Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman Part 30

LETTER LXXV.

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 (for some cruel recollections never quit me, banis.h.i.+ng almost every other) I labour to conceal in total solitude.--My life therefore is but an exercise of fort.i.tude, continually on the stretch--and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.

But I meant to reason with you, and not to complain.--You tell me, "that I shall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, some time hence." But is it not possible that _pa.s.sion_ clouds your reason, as much as it does mine?--and ought you not to doubt, whether those principles are so "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification?

In other words, whether it be just to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have fostered, and the expectations you have excited?

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.

I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your _ingenious_ arguments; but my head is confused.--Right or wrong, I am miserable!

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 friends.h.i.+p, you still only mean pecuniary support--I must again reject it.--Trifling are the ills of poverty in the scale of my misfortunes.--G.o.d bless you!

I have been treated ungenerously--if I understand what is generosity.----You seem to me only to have been anxious to shake me off--regardless whether you dashed me to atoms by the fall.--In truth I have been rudely handled. _Do you judge coolly_, and I trust you will not continue to call those capricious feelings "the most refined," which would undermine not only the most sacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.----You would render mothers unnatural--and there would be no such thing as a father!--If your theory of morals is the most "exalted," it is certainly the most easy.--It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to please ourselves for the moment, let others suffer what they will!

Excuse me for again tormenting you, my heart thirsts for justice from you--and whilst I recollect that you approved Miss ------'s conduct--I am convinced you will not always justify your own.

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

LETTER LXXVI.

London, December 8.

HAVING just been informed that ------ is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miss a sure opportunity of writing, because I am not certain that my last, by Dover has reached you.

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.

That I have not been used _well_ I must ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguish I do at present--for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot restrain my tears.

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 (I have too fondly nourished it) 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.

Whilst I was with you, I restrained my natural generosity, because I thought your property in jeopardy.--When I went to --------, I requested you, _if you could conveniently_, not to forget my father, sisters, and some other people, whom I was interested about.--Money was lavished away, yet not only my requests were neglected, but some trifling debts were not discharged, that now come on me.--Was this friends.h.i.+p--or generosity?

Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for you.--G.o.d bless you.

LETTER LXXVII.

AS the parting from you for ever is the most serious event of my life, I will once expostulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!

I know the soundness of your understanding--and know that it is impossible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.

You tell me "that I torment you."--Why do I?----Because you cannot estrange your heart entirely from me--and you feel that justice is on my side. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."--It was not.--When your coolness has hurt me, with what tenderness have you endeavoured to remove the impression!--and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneasiness was occasioned by the effect of a worn-out const.i.tution--and you concluded your letter with these words, "Business alone has kept me from you.--Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."

With these a.s.surances, is it extraordinary that I should believe what I wished? I might--and did think that you had a struggle with old propensities; but I still thought that I and virtue should at last prevail. I still thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourself.

--------, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.--You could restore me to life and hope, and the satisfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.

In tearing myself from you, it is my own heart I pierce--and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of pa.s.sion, you cannot despise.--I would owe every thing to your generosity--but, for G.o.d's sake, keep me no longer in suspense!--Let me see you once more!--

LETTER LXXVIII.

YOU must do as you please with respect to the child.--I could wish that it might be done soon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finished.--Convinced that you have neither regard nor friends.h.i.+p, I disdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reason to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.--It is however of no consequence.--I am glad you are satisfied with your own conduct.

I now solemnly a.s.sure you, that this is an eternal farewel.--Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.

That there is "sophistry" on one side or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a question of words. Yet your understanding or mine must be strangely warped--for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the sensations which lead you to follow an ancle or step, be the sacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have stood the brunt of your sarcasms.

The sentiment in me is still sacred. If there be any part of me that will survive the sense of my misfortunes, it is the purity of my affections.

The impetuosity of your senses, may have led you to term mere animal desire, the source of principle; and it may give zest to some years to come.--Whether you will always think so, I shall never know.

It is strange that, in spite of all you do, something like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.

I part with you in peace.

LETTER ON THE PRESENT CHARACTER OF THE FRENCH NATION.

LETTER