LIFE AS GOVERNESS.
1786-1788.
There was little pleasure for Mary in her home-coming. The school, whose
difficulties had begun before her departure, had prospered still less
under Mrs. Bishop's care. Many of the pupils had been taken away. Eliza,
her quick temper and excitability aggravated at that time by her late
misfortunes, was not a fitting person to have the control of children.
She had thoughtlessly quarrelled with their most profitable boarder, the
mother of the three boys, who had in consequence given up her rooms. As
yet no one else had been found to occupy them. The rent of the house was
so high that these losses left the sisters without the means to pay it.
They were therefore in debt, and that deeply, for people with no
immediate, or even remote, prospects of an addition to their income. Then
the Bloods during Mary's absence had fallen further into the Slough of
Despond, out of which, now their daughter was dead, there was no one to
help them. George could not aid them, because, though they did not know
it, he was just then without employment. Unable to live amicably with his
brother-in-law after Fanny's death, he had resigned his position in
Lisbon and gone to Ireland, where for a long while he could find nothing
to do. Mr. Skeys simply refused to satisfy the never-ceasing wants of his
wife's parents. He cannot be severely censured when their shiftlessness
is borne in mind. He probably had already received many appeals from
them. But Mary could not accept their troubles so passively.
To add to her distress, she was weakened by the painful task she had just
completed. She was low-spirited and broken-hearted, and really ill. Her
eyes gave out; and no greater inconvenience could have just then befallen
her. Her mental activity was temporarily paralyzed, and yet she knew that
prompt measures were necessary to avert the evils crowding upon her. She
had truly been anointed to wrestle and not to reign.
There was no chance of relief from her own family. Her father had married
again, but his second marriage had not improved him. He had descended to
the lowest stage of drunkenness and insignificance. His home was in
Laugharne, Wales, where he barely managed to exist. James, the second
son, had gone to sea in search of better fortune. Charles, the youngest,
was not old enough to seek his, and hence had to endure as best he could
the wretchedness of the Wollstonecraft household. Instead of Mary's
receiving help from this quarter, she was called upon to give it. Kinder
to her father than he had ever been to her, she never ignored his
difficulties. When she had money, she shared it with him. When she had
none, she did all she could to force Edward, the one prosperous member of
the family, to send his father the pecuniary assistance which, it seems,
he had promised.
In whatever direction she looked, she saw misery and unhappiness. The
present was unendurable, the future hopeless. For a brief interval she
was almost crushed by her circumstances. To George Blood, now even dearer
to her than he had been before, she laid bare the weariness of her heart.
Shortly after her return she wrote him this letter, pathetic in its
despair:
NEWINGTON GREEN, Feb. 4, 1786.
I write to you, my dear George, lest my silence should make you
uneasy; yet what have I to say that will not have the same effect?
Things do not go well with me, and my spirits seem forever flown. I
was a month on my passage, and the weather was so tempestuous we
were several times in imminent danger. I did not expect ever to
have reached land. If it had pleased Heaven to have called me
hence, what a world of care I should have missed! I have lost all
relish for pleasure, and life seems a burden almost too heavy to be
endured. My head is stupid, and my heart sick and exhausted. But
why should I worry you? and yet, if I do not tell you my vexations,
what can I write about?
Your father and mother are tolerably well, and inquire most
affectionately concerning you. They do not suspect that you have
left Lisbon, and I do not intend informing them of it till you are
provided for. I am very unhappy on their account, for though I am
determined they shall share my last shilling, yet I have every
reason to apprehend extreme distress, and of course they must be
involved in it. The school dwindles to nothing, and we shall soon
lose our last boarder, Mrs. Disney. She and the girls quarrelled
while I was away, which contributed to make the house very
disagreeable. Her sons are to be whole boarders at Mrs. Cockburn's.
Let me turn my eyes on which side I will, I can only anticipate
misery. Are such prospects as these likely to heal an almost broken
heart? The loss of Fanny was sufficient of itself to have thrown a
cloud over my brightest days; what effect, then, must it have when
I am bereft of every other comfort? I have, too, many debts. I
cannot think of remaining any longer in this house, the rent is so
enormous; and where to go, without money or friends, who can point
out? My eyes are very bad and my memory gone. I am not fit for any
situation; and as for Eliza, I don't know what will become of her.
My constitution is impaired. I hope I shan't live long, yet I may
be a tedious time dying.
Well, I am too impatient. The will of heaven be done! I will labor
to be resigned. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." I
scarce know what I write, yet my writing at all when my mind is so
disturbed is a proof to you that I can never be lost so entirely in
misery as to forget those I love. I long to hear that you are
settled. It is the only quarter from which I can reasonably expect
pleasure. I have received a very short, unsatisfactory letter from
Lisbon. It was written to apologize for not sending the money to
your father which he promised. It would have been particularly
acceptable to them at this time; but he is prudent, and will not
run any hazard to serve a friend. Indeed, delicacy made me conceal
from him my dismal situation, but he must know how much I am
embarrassed....
I am very low-spirited, and of course my letter is very dull. I
will not lengthen it out in the same strain, but conclude with what
alone will be acceptable, an assurance of love and regard.
Believe me to be ever your sincere and affectionate friend,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
"There is but one true cure for suffering, and that is action," Dr.
Maudsley says. The first thing Mary did in her misery was to undertake
new work, this time a literary venture, not for herself, but for the
benefit of Mr. and Mrs. Blood. Their son-in-law having refused to
contribute from his plenty, their daughter's friend came forward and gave
from her nothing.
At the instigation of Mr. Hewlet, one of her friends already mentioned,
she wrote a small pamphlet called "Thoughts on the Education of
Daughters." This gentleman rated her powers so high that he felt sure of
her success as a writer. As he was well acquainted with Mr. Johnson, a
prominent bookseller in Fleet Street, he could promise that her
manuscript would be dealt with fairly. Her choice of subject was, in one
way, fortunate. Being a teacher she could speak on educational matters
with authority. But this first work is not striking or remarkable.
Indeed, it is chiefly worth notice because it was the means of
introducing her to Mr. Johnson, who was a true friend to her through her
darkest, as well as through her brightest, days, and whose influence was
strong in shaping her career. He paid her ten guineas for her pamphlet,
and these she at once gave to Mr. and Mrs. Blood, who were thereby
enabled to leave England and go to Dublin. There, they thought, because
they and their disgrace were not yet known, the chances of their starting
in life afresh were greater.
It was now time for Mary to turn her attention to her own affairs. It was
absolutely necessary to give up the school. Her presence could not recall
the pupils who had left it, and her debts were pressing. The success of
the sisters had been too slight to tempt them to establish a similar
institution in another town. They determined to separate, and each to
earn her livelihood alone. Mary was not loath to do this. Because of her
superior administrative ability, too large a share of the work in the
school had devolved upon her, while her sisters' society was a hindrance
rather than a comfort. She was ready to sacrifice herself for others, but
she had enough common sense to realize that too great unselfishness in
details would in the end destroy her power of aiding in larger matters.
She could do more for Eliza and Everina away from them, than if she
continued to live with them.
What she desired most earnestly was to devote all her time to literary
work. Mr. Hewlet had represented to her that she would be certain to make
an ample support by writing. Mr. Johnson had received her pamphlet
favorably, and had asked for further contributions. But her present want
was urgent, and she could not wait on a probability. She had absolutely
no money to live upon while she made a second experiment. She had learned
thoroughly the lesson of patience and of self-restraint, and she resolved
for the present to continue to teach. By doing this, she could still find
a few spare hours for literary purposes, while she could gradually save
enough money to warrant her beginning the life for which she longed. One
plan, abandoned, however, before she attempted to put it into execution,
she describes in the following letter to George Blood. The tone in which
she writes is much less hopeless than that of the letter last quoted.
Already the remedy of activity was beginning to have its effect:--
NEWINGTON GREEN, May 22, 1787.
By this time, my dear George, I hope your father and mother have
reached Dublin. I long to hear of their safe arrival. A few days
after they set sail, I received a letter from Skeys. He laments
his inability to assist them, and dwells on his own embarrassments.
How glad I am they are gone! My affairs are hastening to a
crisis.... Some of my creditors cannot afford to wait for their
money; as to leaving England in debt, I am determined not to do
it.... Everina and Eliza are both endeavoring to go out into the
world, the one as a companion, and the other as a teacher, and I
believe I shall continue some time on the Green. I intend taking a
little cheap lodging, and living without a servant; and the few
scholars I have will maintain me. I have done with all worldly
pursuits and wishes; I only desire to submit without being
dependent on the caprice of our fellow-creatures. I shall have many
solitary hours, but I have not much to hope for in life, and so it
would be absurd to give way to fear. Besides, I try to look on the
best side, and not to despond. While I am trying to do my duty in
that station in which Providence has placed me, I shall enjoy some
tranquil moments, and the pleasures I have the greatest relish for
are not entirely out of my reach.... I have been trying to muster
up my fortitude, and laboring for patience to bear my many trials.
Surely, when I could determine to survive Fanny, I can endure
poverty and all the lesser ills of life. I dreaded, oh! how I
dreaded this time, and now it is arrived I am calmer than I
expected to be. I have been very unwell; my constitution is much
impaired; the prison walls are decaying, and the prisoner will ere
long get free.... Remember that I am your truly affectionate friend
and sister,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
Perhaps the uncertainty of keeping her pupils, or the double work
necessitated by this project, discouraged her. At all events, it was
relinquished when other and seemingly better proposals were made to her.
Some of her friends at Newington Green recommended her to the notice of
Mr. Prior, then Assistant Master at Eton, and his wife. Through them she
was offered the situation of governess to the children of Lord
Kingsborough, an Irish nobleman. If she accepted it, she would be spared
the anxiety which a school of her own had heretofore brought her. The
salary would be forty pounds a year, out of which she calculated she
could pay her debts and then assist Mrs. Bishop. But she would lose her
independence, and would expose herself to the indifference or contempt
then the portion of governesses. "I should be shut out from society," she
explained to George Blood, "and be debarred the pleasures of imperfect
friendship, as I should on every side be surrounded by unequals. To live
only on terms of civility and common benevolence, without any interchange
of little acts of kindness and tenderness, would be to me extremely
irksome." The prospect, it must be admitted, was not pleasant. But still
the advantages outweighed the drawbacks, and Mary agreed to Lady
Kingsborough's terms.
Mr. and Mrs. Prior intended taking a trip to Ireland, and they suggested
that she should accompany them. Travelling was not easy in those days,
and she decided to wait and go with them. But, for some reason, they did
not start as soon as they had expected. She had already joined them in
their home at Eton, in which place their delay detained her for some
time. This gave her the opportunity to study the school and the
principles upon which it was conducted. The entire system met with her
disapprobation, and afterwards, in her "Rights of Women," she freely and
strongly expressed her unfavorable opinion. Judging from what she there
saw, she concluded that schools regulated according to the same rules
were hot-beds of vice. Nothing disgusted her so much in this institution
as the false basis upon which religion was established. The slavery to
forms, demanded of the boys, seemed to her to at once undermine their
moral uprightness. What, indeed, could be expected of a boy who would
take the sacrament for no other reason than to avoid the fine of half a
guinea imposed upon those who would not conform to this ceremony? Her
visit did much towards developing and formulating her ideas on the
subject of education.
Mrs. Prior seems to have given her every chance to become acquainted not
only with the school, but with the social life at Eton. But her interest
in the gay world, as there represented, was lukewarm. Its shallowness
provoked her. She, looking upon life as real and earnest, and not as a
mere playground, could not sympathize with women who gave themselves up
to dress, nor with men who expended their energies in efforts to raise a
laugh. Wit of rather an affected kind was the fashion of the day. At its
best it was odious, but when manufactured by the weaklings of society, it
was beyond endurance. Heine says that there is no man so crazy that he
may not find a crazier comrade who will understand him. And it may be
said as truly, that there is no man so foolish that he will not meet
still greater fools ready to admire his folly. To Mary Wollstonecraft it
was doubtful which was most to be despised, the affectation itself or the
applause which nourished it. The governess elect, whose heart was heavy
laden, saw in the flippant gayeties of Eton naught but vanity and
vexation of spirit.
She wrote to Everina on the 9th of October,--
The time I spend here appears lost. While I remained in England I
would fain have been near those I love.... I could not live the
life they lead at Eton; nothing but dress and ridicule going
forward, and I really believe their fondness for ridicule tends to
make them affected, the women in their manners and the men in their
conversation; for witlings abound, and puns fly about like
crackers, though you would scarcely guess they had any meaning in
them, if you did not hear the noise they create. So much company
without any sociability would be to me an insupportable fatigue. I
am, 'tis true, quite alone in a crowd, yet cannot help reflecting
on the scene around me, and my thoughts harass me. Vanity in one
shape or other reigns triumphant.... My thoughts and wishes tend to
that land where the God of love will wipe away all tears from our
eyes, where sincerity and truth will flourish, and the imagination
will not dwell on pleasing illusions which vanish like dreams when
experience forces us to see things as they really are. With what
delight do I anticipate the time when neither death nor accidents
of any kind will interpose to separate me from those I love....
Adieu; believe me to be your affectionate friend and sister,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
Finally the time came for her departure. In October, 1787, she set out
with Mr. and Mrs. Prior for Ireland, and towards the end of the month
arrived at the castle of Lord Kingsborough in Mitchelstown. Her first
impressions were gloomy. But, indeed, her depression and weakness were so
great, that she looked at all things, as if through a glass, darkly. Her
sorrows were still too fresh to be forgotten in idle curiosity about the
inhabitants and customs of her new home. Even if she had been in the best
of spirits, her arrival at the castle would have been a trying moment. It
is never easy for one woman to face alone several of her sex, who, she
knows, are waiting to criticise her. There were then staying with Lady
Kingsborough her step-mother and her three unmarried step-sisters and
several guests. Governesses in this household had fared much as
companions in Mrs. Dawson's. They had come and gone in rapid succession.
Therefore Mary was examined by these ladies much as a new horse is
inspected by a racer, or a new dog by a sportsman. She passed through the
ordeal successfully, but it left her courage at low ebb. Her first report
to her sister is not cheerful:--
THE CASTLE, MITCHELSTOWN, Oct. 30, 1787.
Well, my dear girl, I am at length arrived at my journey's end. I
sigh when I say so, but it matters not, I must labor for content,
and try to reconcile myself to a state which is contrary to every
feeling of my soul. I can scarcely persuade myself that I am awake;
my whole life appears like a frightful vision, and equally
disjointed. I have been so very low-spirited for some days past, I
could not write. All the moments I could spend in solitude were
lost in sorrow and unavailing tears. There was such a solemn kind
of stupidity about this place as froze my very blood. I entered the
great gates with the same kind of feeling as I should have if I was
going into the Bastille. You can make allowance for the feelings
which the General would term ridiculous or artificial. I found I
was to encounter a host of females,--My Lady, her step-mother and
three sisters, and Mrses. and Misses without number, who, of
course, would examine me with the most minute attention. I cannot
attempt to give you a description of the family, I am so low; I
will only mention some of the things which particularly worry me. I
am sure much more is expected from me than I am equal to. With
respect to French, I am certain Mr. P. has misled them, and I
expect in consequence of it to be very much mortified. Lady K. is a
shrewd, clever woman, a great talker. I have not seen much of her,
as she is confined to her room by a sore throat; but I have seen
half a dozen of her companions. I mean not her children, but her
dogs. To see a woman without any softness in her manners caressing
animals, and using infantine expressions, is, you may conceive,
very absurd and ludicrous, but a fine lady is a new species to me
of animal. I am, however, treated like a gentlewoman by every part
of the family, but the forms and parade of high life suit not my
mind.... I hear a fiddle below, the servants are dancing, and the
rest of the family are diverting themselves. I only am melancholy
and alone. To tell the truth, I hope part of my misery arises from
disordered nerves, for I would fain believe my mind is not so very
weak. The children are, literally speaking, wild Irish, unformed
and not very pleasing; but you shall have a full and true account,
my dear girl, in a few days....
I am your affectionate sister and sincere friend,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
It was at least fortunate that she escaped, with Lady Kingsborough, the
indignities which she had feared she, as governess, would receive.
Instead of being placed on a level with the servants, as was often the
fate of gentlewomen in her position, she was treated as one of the
family, but she had little else to be thankful for. There was absolutely
no congeniality between herself and her employers. She had no tastes or
views in common with them. Lady Kingsborough was a thorough woman of the
world. She was clever but cold, and her natural coldness had been
increased by the restraints and exactions of her social rank. If she
rouged to preserve her good looks, and talked to exhibit her cleverness,
she was fulfilling all the requirements of her station in life. Her
character and conduct were in every way opposed to Mary's ideals. The
latter, who was instinctively honest, and who never stooped to curry
favor with any one, must have found it difficult to treat Lady
Kingsborough with a deference she did not feel, but which her subordinate
position obliged her to show. The struggle between impulse and duty thus
caused was doubtless one of the chief factors in making her experiences
in Ireland so painful. How great this struggle was can be best estimated
when it is known what she thought of the mother of her pupils. She was
never thrown into such intimate relations with any other woman of
fashion, and therefore it is not illogical to believe that many passages
in the "Rights of Women," relating to women of this class, are
descriptions of Lady Kingsborough. The allusion to pet dogs in the
following seems to establish the identity beyond dispute:--
"... She who takes her dogs to bed, and nurses them with a parade
of sensibility when sick, will suffer her babes to grow up crooked
in a nursery. This illustration of my argument is drawn from a
matter of fact. The woman whom I allude to was handsome, reckoned
very handsome by those who do not miss the mind when the face is
plump and fair; but her understanding had not been led from female
duties by literature, nor her innocence debauched by knowledge. No,
she was quite feminine according to the masculine acceptation of
the word; and so far from loving these spoiled brutes that filled
the place which her children ought to have occupied, she only
lisped out a pretty mixture of French and English nonsense, to
please the men who flocked round her. The wife, mother, and human
creature were all swallowed up by the factitious character which an
improper education and the selfish vanity of beauty had produced.
"I do not like to make a distinction without a difference, and I
own that I have been as much disgusted by the fine lady who took
her lap-dog to her bosom, instead of her child, as by the ferocity
of a man, who beating his horse, declared that he knew as well when
he did wrong as a Christian."
If Lady Kingsborough was a representative lady of fashion, her husband
was quite as much the typical country lord. Tom Jones was still the ideal
hero of fiction, and Squire Westerns had not disappeared from real life.
Lord Kingsborough was good-natured and kind, but, like the rest of the
species, coarse. "His countenance does not promise more than good humor
and a little _fun_, not refined," Mary told Mrs. Bishop. The three
step-sisters were too preoccupied with matrimonial calculations to
manifest their character, if indeed they had any. Clearly, in such a
household Mary Wollstonecraft was as a child of Israel among the
Philistines.
The society of the children, though they were "wild Irish," was more to
her taste than that of the grown-up members of the family. Three were
given into her charge. At first she thought them not very pleasing, but
after a better acquaintance she grew fond of them. The eldest, Margaret,
afterwards Lady Mountcashel, was then fourteen years of age. She was very
talented, and a "sweet girl," as Mary called her in a letter to Mrs.
Bishop. She became deeply attached to her new governess, not with the
passing fancy of a child, but with a lasting devotion. The other children
also learned to love her, but being younger there was less friendship in
their affection. They were afraid of their mother, who lavished her
caresses upon her dogs, until she had none left for them. Therefore, when
Mary treated them affectionately and sympathized with their interests and
pleasures, they naturally turned to her and gave her the love which no
one else seemed to want. That this was the case was entirely Lady
Kingsborough's fault, but she resented it bitterly, and it was later a
cause of serious complaint against the too competent governess. The
affection of her pupils, which was her principal pleasure during her
residence in Ireland, thus became in the end a misfortune.
A more prolific source of trouble to her was, strangely enough, her
interest in them. Lady Kingsborough had very positive ideas upon the
subject of her children's education, and by insisting upon adherence to
them she made Mary's task doubly hard. Had she not been interfered with,
her position would not have been so unpleasant. She could put her whole
soul into her work, whatever it might be, and find in its success one of
her chief joys. She wished to do her utmost for Margaret and her sisters,
but this was impossible, since she knew the system Lady Kingsborough
exacted to be vicious. The latter cared more for a show of knowledge than
for knowledge itself, and laid the greatest stress upon the acquirement
of accomplishments. This was not in accord with Mary's theories, who
prized reality and not appearances. A less conscientious woman might have
contented herself with the thought that she was carrying out the wishes
of her employer. But Mary could not quiet her scruples in this way. She
was tormented by the sense of duty but half fulfilled. She realized, by
her own sad experience, how much depends upon the training received in
childhood, and yet she was powerless to bring up her pupils in the way
she knew to be best. She had, besides, constantly before her in Lady
Kingsborough and her sisters a, to her, melancholy example of the result
of the methods she was asked to adopt. They had been carefully taught
many different languages and much history, but had been as carefully
instilled with the idea that their studies were but means to social
success and to a brilliant marriage. The consequence was that their
education, despite its thoroughness, had made them puppets, self-interest
being the wire which moved them. She did not want this to be the fate of
her pupils, but she could see no escape for them.
In addition to her honest anxiety for their future, she must have been
worried by the certainty that, if she remained with them, she would be
held responsible for their character and conduct in after-life. Though
she had charge of them only for a year, this eventually proved to be the
case. Margaret's reputation as Lady Mountcashel was not wholly unsullied,
and when it was remembered that she had, at one time, been under the
influence of Mary Wollstonecraft, author of the "Rights of Women," the
fault was attributed to the immoral and irreligious teaching of the
latter. Never was any woman so unjustly condemned. In the first place,
Mary was not her governess long enough to actually change her nature, or
to influence her for life; and, in the second place, she was not allowed
to have her own way with her pupils. Had she been free she would have
been more apt to encourage a spirit of piety, and inculcate a fine moral
sense. For she was at that period in a deeply religious frame of mind,
while she did all she could to counteract what she considered the
deteriorating tendencies of the children's home training. As Kegan Paul
says, "Her whole endeavor was to train them for higher pursuits and to
instil into them a desire for a wider culture than fell to the lot of
most girls in those days. Her sorrow was deep that her pupils' lives were
such as to render sustained study and religious habits of mind alike
difficult."
This caused her much unhappiness. Her worriment developed into positive
illness. After she had been with them some months, the strain seemed more
than she could bear, as she confessed to Mr. Johnson, to whom she wrote
from Dublin on the 14th of April,--
I am still an invalid, and begin to believe that I ought never to
expect to enjoy health. My mind preys on my body, and, when I
endeavor to be useful, I grow too much interested for my own peace.
Confined almost entirely to the society of children, I am anxiously
solicitous for their future welfare, and mortified beyond measure
when counteracted in my endeavors to improve them. I feel all a
mother's fears for the swarm of little ones which surround me, and
observe disorders, without having power to apply the proper
remedies. How can I be reconciled to life, when it is always a
painful warfare, and when I am deprived of all the pleasures I
relish? I allude to rational conversations and domestic affections.
Here, alone, a poor solitary individual in a strange land, tied to
one spot, and subject to the caprice of another, can I be
contented? I am desirous to convince you that I have _some_ cause
for sorrow, and am not without reason detached from life. I shall
hope to hear that you are well, and am yours sincerely,
WOLLSTONECRAFT.
The family troubles followed Mary to Ireland. The news which reached her
from home was discouraging. Edward Wollstonecraft at this period declared
he would do nothing more for his father. Prudent, and with none of his
sister's unselfishness, he grew tired of the drain upon his purse. There
was also difficulty about some money which Mary and her sisters
considered theirs by right, but which the eldest brother, with shameless
selfishness, refused to give up. What the exact circumstances were is not
certain; but it could have been no light tax upon Mary to contribute the
necessary amount for her father's support, and no small disappointment to
be deprived of money which she thought to be legally hers. Money cares
were to her what the Old Man of the Sea was to Sinbad. They were a burden
from which she was never free. When from forty pounds a year she had to
take half to pay her debts, and then give from the remainder to her
father, her share of her earnings was not large. And yet she counted upon
her savings to purchase her future release from a life of dependence.
Though she wrote to Mr. Johnson that she was almost entirely confined to
the society of children, she really did see much of the family, often
taking part in their amusements. Judging from the attractions and
conversational powers which made her a favorite in London society, it is
but natural to conclude that she was an addition to the household. She
seems at times to have exerted herself to be agreeable. Godwin records
the extreme discomfiture of a fine lady of quality, when, on one
occasion, after having singled her out and treated her with marked
friendliness, she discovered that she had been entertaining the
children's governess! Mary cared nothing for these people, but as they
were civil to her, she returned their politeness by showing them she was
well worth being polite to. Low-spirited as she was, she mustered up
sufficient courage to discuss the husband-hunts of the young ladies and
even to notice the dogs. This was, indeed, a concession. To Everina she
sent a bulletin--not untouched with humor--of her wonderful and
praiseworthy progress with the inmates of the castle:--
MITCHELSTOWN, Nov. 17, 1787.
... Confined to the society of a set of silly females, I have no
social converse, and their boisterous spirits and unmeaning
laughter exhaust me, not forgetting hourly domestic bickerings. The
topics of matrimony and dress take their turn, not in a very
sentimental style,--alas! poor sentiment, it has no residence here.
I almost wish the girls were novel-readers and romantic. I declare
false refinement is better than none at all; but these girls
understand several languages, and have read _cartloads_ of history,
for their mother was a prudent woman. Lady K.'s passion for animals
fills up the hours which are not spent in dressing. All her
children have been ill,--very disagreeable fevers. Her ladyship
visited them in a formal way, though their situation called forth
my tenderness, and I endeavored to amuse them, while she lavished
awkward fondness on her dogs. I think now I hear her infantine
lisp. She rouges, and, in short, is a fine lady, without fancy or
sensibility. I am almost tormented to death by dogs. But you will
perceive I am not under the influence of my darling passion--pity;
it is not always so. I make allowance and adapt myself, talk of
getting husbands for the _ladies_--and the _dogs_, and am
wonderfully entertaining; and then I retire to my room, form
figures in the fire, listen to the wind, or view the Gotties, a
fine range of mountains near us, and so does time waste away in
apathy or misery.... I am drinking asses' milk, but do not find it
of any service. I am very ill, and so low-spirited my tears flow in
torrents almost insensibly. I struggle with myself, but I hope my
Heavenly Father will not be extreme to mark my weakness, and that
He will have compassion upon a poor bruised reed, and pity a
miserable wretch, whose sorrows He only knows.... I almost wish my
warfare was over.
The religious tone of this letter calls for special notice, since it was
written at the very time she was supposed to be imparting irreligious
principles to her pupils.
Mary had none of the false sentiment of a Sterne, and could not waste
sympathy over brutes, when she felt that there were human beings who
needed it. Her ladyship's dogs worried her because of the contrast
between the attention they received and the indifference which fell to
the lot of the children. Besides, the then distressing condition of the
laboring population in Ireland made the luxuries and silly affectations
of the rich doubly noticeable. Mary saw for herself the poverty of the
peasantry. Margaret was allowed to visit the poor, and she accompanied
her on her charitable rounds. The almost bestial squalor in which these
people lived was another cruel contrast to the pampered existence led by
the dogs at the castle. She had none of Strap's veneration for the
epithet of gentleman. Eliza owned to a "sneaking kindness for people of
quality." But Mary cared only for a man's intrinsic merit. His rank could
not cover his faults. Therefore, with the misery and destitution of so
many men and women staring her in the face, the amusements and
occupations of the few within Lady Kingsborough's household continually
grated upon her finer instincts.
In the winter of 1788 the family went to Dublin, and Mary accompanied
them. She liked the society of the capital no better than she had that of
the country. She, however, occasionally shared in its frivolities, her
relations to Lady Kingsborough obliging her to do this. She was still
young enough to possess the capacity for enjoyment, though her many
hardships and sorrows had made her think this impossible, and she was
sometimes carried away by the gayety around her. But, as thorough a hater
of shams as Carlyle, she was disgusted with herself once the passing
excitement was over. From Dublin she wrote to Everina giving her a
description of a mask to which she had gone, and of which she had
evidently been a conspicuous feature:--
DUBLIN, March 14, 1788.
... I am very weak to-day, but I can account for it. The day before
yesterday there was a masquerade; in the course of conversation
some time before, I happened to wish to go to it. Lady K. offered
me two tickets for myself and Miss Delane to accompany me. I
refused them on account of the expense of dressing properly. She
then, to obviate that objection, lent me a black domino. I was out
of spirits, and thought of another excuse; but she proposed to take
me and Betty Delane to the houses of several people of fashion who
saw masks. We went to a great number, and were a tolerable, nay, a
much-admired, group. Lady K. went in a domino with a smart
cockade; Miss Moore dressed in the habit of one of the females of
the new discovered islands; Betty D. as a forsaken shepherdess; and
your sister Mary in a black domino. As it was taken for granted the
stranger who had just arrived could not speak the language, I was
to be her interpreter, which afforded me an ample field for satire.
I happened to be very melancholy in the morning, as I am almost
every morning, but at night my fever gives me false spirits; this
night the lights, the novelty of the scene, and all things together
contributed to make me _more_ than half mad. I gave full scope to a
satirical vein, and suppose ...
Unfortunately, the rest of the letter is lost.
In the midst of her duties and dissipations she managed to find some
little time for more solid pleasures and more congenial work. In her
letters she speaks of nothing with so much enthusiasm as of Rousseau,
whose "Emile" she read while she was in Dublin. She wrote to Everina, on
the 24th of March,--
I believe I told you before that as a nation I do not admire the
Irish; and as to the great world and its frivolous ceremonies, I
cannot away with them; they fatigue me. I thank Heaven I was not so
unfortunate as to be born a lady of quality. I am now reading
Rousseau's "Emile," and love his paradoxes. He chooses a common
capacity to educate, and gives as a reason that a genius will
educate itself. However, he rambles into that chimerical world in
which I have too often wandered, and draws the usual conclusion
that all is vanity and vexation of spirit. He was a strange,
inconsistent, unhappy, clever creature, yet he possessed an
uncommon portion of sensibility and penetration....
Adieu, yours sincerely,
MARY.
It was also during this period that she wrote a novel called "Mary." It
is a narrative of her acquaintance and friendship with Fanny Blood,--her
_In Memoriam_ of the friend she so dearly loved. In writing it she sought
relief for the bitter sorrow with which her loss had filled her heart.
The Irish gayeties lasted through the winter. In the spring the family
crossed over to England and went to Bristol, Hotwells, and Bath. In all
these places Mary saw more of the gay world, but it was only to deepen
the disgust with which it inspired her. Those were the days when men
drank at dinner until they fell under the table; when young women thought
of nothing but beaux, and were exhibited by their fond mothers as so much
live-stock to be delivered to the highest bidder; and when dowagers,
whose flirting season was over, spent all their time at the card-table.
Nowhere were the absurdities and emptiness of polite society so fully
exposed as at these three fashionable resorts. Even the frivolity of
Dublin paled in comparison. Mary's health improved in England. The Irish
climate seems to have specially disagreed with her. But notwithstanding
the much-needed improvement in her physical condition, and despite her
occasional concessions to her circumstances, her life became more
unbearable every day, while her sympathies and tastes grew farther apart
from those of her employers.
But while even the little respect she felt for Lord and Lady Kingsborough
lessened, her love for the children increased. This they returned with
interest. Once, when one of them had to go into the country with her
mother and without her governess, she cried so bitterly that she made
herself ill. The strength of Margaret's affection can be partly measured
by the following passage from a letter written by Mary shortly after
their separation:--
"I had, the other day, the satisfaction of again receiving a letter
from my poor dear Margaret. With all the mother's fondness, I could
transcribe a part of it. She says, every day her affection to me,
and dependence on heaven, increase, etc. I miss her innocent
caresses, and sometimes indulge a pleasing hope, that she may be
allowed to cheer my childless age if I am to live to be old. At any
rate, I may hear of the virtues I may not contemplate."
Lady Kingsborough made no effort to win her children's affection, but she
was unwilling that they should bestow it upon a stranger. She could not
forgive the governess who had taken her place in their hearts. She and
her eldest daughter had on this account frequent quarrels. Mary's
position was therefore untenable. Her surroundings were uncongenial, her
duties distasteful, and she was disapproved of by her employer. Nothing
was needed but a decent pretext for the latter to dismiss her. This she
before long found when, Mary being temporarily separated from her pupils,
Margaret showed more regret than her mother thought the occasion
warranted. Lady Kingsborough seized the opportunity to give the governess
her dismissal. This was in the autumn of 1788, and the family were in
London. Mary had for some weeks known that this end was inevitable, but
still her departure, when the time came, was sudden. It was a trial to
her to leave the children, but escape from the household was a joyful
emancipation. Again she was obliged to face the world, and again she
emerged triumphant from her struggles. With each new change she advanced
a step in her intellectual progress. After she left Lady Kingsborough she
began the literary life which was to make her famous.