1795, 1796.
In April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requested to do
so by Mr. Imlay, who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her in
the journey, before she could complete the necessary arrangements for
her departure. But, notwithstanding these favourable appearances, she
came to England with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the
uncertainties and anguish she had endured, to trust to the suggestions
of hope.
The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified.
Mr. Imlay had already formed another connexion; as it is said, with a
young actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions
therefore to Mary were formal and constrained, and she probably had but
little of his society. This alteration could not escape her penetrating
glance. He ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary
embarrassments which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little
consequence to Mary what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though
she strove not to see, that his affections were lost to her for ever.
It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification
than Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to
the sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for
her. She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this
time, expressed "a repugnance, that almost amounted to horror," in
search of happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether
escaped her; but she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience
which Mr. Imlay at length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she
saw him, all her fears were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of
forming to herself, of the overflowing kindness of a meeting, after an
interval of so much anguish and apprehension! A thousand images of this
sort were present to her burning imagination. It is in vain, on such
occasions, for reserve and reproach to endeavour to curb in the emotions
of an affectionate heart. But the hopes she nourished were speedily
blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay, was cold and embarrassed.
Discussions ("explanations" they were called) followed; cruel
explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart already
overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions indeed to explicitness;
but they sufficiently told, that the case admitted not of remedy.
Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity in this pressing
emergency. "Love, dear, delusive love!" as she expressed herself to a
friend some time afterwards, "rigorous reason had forced her to resign;
and now her rational prospects were blasted, just as she had learned to
be contented with rational enjoyments". Thus situated, life became an
intolerable burthen. While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could
talk of purposes of reparation and independence. But, now that they were
in the same house, she could not withhold herself from endeavours to
revive their mutual cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavours continually
added fuel to the fire that destroyed her. She formed a desperate
purpose to die.
This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I
only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a
moment when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and
that his feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing
to his activity and representations, that her life was, at this time,
saved. She determined to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose,
she took a resolution, worthy both of the strength and affectionateness
of her mind. Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable
difficulty, respecting a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to
require the presence of some very judicious agent, to conduct the
business to its desired termination. Mary determined to make the voyage,
and take the business into her own hands. Such a voyage seemed the most
desireable thing to recruit her health, and, if possible, her spirits,
in the present crisis. It was also gratifying to her feelings, to be
employed in promoting the interest of a man, from whom she had
experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she ardently desired to
be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have mentioned, occurred in
the close of May, and, in about a week after, she set out upon this new
expedition.
The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of
travels that so irresistibly seizes on the heart, never, in any other
instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and
ruggedness of character, that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to
make a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book.
She speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and
dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius
which commands all our admiration. Affliction had tempered her heart to
a softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit
seems precisely to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.
Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and
sensibility, with all, and more than all, "that youthful poets fancy,
when they love," she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to
the arms of her former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity,
to her apprehension, of Mr. Imlay's conduct. He had promised to meet her
upon her return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to
pass some time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her
during her tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to
him very urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon
which they were hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which
reached her at Hamburgh, he treated her questions as "extraordinary and
unnecessary," and desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself.
Feeling herself unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly
determined to sail for London by the very first opportunity, that she
might thus bring to a termination the suspence that preyed upon her
soul.
It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of
October, that she attained the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured
her a lodging. But the neglect she experienced from him after she
entered it, flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations.
She made further enquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of
the real state of the case. Under the immediate shock which the painful
certainty gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the
ready-furnished house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the
particular nature of their conference I am unable to relate. It is
sufficient to say that the wretchedness of the night which succeeded
this fatal discovery, impressed her with the feeling, that she would
sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than pass another of equal misery.
The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a
sort of desperate serenity. She resolved to plunge herself in the
Thames; and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she
took a boat, and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to
Battersea-bridge, but she found it too public. It was night when she
arrived at Putney, and by that time had begun to rain with great
violence. The rain suggested to her the idea of walking up and down the
bridge, till her clothes were thoroughly drenched and heavy with the
wet, which she did for half an hour without meeting a human being. She
then leaped from the top of the bridge, but still seemed to find a
difficulty in sinking, which she endeavoured to counteract by pressing
her clothes closely round her. After some time she became insensible;
but she always spoke of the pain she underwent as such, that, though she
could afterwards have determined upon almost any other species of
voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to resolve upon
encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether this is
to be ascribed to the mere nature of suffocation, or was not rather
owing to the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.
After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered
by the exertions of those by whom the body was found. She had sought,
with cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and
yet she lived to have every prospect of a long possession of enjoyment
and happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that
we find reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose,
that they would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably happy.
It arises indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of
self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the
constitution of the human mind will not suffer to remain long
undiminished. This is a serious reflection, Probably no man would
destroy himself from an impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral
certainty that there were years of enjoyment still in reserve for him.
It is perhaps a futile attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that
state of mind which precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the
awakening of certain feelings: and the feeling by which he is actuated,
is too strong to leave us much chance of impressing him with other
feelings, that should have force enough to counterbalance it. But, if
the prospect of future tranquillity and pleasure cannot be expected to
have much weight with a man under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is
so much the more to be wished, that men would impress their minds, in
their sober moments, with a conception, which, being rendered habitual,
seems to promise to act as a successful antidote in a paroxysm of
desperation.
The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further
intercourse between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and
Mrs. Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in
Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
was merely a casual, sensual connection; and, of course, fostered in her
mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him.
With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly
calculated to increase the agitation of her mind. In one respect however
it produced an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been
looked for. It roused within her the characteristic energy of mind,
which she seemed partially to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of
bringing the affair to a point, and not suffering months and years to
roll on in uncertainty and suspence. This idea inspired her with an
extraordinary resolution. The language she employed, was, in effect, as
follows: "If we are ever to live together again, it must be now. We meet
now, or we part for ever. You say, You cannot abruptly break off the
connection you have formed. It is unworthy of my courage and character,
to wait the uncertain issue of that connexion. I am determined to come
to a decision. I consent then, for the present, to live with you, and
the woman to whom you have associated yourself. I think it important
that you should learn habitually to feel for your child the affection of
a father. But, if you reject this proposal, here we end. You are now
free. We will correspond no more. We will have no intercourse of any
kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead."
The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at
first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house
he was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was
calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted his
concession.
In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at
present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary
had, previously to this, fixed herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place,
where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for
the sake of whose neighbourhood she had chosen this situation;
"existing," as she expressed it, "in a living tomb, and her life but an
exercise of fortitude, continually on the stretch."
Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a
passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to
extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she
could not restrain herself from making another effort, and desiring to
see him once more. "During his absence, affection had led her to make
numberless excuses for his conduct," and she probably wished to believe
that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely of a
casual nature. To this application, she observes, that "he returned no
other answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he
would not see her."
This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not
the ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business
with Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the
only one at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was,
that, when Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town,
Mary called at Mr. Christie's one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was
in the parlour. The room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary's
voice in the passage, and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make
her appearance. Mary however was not to be controlled. She thought, as
she afterwards told me, that it was not consistent with conscious
rectitude, that she should shrink, as if abashed, from the presence of
one by whom she deemed herself injured. Her child was with her. She
entered; and, in a firm manner, immediately led up the child, now near
two years of age, to the knees of its father. He retired with Mary into
another apartment, and promised to dine with her at her lodging, I
believe, the next day.
In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he
expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated
to sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from
her, in a way which she censured as unfeeling; this species of sternness
constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at
this moment to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the gentleness
of his carriage, was to her as a sun-beam, awakening the hope of
returning day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions;
and, even after the period of delirium expired, she still dwelt, with an
aching eye, upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a
reconciliation.
At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a
short time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. "It was not," as
she expresses herself in a letter to a friend, "for the world that she
did so--not in the least--but she was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot,
or tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality".
The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country,
where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I
believe, while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary
communication with Mr. Imlay, induced her resolutely to expel from her
mind, all remaining doubt as to the issue of the affair.
Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty
to her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted
predilection, was discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast
off for ever an attachment, which to her had been a spring of
inexhaustible bitterness. Her present residence among the scenes of
nature, was favourable to this purpose. She was at the house of an old
and intimate friend, a lady of the name of Cotton, whose partiality for
her was strong and sincere. Mrs. Cotton's nearest neighbour was Sir
William East, baronet; and, from the joint effect of the kindness of her
friend, and the hospitable and distinguishing attentions of this
respectable family, she derived considerable benefit. She had been
amused and interested in her journey to Norway; but with this
difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually returned with
trembling anxiety to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay's future conduct,
whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw aside every
thought that recurred to him, while she felt herself called upon to make
one more effort for life and happiness.
Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long
after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he
alighted from his horse, and walked with her for some time; and the
rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any
oppressive emotion.
Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the
real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and
was displeased when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of
him. She was characterised by a strong sense of indignation; but her
emotions of this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided
into a dignified sereneness and equanimity.
The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not
completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind,
suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness
and debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the
mental torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with
an interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of
October, prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she
wrote her Letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration she prepared
them for the press, and they were published in the close of that year.
In January 1796, she finished the sketch of a comedy, which turns, in
the serious scenes, upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered
to both the winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the
period of her decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and
imperfect a state, that I judged it most respectful to her memory to
commit it to the flames. To understand this extraordinary degree of
activity, we must recollect however the entire solitude, in which most
of her hours were at that time consumed.