The Love Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft to Gilbert Imlay Chapter 18: Part 18

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 (when you only allude to pecuniary assistance), 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 (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) 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! MARY. LETTER LXXI _[London, Nov. 1795] 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. MARY. LETTER LXXII _[London, Nov. 1795] 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. MARY. Even your seeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to sooth my distracted mind. LETTER LXXIII _[London, Nov. 1795] Thursday Afternoon._ Mr. ---- having forgot to desire you to send the things of mine which were left at the house, I have to request you to let ---- bring them to ---- 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 have nothing to fear from my desperation. Farewel. MARY. LETTER LXXIV _London, November 27 [1795]._ 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, banishing almost every other) 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. 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 _passion_ 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 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! MARY. 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 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? LETTER LXXV _London, December 8 [1795]._ 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 [Sweden], 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 friendship--or generosity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourself? Still I have an affection for you.--God