The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Chapter 14: Part 14

Fanny, I was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours Sincerely MARY. The wind still continues in the same quarter. LETTER XLVII _[Hull, June, 1795] Tuesday Morning._ The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the course of a few hours.--I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you--Should one arrive, it will be sent after me. My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why----The quitting England seems to be a fresh parting.--Surely you will not forget me.--A thousand weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties. The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--Well, let it come--I care not!--what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! God bless you--I am most affectionately and sincerely yours MARY. LETTER XLVIII _[June 17, 1795] Wednesday Morning._ I was hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles. You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance--yet it was even so--for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long. The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading. What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within me!--Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and feelings?--Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.--Will you not endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I saying?--Rather forget me, if you can--if other gratifications are dearer to you.--How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? What a world is this!--They only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial enjoyments.--Adieu! Fanny begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.--I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood, Yours sincerely MARY. LETTER XLIX _[June 18, 1795] Thursday._ Here I am still--and I have just received your letter of Monday by the pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he expected, by the wind.--It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going forward.--I have a violent headache--yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because ---- is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at anchor. These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind--compared with the sinking of a broken heart.--To tell you the truth, I never suffered in my life so much from depression of spirits--from despair.--I do not sleep--or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of countenance. I will not, my dear Imlay, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings--and will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it--at present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these continual struggles--yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort--and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you--when we meet again--surely we are to meet!--it must be to part no more. I mean not to have seas between us--it is more than I can support. The pilot is hurrying me--God bless you. In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of--"When the mind's free, the body's delicate;"--mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles. Yours most truly MARY. LETTER L _[June 20, 1795] Saturday._ This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart. How am I altered by disappointment!--When going to Lisbon, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of sunbeams!--Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to frown--or rather mourn with me.--Every thing is cold--cold as my expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these North east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming--Give me, gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger there. I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after which I hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power. Poor ---- still continues sick, and ---- grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck. I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you--are you not tired of this lingering adieu? Yours truly MARY. LETTER LI _[Hull, June 21, 1795] Sunday Morning._ The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to ---- to pass to-day. We had a troublesome sail--and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed. I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate--you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service--But why do I foolishly continue to look for them? Adieu! adieu! My friend--your friendship is very cold--you see I am hurt.--God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent in every sense of the word--Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is full. Yours sincerely MARY. The child is well; I did not leave her on board. LETTER LII _[Gothenburg] June 27, Saturday, [1795]._ I arrived in Gothenburg this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at Arendall. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below. What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon--nor mention the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.--This morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well. Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged me--and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere stables--I must nevertheless go to bed. For God's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not well, and yet you see I cannot die. Yours sincerely MARY. LETTER LIII _[Gothenburg] June 29 [1795]._ I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ----'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--I likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any serious consequences. ---- will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ----. The inns here are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape. My friend--my friend, I am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and unprofitable," appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps. MARY. LETTER LIV _[Sweden] July 1 [1795]._ I labour in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment. Every