The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Chapter 16: Part 16

then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it has afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom. I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can never be healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without wincing. When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last snap, and set me free. Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings anticipate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with these subjects. * * * * * I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to Tonsberg; yet I never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe, and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The child, ---- informs me, is well, I long to be with her. Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you. Yours most affectionately MARY IMLAY I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to yours. LETTER LXI _[Tonsberg] August 5 [1795]._ Employment and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here, than for a long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine summer have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is so constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am afraid not without a passion--and I feel the want of it more in society, than in solitude. * * * * * Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguish in my own bosom--tenderness, rather than passion, has made me sometimes overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain me. God bless you! LETTER LXII _[Tonsberg] August 7 [1795]._ Air, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former activity.--I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and resting on the rocks. This state of suspense, my friend, is intolerable; we must determine on something--and soon;--we must meet shortly, or part for ever. I am sensible that I acted foolishly--but I was wretched--when we were together--Expecting too much, I let the pleasure I might have caught, slip from me. I cannot live with you--I ought not--if you form another attachment. But I promise you, mine shall not be intruded on you. Little reason have I to expect a shadow of happiness, after the cruel disappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child seems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wish you to sacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it shall be my object--if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection must not be divided. She must be a comfort to me--if I am to have no other--and only know me as her support. I feel that I cannot endure the anguish of corresponding with you--if we are only to correspond.--No; if you seek for happiness elsewhere, my letters shall not interrupt your repose. I will be dead to you. I cannot express to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal separation.--You must determine--examine yourself--But, for God's sake! spare me the anxiety of uncertainty!--I may sink under the trial; but I will not complain. Adieu! If I had any thing more to say to you, it is all flown, and absorbed by the most tormenting apprehensions; yet I scarcely know what new form of misery I have to dread. I ought to beg your pardon for having sometimes written peevishly; but you will impute it to affection, if you understand anything of the heart of Yours truly MARY. LETTER LXIII _[Tonsberg] August 9 [1795]._ Five of your letters have been sent after me from ----. One, dated the 14th of July, was written in a style which I may have merited, but did not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to assure you that you shall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am disgusted with myself for having so long importuned you with my affection.---- My child is very well. We shall soon meet, to part no more, I hope--I mean, I and my girl.--I shall wait with some degree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate. Yours sincerely MARY. LETTER LXIV _[Gothenburg] August 26 [1795]._ I arrived here last night, and with the most exquisite delight, once more pressed my babe to my heart. We shall part no more. You perhaps cannot conceive the pleasure it gave me, to see her run about, and play alone. Her increasing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promised her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothing in future shall make me forget it. I will also exert myself to obtain an independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head. I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated constitution. As for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment so termed.-- * * * * * You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not describe the effect yours have on me. I received three this morning, the last dated the 7th of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.--Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world, and fostered sentiments that you do not comprehend--or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compassion--a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exist: I will never remind you. Something emphatical whispers me to put an end to these struggles. Be free--I will not torment, when I cannot please. I can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inseparable, _that you will try to cherish tenderness_ for me. Do no violence to yourself! When we are separated, our interest, since you give so much weight to pecuniary considerations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and support I need not, whilst my faculties are undisturbed. I had a dislike to living in England; but painful feelings must give way to superior considerations. I may not be able to acquire the sum necessary to maintain my child and self elsewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I shall not remain at ----, living expensively. But be not alarmed! I shall not force myself on you any more. Adieu! I am agitated--my whole frame is convulsed--my lips tremble, as if shook by cold, though fire seems to be circulating in my veins. God bless you. MARY. LETTER LXV _[Copenhagen] September 6 [1795]._ I received just now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter last night, into which imperceptibly slipt some of my bitterness of soul. I will copy the part relative to business. I am not sufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life--to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me--and repose on the idea that I am happy. Gracious God! It is impossible for me to stifle something like resentment, when I receive fresh proofs of your indifference. What I have suffered this last year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy substitute for wisdom, insensibility--and the lively sympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.--They are the agonies of a broken heart--pleasure and I have shaken hands. I see here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converse with people immersed in trade and sensuality. I am weary of travelling--yet seem to have no home--no resting-place to look to.--I am strangely cast off.--How often, passing through the rocks, I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature--I have never met with one, softer than the stone that I would fain take for my last pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a delusion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle--and, when I am conscious that I have fulfilled the duties of my station, almost to a forgetfulness of myself, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus abandoned?" You say now * * * * * I do not understand you. It is necessary for you to write