Mary Wollstonecraft Part 19

The announcement of this marriage was received in Norfolk by the G.o.dwin family with pleasure. Mrs. G.o.dwin, poor old lady, thought that if her son could thus alter his moral code, there was a greater chance of his being converted from his spiritual backslidings. She wrote one of her long letters, so curious because of their medley of pious sentiment and prosaic realism, and wished G.o.dwin and his wife happiness in her own name and that of all his friends in her part of the country. Her good will to Mary was practically expressed by an invitation to her house and a present of eggs, together with an offer of a feather-bed. Her motherly warning and advice to them was:--

"My dears, whatever you do, do not make invitations and entertainments. That was what hurt Jo. Live comfortable with one another. The Hart of her husband safely trusts in her. I cannot give you no better advice than out of Proverbs, the Prophets, and New Testament. My best affections attend you both."

Mary's family were not so cordial. Everina and Mrs. Bishop apparently never quite forgave her for the letter she wrote after her return to England with Imlay, and they disapproved of her marriage. They complained that her strange course of conduct made it doubly difficult for them, as her sisters, to find situations. When, shortly after the marriage, G.o.dwin went to stay a day or two at Etruria, Everina, who was then governess in the Wedgwood household, would not at first come down to see him, and, as far as can be judged from his letters, treated him very coolly throughout his visit.

G.o.dwin and Mary now made their joint home in the Polygon, Somer's Town.

But the former had his separate lodgings in the Evesham Buildings, where he went every morning to work, and where he sometimes spent the night.

They saw little, if any, more of each other than they had before, and were as independent in their goings-out and comings-in. On the 8th of April, when the news was just being spread, Mary wrote to G.o.dwin, as if to a.s.sure him that she, for her part, intended to discourage the least change in their habits. She says:--

"I have just thought that it would be very pretty in you to call on Johnson to-day. It would spare me some awkwardness, and please him; and I want you to visit him often on a Tuesday. This is quite disinterested, as I shall never be of the party. Do, you would oblige me. But when I press anything, it is always with a true wifish submission to your judgment and inclination. Remember to leave the key of No. 25 with us, on account of the wine."

While Mary seconded G.o.dwin in his domestic theories, there were times when less independence would have pleased her better. She had been obliged to fight the battle of life alone, and, when the occasion required it, she was equal to meeting single-handed whatever difficulties might arise. But instinctively she preferred to lean upon others for protection and help. G.o.dwin would never wittingly have been selfish or cruel in withholding his a.s.sistance. But, as each had agreed to go his and her own way, it no more occurred to him to interfere with what he thought her duties, than it would have pleased him had she interfered with his. She had consented to his proposition, and in accepting her consent, he had not been wise enough to read between the lines. Much as he loved Mary, he never seems to have really understood her. She had now to take entire charge of matters which her friends had hitherto been eager to attend to for her. They could not well come forward, once it had become G.o.dwin's right to do what to them had been a privilege. Mary felt their loss and his indifference, and frankly told him so:--

"I am not well to-day," she wrote in one of their little conversational notes, dated the 11th of April; "my spirits have been hara.s.sed. Mary will tell you about the state of the sink, etc.

Do you know you plague me--a little--by not speaking more determinately to the landlord, of whom I have a mean opinion. He tires me by his pitiful way of doing everything. I like a man who will say yes or no at once."

The trouble seems to have been not easily disposed of, for the same day she wrote again, this time with some degree of temper:--

"I wish you would desire Mr. Marshal to call on me. Mr. Johnson or somebody has always taken the disagreeable business of settling with tradespeople off my hands. I am perhaps as unfit as yourself to do it, and my time appears to me as valuable as that of other persons accustomed to employ themselves. Things of this kind are easily settled with money, I know; but I am tormented by the want of money, and feel, to say the truth, as if I was not treated with respect, owing to your desire not to be disturbed."

These were mere pa.s.sing clouds over the bright horizon of their lives, such as it is almost impossible for any two people living together in the same relations.h.i.+p to escape. Both were sensitive, and each had certain qualities peculiarly calculated to irritate the other. Mary was quick-tempered and nervous. G.o.dwin was cool and methodical. With Mary, love was the first consideration; G.o.dwin, who had lived alone for many years, was ruled by habit. Their natures were so dissimilar, that occasional interruptions to their peace were unavoidable. But these never developed into serious warfare. They loved each other too honestly to cherish ill-feeling. G.o.dwin wrote to Mary one morning,--

"I am pained by the recollection of our conversation last night [of the conversation there is unfortunately no record]. The sole principle of conduct of which I am conscious in my behavior to you has been in everything to study your happiness. I found a wounded heart, and as that heart cast itself on me, it was my ambition to heal it. Do not let me be wholly disappointed.

"Let me have the relief of seeing you this morning. If I do not call before you go out, call on me."

He was not disappointed. A reconciliatory interview must have taken place, for on the very same day Mary wrote him this essentially friendly note:--

"f.a.n.n.y is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I shall probably knock at your door in my way to Opie's; but should I not find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening.

Do not give f.a.n.n.y b.u.t.ter with her pudding."

"Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory pleasures," G.o.dwin a.s.serts in referring to the months of their married life. Mary never let her work come to a standstill. Idleness was a failing unknown to her, nor had marriage, as has been seen, lessened the necessity of industry. Indeed, it was now especially important that she should exert her powers of working to the utmost, which is probably the reason that little remains to show as product of this period. Reviewing and translating were still more profitable, because more certain, than original writing; and her notes to G.o.dwin prove by their allusions that Johnson continued to keep her supplied with employment of this kind. She had several larger schemes afoot, for the accomplishment of which nothing was wanting but time. She proposed, among other things, to write a series of letters on the management of infants. This was a subject to which in earlier years she had given much attention, and her experience with her own child had been a practical confirmation of conclusions then formed.

This was to have been followed by another series of books for the instruction of children. The latter project was really the older of the two. Her remarks on education in the "Rights of Women" make it a matter of regret that she did not live to carry it out. But her chief literary enterprise during the last year of her life was her story of "Maria; or, The Wrongs of Woman." Her interest in it as an almost personal narrative, and her desire to make it a really good novel, were so great that she wrote and rewrote parts of it many times. She devoted more hours to it than would be supposed possible, judging from the rapidity with which her other books were produced.

But, however busy she might be, she was always at leisure to do good.

Business was never an excuse for her to decline the offices of humanity.

Everina was her guest during this year, and at a time, too, when it was particularly inconvenient for her to have visitors. Her kindness also revealed itself in many minor ways. When she had to choose between her own pleasure and that of others, she was sure to decide in their favor. A proof of her readiness to sacrifice herself in small matters is contained in the following note, written to G.o.dwin:--

_Sat.u.r.day morning_, May 21, 1797.

... Montague called on me this morning, that is, breakfasted with me, and invited me to go with him and the Wedgwoods into the country to-morrow and return the next day. As I love the country, and think, with a poor mad woman I know, that there is G.o.d or something very consolatory in the air, I should without hesitation have accepted the invitation, but for my engagement with your sister. To her even I should have made an apology, could I have seen her, or rather have stated that the circ.u.mstance would not occur again. As it is, I am afraid of wounding her feelings, because an engagement often becomes important in proportion as it has been antic.i.p.ated. I began to write to ask your opinion respecting the propriety of sending to her, and feel as I write that I had better conquer my desire of contemplating unsophisticated nature, than give her a moment's pain.

CHAPTER XIV.

LAST MONTHS: DEATH.

1797.

During the month of June of this year, G.o.dwin made a pleasure trip into Staffords.h.i.+re with Basil Montague. The two friends went in a carriage, staying over night at the houses of different acquaintances, and were absent for a little more than a fortnight. G.o.dwin, while away, made his usual concise entries in his diary, but to his wife he wrote long and detailed accounts of his travels. The guide-book style of his letters is somewhat redeemed by occasional outbursts of tenderness, pleasant to read as evidences that he could give Mary the demonstrations of affection which to her were so indispensable. By his playful messages to little f.a.n.n.y and his interest in his unborn child, it can be seen that, despite his bachelor habits, domestic life had become very dear to him. Fatigue and social engagements could not make him forget his promise to bring the former a mug. "Tell her" [that is, f.a.n.n.y], he writes, "I have not forgotten her little mug, and that I shall choose her a very pretty one."

And again, "Tell f.a.n.n.y I have chosen a mug for her, and another for Lucas. There is an F. on hers and an L. on his, shaped in an island of flowers of green and orange-tawny alternately." He warns Mary to be careful of herself, a.s.suring her that he remembers at all times the condition of her health, and wishes he could hear from moment to moment how she feels. He and Montague, riding out early in the morning, recall the important fact that it is the very hour at which "little f.a.n.n.y is going to plungity-plunge." When Mary's letters are accidentally detained he is as worried and hurt as she would be under similar circ.u.mstances.

From Etruria he writes:--

"Another evening and no letter. This is scarcely kind. I reminded you in time that it would be impossible to write to me after Sat.u.r.day, though it is not improbable you may not see me before the Sat.u.r.day following. What am I to think? How many possible accidents will the anxiety of affection present to one's thoughts! Not serious ones, I hope; in that case I trust I should have heard. But headaches, but sickness of the heart, a general loathing of life and of me. Do not give place to this worst of diseases! The least I can think is that you recollect me with less tenderness and impatience than I reflect on you. There is a general sadness in the sky; the clouds are shutting around me and seem depressed with moisture; everything turns the soul to melancholy. Guess what my feelings are when the most soothing and consolatory thought that occurs is a temporary remission and oblivion in your affections.

"I had scarcely finished the above when I received your letter accompanying T. W.'s, which was delayed by an accident till after the regular arrival of the post. I am not sorry to have put down my feelings as they were."

But even his tenderness is regulated by his philosophy. The lover becomes the philosopher quite unconsciously:--

"One of the pleasures I promised myself in my excursion," he writes in another letter, "was to increase my value in your estimation, and I am not disappointed. What we possess without intermission, we inevitably hold light; it is a refinement in voluptuousness to submit to voluntary privations. Separation is the image of death, but it is death stripped of all that is most tremendous, and his dart purged of its deadly venom. I always thought Saint Paul's rule, that we should die daily, an exquisite Epicurean maxim. The practice of it would give to life a double relish."

Imlay, too, had found absence a stimulus to love, but there was this difference in what at first appears to be a similarity of opinion between himself and G.o.dwin: while the former sought it that he might not tire of Mary, the latter hoped it would keep her from growing tired of him.

Mary's letters to her husband are full of the tender love which no woman knew how to express as well as she did. They are not as pa.s.sionate and burning as those to Imlay, but they are sincerely and lovingly affectionate, and reveal an ever increasing devotion and a calmer happiness than that she had derived from her first union. G.o.dwin, fortunately, was able to appreciate them:--

"You cannot imagine," he tells her on the 10th of June, "how happy your letter made me. No creature expresses, because no creature feels, the tender affections so perfectly as you do; and, after all one's philosophy, it must be confessed that the knowledge that there is some one that takes an interest in one's happiness, something like that which each man feels in his own, is extremely gratifying. We love, as it were, to multiply the consciousness of our existence, even at the hazard of what Montague described so pathetically one night upon the New Road, of opening new avenues for pain and misery to attack us."

The letter to which he refers is probably the following, written two days after his departure:--

It was so kind and considerate in you to write sooner than I expected, that I cannot help hoping you would be disappointed at not receiving a greeting from me on your arrival at Etruria. If your heart was in your mouth, as I felt, just now, at the sight of your hand, you may kiss or shake hands with the letter, and imagine with what affection it was written. If not, stand off, profane one!

I was not quite well the day after you left me; but it is past, and I am well and tranquil, excepting the disturbance produced by Master William's joy, who took it into his head to frisk a little at being informed of your remembrance. I begin to love this little creature, and to antic.i.p.ate his birth as a fresh twist to a knot which I do not wish to untie. Men are spoilt by frankness, I believe, yet I must tell you that I love you better than I supposed I did, when I promised to love you forever. And I will add what will gratify your benevolence, if not your heart, that on the whole I may be termed happy. You are a kind, affectionate creature, and I feel it thrilling through my frame, giving and promising pleasure.

f.a.n.n.y wants to know "what you are gone for," and endeavors to p.r.o.nounce Etruria. Poor papa is her word of kindness. She has been turning your letter on all sides, and has promised to play with Bobby till I have finished my answer.

I find you can write the kind of letter a friend ought to write, and give an account of your movements. I hailed the suns.h.i.+ne and moonlight, and travelled with you, scenting the fragrant gale.

Enable me still to be your company, and I will allow you to peep over my shoulder, and see me under the shade of my green blind, thinking of you, and all I am to hear and feel when you return. You may read my heart, if you will.

I have no information to give in return for yours. Holcroft is to dine with me on Sat.u.r.day; so do not forget us when you drink your solitary gla.s.s, for n.o.body drinks wine at Etruria, I take it. Tell me what you think of Everina's situation and behavior, and treat her with as much kindness as you can,--that is, a little more than her manner will probably call forth,--and I will repay you.

I am not fatigued with solitude, yet I have not relished my solitary dinner. A husband is a convenient part of the furniture of a house, unless he be a clumsy fixture. I wish you, from my soul, to be riveted in my heart; but I do not desire to have you always at my elbow, although at this moment I should not care if you were.

Yours truly and tenderly,

MARY.

f.a.n.n.y forgets not the mug.

Miss Pinkerton seems content. I was amused by a letter she wrote home. She has more in her than comes out of her mouth. My dinner is ready, and it is was.h.i.+ng-day. I am putting everything in order for your return. Adieu!

Once during this trip the peaceful intercourse between husband and wife was interrupted. G.o.dwin might philosophize to his heart's content about the advantages of separation, but Mary could not be so sure of them.

Absence in Imlay's case had not in the end brought about very good results; and as the days went by, G.o.dwin's letters, at least so it seemed to her, became more descriptive and statistical, and less tender and affectionate. Interest in Dr. Parr and the Wedgwoods and the country through which he was travelling overshadowed for the time being matters of mere sentiment. With the memory of another correspondence from which love had gradually disappeared, still fresh, she felt this change bitterly, and reproached G.o.dwin for it in very plain language:--

June 19, Monday, _almost 12 o'clock_.

One of the pleasures you tell me that you promised yourself from your journey was the effect your absence might produce on me.

Certainly at first my affection was increased, or rather was more alive. But now it is just the contrary. Your later letters might have been addressed to anybody, and will serve to remind you where you have been, though they resemble nothing less than mementos of affection.