1796, 1797.
I am now led, by the progress of the story, to the last branch of her
history, the connection between Mary and myself. And this I shall relate
with the same simplicity that has pervaded every other part of my
narrative. If there ever were any motives of prudence or delicacy, that
could impose a qualification upon the story, they are now over. They
could have no relation but to factitious rules of decorum. There are no
circumstances of her life, that, in the judgment of honour and reason,
could brand her with disgrace. Never did there exist a human being, that
needed, with less fear, expose all their actions, and call upon the
universe to judge them. An event of the most deplorable sort, has
awfully imposed silence upon the gabble of frivolity.
We renewed our acquaintance in January 1796, but with no particular
effect, except so far as sympathy in her anguish, added in my mind to
the respect I had always entertained for her talents. It was in the
close of that month that I read her Letters from Norway; and the
impression that book produced upon me has been already related.
It was on the fourteenth of April that I first saw her after her
excursion into Berkshire. On that day she called upon me in Somers Town,
she having, since her return, taken a lodging in Cumming-street,
Pentonville, at no great distance from the place of my habitation. From
that time our intimacy increased, by regular, but almost imperceptible
degrees.
The partiality we conceived for each other, was in that mode, which I
have always regarded as the purest and most refined style of love. It
grew with equal advances in the mind of each. It would have been
impossible for the most minute observer to have said who was before, and
who was after. One sex did not take the priority which long-established
custom has awarded it, nor the other overstep that delicacy which is so
severely imposed. I am not conscious that either party can assume to
have been the agent or the patient, the toil-spreader or the prey, in
the affair. When, in the course of things, the disclosure came, there
was nothing, in a manner, for either party to disclose to the other.
In July 1796 I made an excursion into the county of Norfolk, which
occupied nearly the whole of that month. During this period Mary
removed, from Cumming-street, Pentonville, to Judd place West, which may
be considered as the extremity of Somers Town. In the former situation,
she had occupied a furnished lodging. She had meditated a tour to Italy
or Switzerland, and knew not how soon she should set out with that view.
Now however she felt herself reconciled to a longer abode in England,
probably without exactly knowing why this change had taken place in her
mind. She had a quantity of furniture locked up at a broker's ever since
her residence in Store-street, and she now found it adviseable to bring
it into use. This circumstance occasioned her present removal.
The temporary separation attendant on my little journey, had its effect
on the mind of both parties. It gave a space for the maturing of
inclination. I believe that, during this interval, each furnished to the
other the principal topic of solitary and daily contemplation. Absence
bestows a refined and aërial delicacy upon affection, which it with
difficulty acquires in any other way. It seems to resemble the
communication of spirits, without the medium, or the impediment, of
this earthly frame.
When we met again, we met with new pleasure, and, I may add, with a more
decisive preference for each other. It was however three weeks longer,
before the sentiment which trembled upon the tongue, burst from the lips
of either. There was, as I have already said, no period of throes and
resolute explanation attendant on the tale. It was friendship melting
into love. Previously to our mutual declaration, each felt half-assured,
yet each felt a certain trembling anxiety to have assurance complete.
Mary rested her head upon the shoulder of her lover, hoping to find a
heart with which she might safely treasure her world of affection;
fearing to commit a mistake, yet, in spite of her melancholy
experience, fraught with that generous confidence, which, in a great
soul, is never extinguished. I had never loved till now; or, at least,
had never nourished a passion to the same growth, or met with an object
so consummately worthy.
We did not marry. It is difficult to recommend any thing to
indiscriminate adoption, contrary to the established rules and
prejudices of mankind; but certainly nothing can be so ridiculous upon
the face of it, or so contrary to the genuine march of sentiment, as to
require the overflowing of the soul to wait upon a ceremony, and that
which, wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of all things most
sacredly private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to record the moment
when it has arrived at its climax.
There were however other reasons why we did not immediately marry. Mary
felt an entire conviction of the propriety of her conduct. It would be
absurd to suppose that, with a heart withered by desertion, she was not
right to give way to the emotions of kindness which our intimacy
produced, and to seek for that support in friendship and affection,
which could alone give pleasure to her heart, and peace to her
meditations. It was only about six months since she had resolutely
banished every thought of Mr. Imlay; but it was at least eighteen that
he ought to have been banished, and would have been banished, had it not
been for her scrupulous pertinacity in determining to leave no measure
untried to regain him. Add to this, that the laws of etiquette
ordinarily laid down in these cases, are essentially absurd, and that
the sentiments of the heart cannot submit to be directed by the rule and
the square. But Mary had an extreme aversion to be made the topic of
vulgar discussion; and, if there be any weakness in this, the dreadful
trials through which she had recently passed, may well plead in its
excuse. She felt that she had been too much, and too rudely spoken of,
in the former instance; and she could not resolve to do any thing that
should immediately revive that painful topic.
For myself, it is certain that I had for many years regarded marriage
with so well-grounded an apprehension, that, notwithstanding the
partiality for Mary that had taken possession of my soul, I should have
felt it very difficult, at least in the present stage of our
intercourse, to have resolved on such a measure. Thus, partly from
similar, and partly from different motives, we felt alike in this, as we
did perhaps in every other circumstance that related to our intercourse.
I have nothing further that I find it necessary to record, till the
commencement of April 1797. We then judged it proper to declare our
marriage, which had taken place a little before. The principal motive
for complying with this ceremony, was the circumstance of Mary's being
in a state of pregnancy. She was unwilling, and perhaps with reason, to
incur that exclusion from the society of many valuable and excellent
individuals, which custom awards in cases of this sort. I should have
felt an extreme repugnance to the having caused her such an
inconvenience. And, after the experiment of seven months of as intimate
an intercourse as our respective modes of living would admit, there was
certainly less hazard to either, in the subjecting ourselves to those
consequences which the laws of England annex to the relations of husband
and wife. On the sixth of April we entered into possession of a house,
which had been taken by us in concert.
In this place I have a very curious circumstance to notice, which I am
happy to have occasion to mention, as it tends to expose certain
regulations of polished society, of which the absurdity vies with the
odiousness. Mary had long possessed the advantage of an acquaintance
with many persons of genius, and with others whom the effects of an
intercourse with elegant society, combined with a certain portion of
information and good sense, sufficed to render amusing companions. She
had lately extended the circle of her acquaintance in this respect; and
her mind, trembling between the opposite impressions of past anguish and
renovating tranquillity, found ease in this species of recreation.
Wherever Mary appeared, admiration attended upon her. She had always
displayed talents for conversation; but maturity of understanding, her
travels, her long residence in France, the discipline of affliction, and
the smiling, new-born peace which awaked a corresponding smile in her
animated countenance, inexpressibly increased them. The way in which the
story of Mr. Imlay was treated in these polite circles, was probably
the result of the partiality she excited. These elegant personages were
divided between their cautious adherence to forms, and the desire to
seek their own gratification. Mary made no secret of the nature of her
connection with Mr. Imlay; and in one instance, I well know, she put
herself to the trouble of explaining it to a person totally indifferent
to her, because he never failed to publish every thing he knew, and, she
was sure, would repeat her explanation to his numerous acquaintance. She
was of too proud and generous a spirit to stoop to hypocrisy. These
persons however, in spite of all that could be said, persisted in
shutting their eyes, and pretending they took her for a married woman.
Observe the consequence of this! While she was, and constantly
professed to be, an unmarried mother; she was fit society for the
squeamish and the formal. The moment she acknowledged herself a wife,
and that by a marriage perhaps unexceptionable, the case was altered.
Mary and myself, ignorant as we were of these elevated refinements,
supposed that our marriage would place her upon a surer footing in the
calendar of polished society, than ever. But it forced these people to
see the truth, and to confess their belief of what they had carefully
been told; and this they could not forgive. Be it remarked, that the
date of our marriage had nothing to do with this, that question being
never once mentioned during this period. Mary indeed had, till now,
retained the name of Imlay which had first been assumed from necessity
in France; but its being retained thus long, was purely from the
aukwardness that attends the introduction of a change, and not from an
apprehension of consequences of this sort. Her scrupulous explicitness
as to the nature of her situation, surely sufficed to make the name she
bore perfectly immaterial.
It is impossible to relate the particulars of such a story, but in the
language of contempt and ridicule. A serious reflection however upon the
whole, ought to awaken emotions of a different sort. Mary retained the
most numerous portion of her acquaintance, and the majority of those
whom she principally valued. It was only the supporters and the subjects
of the unprincipled manners of a court, that she lost. This however is
immaterial. The tendency of the proceeding, strictly considered, and
uniformly acted upon, would have been to proscribe her from all valuable
society. And who was the person proscribed? The firmest champion, and,
as I strongly suspect, the greatest ornament her sex ever had to boast!
A woman, with sentiments as pure, as refined, and as delicate, as ever
inhabited a human heart! It is fit that such persons should stand by,
that we may have room enough for the dull and insolent dictators, the
gamblers and demireps of polished society!
Two of the persons, the loss of whose acquaintance Mary principally
regretted upon this occasion, were Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Siddons. Their
acquaintance, it is perhaps fair to observe, is to be ranked among her
recent acquisitions. Mrs. Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity,
which she conceived to be imposed on her by the peculiarity of her
situation, to conform to the rules I have described. She is endowed with
that rich and generous sensibility, which should best enable its
possessor completely to feel the merits of her deceased friend. She very
truly observes, in a letter now before me, that the Travels in Norway
were read by no one, who was in possession of "more reciprocity of
feeling, or more deeply impressed with admiration of the writer's
extraordinary powers."
Mary felt a transitory pang, when the conviction reached her of so
unexpected a circumstance, that was rather exquisite. But she disdained
to sink under the injustice (as this ultimately was) of the supercilious
and the foolish, and presently shook off the impression of the first
surprize. That once subsided, I well know that the event was thought of,
with no emotions, but those of superiority to the injustice she
sustained; and was not of force enough, to diminish a happiness, which
seemed hourly to become more vigorous and firm.
I think I may venture to say, that no two persons ever found in each
other's society, a satisfaction more pure and refined. What it was in
itself, can now only be known, in its full extent, to the survivor. But,
I believe, the serenity of her countenance, the increasing sweetness of
her manners, and that consciousness of enjoyment that seemed ambitious
that every one she saw should be happy as well as herself, were matters
of general observation to all her acquaintance. She had always
possessed, in an unparalleled degree, the art of communicating
happiness, and she was now in the constant and unlimited exercise of it.
She seemed to have attained that situation, which her disposition and
character imperiously demanded, but which she had never before attained;
and her understanding and her heart felt the benefit of it.
While we lived as near neighbours only, and before our last removal, her
mind had attained considerable tranquillity, and was visited but seldom
with those emotions of anguish, which had been but too familiar to her.
But the improvement in this respect, which accrued upon our removal and
establishment, was extremely obvious. She was a worshipper of domestic
life. She loved to observe the growth of affection between me and her
daughter, then three years of age, as well as my anxiety respecting the
child not yet born. Pregnancy itself, unequal as the decree of nature
seems to be in this respect, is the source of a thousand endearments. No
one knew better than Mary how to extract sentiments of exquisite
delight, from trifles, which a suspicious and formal wisdom would
scarcely deign to remark. A little ride into the country with myself and
the child, has sometimes produced a sort of opening of the heart, a
general expression of confidence and affectionate soul, a sort of
infantine, yet dignified endearment, which those who have felt may
understand, but which I should in vain attempt to pourtray.
In addition to our domestic pleasures, I was fortunate enough to
introduce her to some of my acquaintance of both sexes, to whom she
attached herself with all the ardour of approbation and friendship.
Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory
pleasures. It is perhaps scarcely necessary to mention, that, influenced
by the ideas I had long entertained upon the subject of cohabitation, I
engaged an apartment, about twenty doors from our house in the Polygon,
Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary
occupations. Trifles however will be interesting to some readers, when
they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I
will add therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was
possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other's society.
Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the
apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make
my appearance in the Polygon, till the hour of dinner. We agreed in
condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man
and his wife cannot visit in mixed society, but in company with each
other; and we rather sought occasions of deviating from, than of
complying with, this rule. By these means, though, for the most part, we
spent the latter half of each day in one another's society, yet we were
in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree,
the novelty and lively sensation of visit, with the more delicious and
heart-felt pleasures of domestic life.
Whatever may be thought, in other respects, of the plan we laid down to
ourselves, we probably derived a real advantage from it, as to the
constancy and uninterruptedness of our literary pursuits. Mary had a
variety of projects of this sort, for the exercise of her talents, and
the benefit of society; and, if she had lived, I believe the world would
have had very little reason to complain of any remission of her
industry. One of her projects, which has been already mentioned, was of
a series of Letters on the Management of Infants. Though she had been
for some time digesting her ideas on this subject with a view to the
press, I have found comparatively nothing that she had committed to
paper respecting it. Another project, of longer standing, was of a
series of books for the instruction of children. A fragment she left in
execution of this project, is inserted in her Posthumous Works.
But the principal work, in which she was engaged for more than twelve
months before her decease, was a novel, entitled, The Wrongs of Woman. I
shall not stop here to explain the nature of the work, as so much of it
as was already written, is now given to the public. I shall only observe
that, impressed, as she could not fail to be, with the consciousness of
her talents, she was desirous, in this instance, that they should effect
what they were capable of effecting. She was sensible how arduous a task
it is to produce a truly excellent novel; and she roused her faculties
to grapple with it. All her other works were produced with a rapidity,
that did not give her powers time fully to expand. But this was written
slowly and with mature consideration. She began it in several forms,
which she successively rejected, after they were considerably advanced.
She wrote many parts of the work again and again, and, when she had
finished what she intended for the first part, she felt herself more
urgently stimulated to revise and improve what she had written, than to
proceed, with constancy of application, in the parts that were to
follow.