.--Ah! ask yourself if you have not condescended to employ a little address, I could almost say cunning, unworthy of you?--Principles are sacred things--and we never play with truth, with impunity.

The expectation of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.--Indeed, it seems to me, when I am more sad than usual, that I shall never see you more.--Yet you will not always forget me.--You will feel something like remorse, for having lived only for yourself--and sacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortless old age, you will remember that you had one disinterested friend, whose heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come--and you will not be satisfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all superior to your present conduct. You do, you must, respect me--and you will be sorry to forfeit my esteem.

You know best whether I am still preserving the remembrance of an imaginary being.--I once thought that I knew you thoroughly--but now I am obliged to leave some doubts that involuntarily press on me, to be cleared up by time.

You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.--I shall still be able to support my child, though I am disappointed in some other plans of usefulness, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleasure.

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