I am now led, by the course of my narrative, to the last fatal scene of
her life. She was taken in labour on Wednesday, the thirtieth of August.
She had been somewhat indisposed on the preceding Friday, the
confluence, I believe, of a sudden alarm. But from that time she was in
perfect health. She was so far from being under any apprehension as to
the difficulties of child-birth, as frequently to ridicule the fashion
of ladies in England, who keep their chamber for one full month after
delivery. For herself, she proposed coming down to dinner on the day
immediately following. She had already had some experience on the
subject in the case of Fanny; and I chearfully submitted in every point
to her judgment and her wisdom. She hired no nurse. Influenced by ideas
of decorum, which certainly ought to have no place, at least in cases of
danger, she determined to have a woman to attend her in the capacity of
midwife. She was sensible that the proper business of a midwife, in the
instance of a natural labour, is to sit by and wait for the operations
of nature, which seldom, in these affairs, demand the interposition of
art.
At five o’clock in the morning of the day of delivery, she felt what she
conceived to be some notices of the approaching labour. Mrs. Blenkinsop,
matron and midwife to the Westminster Lying-in Hospital, who had seen
Mary several times previous to her delivery, was soon after sent for,
and arrived about nine. During the whole day Mary was perfectly
chearful. Her pains came on slowly; and, in the morning, she wrote
several notes, three addressed to me, who had gone, as usual, to my
apartments, for the purpose of study. About two o’clock in the
afternoon, she went up to her chamber—never more to descend.
The child was born at twenty minutes after eleven at night. Mary had
requested that I would not come into the chamber till all was over, and
signified her intention of then performing the interesting office of
presenting the new-born child to its father. I was sitting in a parlour;
and it was not till after two o’clock on Thursday morning, that I
received the alarming intelligence, that the placenta was not yet
removed, and that the midwife dared not proceed any further, and gave
her opinion for calling in a male practitioner. I accordingly went for
Dr. Poignand, physician and man-midwife to the same hospital, who
arrived between three and four hours after the birth of the child. He
immediately proceeded to the extraction of the placenta, which he
brought away in pieces, till he was satisfied that the whole was
removed. In that point however it afterwards appeared that he was
mistaken.
The period from the birth of the child till about eight o’clock the next
morning, was a period full of peril and alarm. The loss of blood was
considerable, and produced an almost uninterrupted series of fainting
fits. I went to the chamber soon after four in the morning, and found
her in this state. She told me some time on Thursday, “that she should
have died the preceding night, but that she was determined not to leave
me.”—She added, with one of those smiles which so eminently illuminated
her countenance, “that I should not be like Porson,” alluding to the
circumstance of that great man having lost his wife, after being only a
few months married. Speaking of what she had already passed through, she
declared, “that she had never known what bodily pain was before.”
On Thursday morning Dr. Poignand repeated his visit. Mary had just
before expressed some inclination to see Dr. George Fordyce, a man
probably of more science than any other medical professor in England,
and between whom and herself there had long subsisted a mutual
friendship. I mentioned this to Dr. Poignand, but he rather
discountenanced the idea, observing that he saw no necessity for it, and
that he supposed Dr. Fordyce was not particularly conversant with
obstetrical cases; but that I would do as I pleased. After Dr. Poignand
was gone, I determined to send for Dr. Fordyce. He accordingly saw the
patient about three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. He, however,
perceived no particular cause of alarm; and, on that or the next day,
quoted, as I am told, Mary’s case, in a mixed company, as a
corroboration of a favourite idea of his, of the propriety of employing
females in the capacity of midwives. Mary, “had had a woman, and was
doing extremely well.”
What had passed, however, in the night between Wednesday and Thursday,
had so far alarmed me, that I did not quit the house, and scarcely the
chamber, during the following day. But my alarms wore off, as time
advanced. Appearances were more favourable, than the exhausted state of
the patient would almost have permitted me to expect. Friday morning,
therefore, I devoted to a business of some urgency, which called me to
different parts of the town, and which, before dinner, I happily
completed. On my return, and during the evening, I received the most
pleasurable sensations from the promising state of the patient. I was
now perfectly satisfied that every thing was safe, and that, if she did
not take cold, or suffer from any external accident, her speedy recovery
was certain.
Saturday was a day less auspicious than Friday, but not absolutely
alarming.
Sunday, the third of September, I now regard as the day, that finally
decided on the fate of the object dearest to my heart that the universe
contained. Encouraged by what I considered as the progress of her
recovery, I accompanied a friend in the morning in several calls, one of
them as far as Kensington, and did not return till dinner-time. On my
return I found a degree of anxiety in every face, and was told that she
had had a sort of shivering fit, and had expressed some anxiety at the
length of my absence. My sister and a friend of hers, had been engaged
to dine below stairs, but a message was sent to put them off, and Mary
ordered that the cloth should not be laid, as usual, in the room
immediately under her on the first floor, but in the ground-floor
parlour. I felt a pang at having been so long and so unseasonably
absent, and determined that I would not repeat the fault.
In the evening she had a second shivering fit, the symptoms of which
were in the highest degree alarming. Every muscle of the body trembled,
the teeth chattered, and the bed shook under her. This continued
probably for five minutes. She told me, after it was over, that it had
been a struggle between life and death, and that she had been more than
once, in the course of it, at the point of expiring. I now apprehend
these to have been the symptoms of a decided mortification, occasioned
by the part of the placenta that remained in the womb. At the time,
however, I was far from considering it in that light. When I went for
Dr. Poignand, between two and three o’clock on the morning of Thursday,
despair was in my heart. The fact of the adhesion of the placenta was
stated to me; and, ignorant as I was of obstetrical science, I felt as
if the death of Mary was in a manner decided. But hope had re-visited my
bosom; and her chearings were so delightful, that I hugged her
obstinately to my heart. I was only mortified at what appeared to me a
new delay in the recovery I so earnestly longed for. I immediately sent
for Dr. Fordyce, who had been with her in the morning, as well as on the
three preceding days. Dr. Poignand had also called this morning, but
declined paying any further visits, as we had thought proper to call in
Dr. Fordyce.
The progress of the disease was now uninterrupted. On Tuesday I found it
necessary again to call in Dr. Fordyce in the afternoon, who brought
with him Dr. Clarke of New Burlington-street, under the idea that some
operation might be necessary. I have already said, that I pertinaciously
persisted in viewing the fair side of things; and therefore the interval
between Sunday and Tuesday evening, did not pass without some mixture of
chearfulness. On Monday, Dr. Fordyce forbad the child’s having the
breast, and we therefore procured puppies to draw off the milk. This
occasioned some pleasantry of Mary with me and the other attendants.
Nothing could exceed the equanimity, the patience and affectionateness
of the poor sufferer. I intreated her to recover; I dwelt with trembling
fondness on every favourable circumstance; and, as far it was possible
in so dreadful a situation, she, by her smiles and kind speeches,
rewarded my affection.
Wednesday was to me the day of greatest torture in the melancholy
series. It was now decided that the only chance of supporting her
through what she had to suffer, was by supplying her rather freely with
wine. This task was devolved upon me. I began about four o’clock in the
afternoon. But for me, totally ignorant of the nature of diseases and of
the human frame, thus to play with a life that now seemed all that was
dear to me in the universe, was too dreadful a task. I knew neither what
was too much, nor what was too little. Having begun, I felt compelled,
under every disadvantage, to go on. This lasted for three hours. Towards
the end of that time, I happened foolishly to ask the servant who came
out of the room, “What she thought of her mistress?” she replied, “that,
in her judgment, she was going as fast as possible.” There are moments,
when any creature that lives, has power to drive one into madness. I
seemed to know the absurdity of this reply; but that was of no
consequence—It added to the measure of my distraction. A little after
seven I intreated a friend to go for Mr. Carlisle, and bring him
instantly wherever he was to be found. He had voluntarily called on the
patient on the preceding Saturday, and two or three times since. He had
seen her that morning, and had been earnest in recommending the wine
diet. That day he dined four miles out of town, on the side of the
metropolis, which was furthest from us. Notwithstanding this, my friend
returned with him after three-quarters of an hour’s absence. No one who
knows my friend, will wonder either at his eagerness or success, when I
name Mr. Basil Montagu. The sight of Mr. Carlisle thus unexpectedly,
gave me a stronger alleviating sensation, than I thought it possible to
experience.
Mr. Carlisle left us no more from Wednesday evening, to the hour of her
death. It was impossible to exceed his kindness and affectionate
attention. It excited in every spectator a sentiment like adoration. His
conduct was uniformly tender and anxious, ever upon the watch, observing
every symptom, and eager to improve every favourable appearance. If
skill or attention could have saved her, Mary would still live. In
addition to Mr. Carlisle’s constant presence, she had Dr. Fordyce and
Dr. Clarke every day. She had for nurses, or rather for friends,
watching every occasion to serve her, Mrs. Fenwick, author of an
excellent novel, entitled Secrecy, another very kind and judicious lady,
and a favourite female servant. I was scarcely ever out of the room.
Four friends, Mr. Fenwick, Mr. Basil Montagu, Mr. Marshal, and Mr.
Dyson, sat up nearly the whole of the last week of her existence in the
house, to be dispatched, on any errand, to any part of the metropolis,
at a moment’s warning.
Mr. Carlisle being in the chamber, I retired to bed for a few hours on
Wednesday night. Towards morning he came into my room with an account
that the patient was surprisingly better. I went instantly into the
chamber. But I now sought to suppress every idea of hope. The greatest
anguish I have any conception of, consists in that crushing of a
new-born hope which I had already two or three times experienced. If
Mary recovered, it was well, and I should see it time enough. But it was
too mighty a thought to bear being trifled with, and turned out and
admitted in this abrupt way.
I had reason to rejoice in the firmness of my gloomy thoughts, when,
about ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Mr. Carlisle told us to prepare
ourselves, for we had reason to expect the fatal event every moment. To
my thinking, she did not appear to be in that state of total exhaustion,
which I supposed to precede death; but it is probable that death does
not always take place by that gradual process I had pictured to myself;
a sudden pang may accelerate his arrival. She did not die on Thursday
night.
Till now it does not appear that she had any serious thoughts of dying;
but on Friday and Saturday, the two last days of her life, she
occasionally spoke as if she expected it. This was, however, only at
intervals; the thought did not seem to dwell upon her mind. Mr. Carlisle
rejoiced in this. He observed, and there is great force in the
suggestion, that there is no more pitiable object, than a sick man, that
knows he is dying. The thought must be expected to destroy his courage,
to co-operate with the disease, and to counteract every favourable
effort of nature.
On these two days her faculties were in too decayed a state, to be able
to follow any train of ideas with force or any accuracy of connection.
Her religion, as I have already shown, was not calculated to be the
torment of a sick bed; and, in fact, during her whole illness, not one
word of a religious cast fell from her lips.
She was affectionate and compliant to the last. I observed on Friday and
Saturday nights, that, whenever her attendants recommended to her to
sleep, she discovered her willingness to yield, by breathing, perhaps
for the space of a minute, in the manner of a person that sleeps, though
the effort, from the state of her disorder, usually proved ineffectual.
She was not tormented by useless contradiction. One night the servant,
from an error in judgment, teazed her with idle expostulations; but she
complained of it grievously, and it was corrected.—“Pray, pray, do not
let her reason with me,” was her expression. Death itself is scarcely so
dreadful to the enfeebled frame, as the monotonous importunity of nurses
everlastingly repeated.
Seeing that every hope was extinct, I was very desirous of obtaining
from her any directions, that she might wish to have followed after her
decease. Accordingly, on Saturday morning, I talked to her for a good
while of the two children. In conformity to Mr. Carlisle’s maxim of not
impressing the idea of death, I was obliged to manage my expressions. I
therefore affected to proceed wholly upon the ground of her having been
very ill, and that it would be some time before she could expect to be
well; wishing her to tell me any thing that she would choose to have
done respecting the children, as they would now be principally under my
care. After having repeated this idea to her in a great variety of
forms, she at length said, with a significant tone of voice, “I know
what you are thinking of,” but added, that she had nothing to
communicate to me upon the subject.
The shivering fits had ceased entirely for the two last days. Mr.
Carlisle observed that her continuance was almost miraculous, and he was
on the watch for favourable appearances, believing it highly improper to
give up all hope, and remarking, that perhaps one in a million, of
persons in her state might possibly recover. I conceive that not one in
a million, unites so good a constitution of body and of mind.
These were the amusements of persons in the very gulph of despair. At
six o’clock on Sunday morning, September the tenth, Mr. Carlisle called
me from my bed to which I had retired at one, in conformity to my
request, that I might not be left to receive all at once the
intelligence that she was no more. She expired at twenty minutes before
eight.
* * * * *
Her remains were deposited, on the fifteenth of September, at ten
o’clock in the morning, in the church-yard of the parish church of St.
Pancras, Middlesex. A few of the persons she most esteemed, attended the
ceremony; and a plain monument is now erecting on the spot, by some of
her friends, with the following inscription:
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN,
AUTHOR OF
A VINDICATION
OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.
BORN, XXVII APRIL MDCCLIX.
DIED, X SEPTEMBER MDCCXCVII.
* * * * *
The loss of the world in this admirable woman, I leave to other men to
collect; my own I well know, nor can it be improper to describe it. I do
not here allude to the personal pleasures I enjoyed in her conversation:
these increased every day, in proportion as we knew each other better,
and as our mutual confidence increased. They can be measured only by the
treasures of her mind, and the virtues of her heart. But this is a
subject for meditation, not for words. What I purposed alluding to, was
the improvement that I have for ever lost.
We had cultivated our powers (if I may venture to use this sort of
language) in different directions; I, chiefly an attempt at logical and
metaphysical distinction; she, a taste for the picturesque. One of the
leading passions of my mind has been an anxious desire not to be
deceived. This has led me to view the topics of my reflection on all
sides; and to examine and re-examine without end, the questions that
interest me.
But it was not merely (to judge at least from all the reports of my
memory in this respect) the difference of propensities, that made the
difference in our intellectual habits. I have been stimulated as long as
I can remember, by an ambition for intellectual distinction; but, as
long as I can remember, I have been discouraged, when I have endeavoured
to cast the sum of my intellectual value, by finding that I did not
possess, in the degree of some other men, an intuitive perception of
intellectual beauty. I have perhaps a strong and lively sense of the
pleasures of the imagination; but I have seldom been right in assigning
to them their proportionate value, but by dint of persevering
examination, and the change and correction of my first opinions.
What I wanted in this respect, Mary possessed, in a degree superior to
any other person I ever knew. The strength of her mind lay in intuition.
She was often right, by this means only, in matters of mere speculation.
Her religion, her philosophy, (in both of which the errors were
comparatively few, and the strain dignified and generous) were, as I
have already said, the pure result of feeling and taste. She adopted one
opinion, and rejected another, spontaneously, by a sort of tact and the
force of a cultivated imagination; and yet, though perhaps, in the
strict sense of the term, she reasoned little, it is surprising what a
degree of soundness is to be found in her determinations. But, if this
quality was of use to her in topics that seem the proper province of
reasoning, it was much more so in matters directly appealing to the
intellectual taste. In a robust and unwavering judgment of this sort,
there is a kind of witchcraft; when it decides justly, it produces a
responsive vibration in every ingenuous mind. In this sense, my
oscillation and scepticism were fixed by her boldness. When a true
opinion emanated in this way from another mind, the conviction produced
in my own assumed a similar character, instantaneous and firm. This
species of intellect probably differs from the other, chiefly in the
relation of earlier and later. What the one perceives instantaneously
(circumstances having produced in it, either a premature attention to
objects of this sort, or a greater boldness of decision) the other
receives only by degrees. What it wants, seems to be nothing more than a
minute attention to first impressions, and a just appreciation of them;
habits that are never so effectually generated, as by the daily
recurrence of a striking example.
This light was lent to me for a very short period, and is now
extinguished for ever!
While I have described the improvement I was in the act of receiving, I
believe I have put down the leading traits of her intellectual
character.
The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest
examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the
world. They bear a striking resemblance to the celebrated Romance of
Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very
different cast. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of
affording pleasure, will receive no delight from the present
publication. The editor apprehends that, in the judgment of those best
qualified to decide upon the comparison, these Letters will be admitted
to have the superiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the
offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the
passion it essays to describe.
To the series of letters constituting the principal article in these two
volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be
found discreditable to the talents of the author. The slight fragment of
Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it
seems to have some value, as presenting to us with vividness the
intention of the writer on this important subject. The publication of a
few select Letters to Mr. Johnson, appeared to be at once a just
monument to the sincerity of his friendship, and a valuable and
interesting specimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the
Present Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of
Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman,
may, I believe, safely be left to speak for themselves. The Essay on
Poetry and our Relish for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the
Monthly Magazine for April last, and is the only piece in this
collection which has previously found its way to the press.