As I have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to
complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon,
I am hurt; and why should I, by concealing it, affect the heroism I do
not feel?
I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s and heart be organized from
mine! You will tell me, that exertions are necessary: I am weary of
them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The “peace” and
clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. “I
am fallen,” as Milton said, “on evil days;” for I really believe that
Europe will be in a state of convulsion, during half a century at least.
Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great stone up
a hill; for, before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is
lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!
Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My
head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an “unweeded
garden,” where “things rank and vile” flourish best.
If you do not return soon—or, which is no such mighty matter, talk of
it—I will throw your slippers out at the window, and be off—nobody knows
where.
* * * *
Finding that I was observed, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——,
simply that I was with child: and let them stare!—and ——, nay, all the
world, may know it for aught I care—Yet I wish to avoid ——’s coarse
jokes.
Considering the care and anxiety a woman must have about a child before
it comes into the world, it seems to me, by a natural right, to belong
to her. When men get immersed in the world, they seem to lose all
sensations, excepting those necessary to continue or produce life!—Are
these the privileges of reason? Amongst the feathered race, whilst the
hen keeps the young warm, her mate stays by to cheer her; but it is
sufficient for man to condescend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A
man is a tyrant!
You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing
away with some honest fellows in L—n. The casual exercise of social
sympathy would not be sufficient for me—I should not think such an
heartless life worth preserving.—It is necessary to be in good-humour
with you, to be pleased with the world.
* * * * *
Thursday Morning.
I was very low-spirited last night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful
temper, which makes absence easy to you.—And, why should I mince the
matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it. I do not want to
be loved like a goddess; but I wish to be necessary to you. God bless
you![5]
Footnote 5:
Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a
similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the
person to whom they are addressed.