LITERARY LIFE.
1788-1791.
During her residence with the family of Lady Kingsborough in Ireland,
Mary, as has been seen, corresponded with Mr. Johnson the publisher. In
her hour of need she went to him for advice and assistance. He strongly
recommended, as he had more than once before, that she should give up
teaching altogether, and devote her time to literary work.
Mr. Johnson was a man of considerable influence and experience, and he
was enterprising and progressive. He published most of the principal
books of the day. The Edgeworths sent him their novels from Ireland, and
Cowper his poetry from Olney. One day he gave the reading world Mrs.
Barbauld's works for the young, and the next, the speculations of
reformers and social philosophers whose rationalism deterred many another
publisher. It was for printing the Rev. Gilbert Wakefield's too
plain-spoken writings that he was, at a later date, fined and imprisoned.
Quick to discern true merit, he was equally prompt in encouraging it. As
Mary once said of him, he was a man before he was a bookseller. His kind,
generous nature made him as ready to assist needy and deserving authors
with his purse as he was to publish their works. From the time he had
seen Mary's pamphlet on the "Education of Daughters," he had been deeply
and honestly interested in her. It had convinced him of her power to do
something greater. Her letters had sustained him in this opinion, and her
novel still further confirmed it. He now, in addition to urging her to
try to support herself by writing, promised her continual employment if
she would settle in London.
To-day there would seem no possible reason for any one in her position to
hesitate before accepting such an offer. But in her time it was an
unusual occurrence for a woman to adopt literature as a profession. It is
true there had been a great change since Swift declared that "not one
gentleman's daughter in a thousand has been brought to read or understand
her own natural tongue." Women had learned not only to read, but to
write. Miss Burney had written her novels, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu her
Letters, and Mrs. Inchbald her "Simple Story" and her plays, before Mary
came to London. Though the Amelias and Lydia Melfords of fiction were
still favorite types, the blue-stocking was gaining ascendency. Because
she was such a _rara avis_ she received a degree of attention and
devotion which now appears extraordinary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Opie,
Maria Edgeworth and Mrs. Barbauld, at the end of the last and beginning
of this century, were feted and praised as seldom falls to the lot of
their successors of the present generation. But, despite this fact, they
were not quite sure that they were keeping within the limits of feminine
modesty by publishing their writings. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu had
considered it necessary to apologize for having translated Epictetus.
Miss Burney shrank from publicity, and preferred the slavery of a court
to the liberty of home life, which meant time for writing. Good Mrs.
Barbauld feared she "stepped out of the bounds of female reserve" when
she became an author. They all wrote either for amusement or as a last
resource to eke out a slender income. But Mary would, by agreeing to Mr.
Johnson's proposition, deliberately throw over other chances of making a
livelihood to rely entirely upon literature. She was young, unmarried,
and, to all intents and purposes, alone in the world. Such a step was
unprecedented in English literary annals. She would really be, as she
wrote to her sister, the first of a new genus. Her conduct would
unquestionably be criticised and censured. She would have to run the
gauntlet of public opinion, a much more trying ordeal than that through
which she had passed at the castle in Mitchelstown.
But, on the other hand, she would thereby gain freedom and independence,
for which she had always yearned above all else; her work would be
congenial; and, what to her was even more important, she would obtain
better means to further the welfare of her sisters and brothers, and to
assist her father. Compared to these inducements, the fact that people
would look upon her askance was a very insignificant consideration. She
believed in a woman's right to independence; and, the first chance she
had, she acted according to her lights.
But, at the same time, she knew that if her friends heard of her
determination before she had carried it into effect, they would try to
dissuade her from it. She was firmly resolved not to be influenced in
this matter by any one; and therefore, to avoid the unpleasant
discussions and disputes that might arise from a difference of opinion,
she maintained strict secrecy as to her plans. From her letters it seems
probable that she had made definite arrangements with Mr. Johnson before
her formal dismissal by Lady Kingsborough. In September of 1788 she
stayed at Henley for a short time with Mrs. Bishop; and it was doubtless
this visit that caused Margaret's unhappiness and hence her mother's
indignation. At Henley Mary enjoyed a short interval of rest. The quiet
of the place and temporary idleness were the best of tonics for her
disordered nerves, and an excellent preparation for her new labors. That
she was at that time determined to give up teaching for literature, but
that she did not take her sister into her confidence, is shown by this
letter written to Mr. Johnson, containing a pleasant description of her
holiday:--
HENLEY, Thursday, Sept. 13.
MY DEAR SIR,--Since I saw you I have, literally speaking, _enjoyed_
solitude. My sister could not accompany me in my rambles; I
therefore wandered alone by the side of the Thames, and in the
neighboring beautiful fields and pleasure grounds: the prospects
were of such a placid kind, I _caught_ tranquillity while I
surveyed them; my mind was _still_, though active. Were I to give
you an account how I have spent my time, you would smile. I found
an old French Bible here, and amused myself with comparing it with
our English translation; then I would listen to the falling leaves,
or observe the various tints the autumn gave to them. At other
times, the singing of a robin or the noise of a water-mill engaged
my attention; for I was at the same time, perhaps, discussing some
knotty point, or straying from this _tiny_ world to new systems.
After these excursions I returned to the family meals, told the
children stories (they think me _vastly_ agreeable), and my sister
was amused. Well, will you allow me to call this way of passing my
days pleasant?
I was just going to mend my pen; but I believe it will enable me to
say all I have to add to this epistle. Have you yet heard of an
habitation for me? I often think of my new plan of life; and lest
my sister should try to prevail on me to alter it, I have avoided
mentioning it to her. I am determined! Your sex generally laugh at
female determinations; but let me tell you, I never yet resolved to
do anything of consequence, that I did not adhere resolutely to it,
till I had accomplished my purpose, improbable as it might have
appeared to a more timid mind. In the course of near nine and
twenty years I have gathered some experience, and felt many
_severe_ disappointments; and what is the amount? I long for a
little peace and _independence_! Every obligation we receive from
our fellow-creatures is a new shackle, takes from our native
freedom, and debases the mind, makes us mere earthworms. I am not
fond of grovelling!
I am, Sir, yours, etc.,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
When she parted from Lady Kingsborough, and the time arrived for
beginning her new life, she thought it best to communicate her prospects
to Everina; but she begged the latter not to mention them to any one
else. She seems for some time to have wished that her family at least
should know nothing of her whereabouts or her occupations.
She wrote from London on the 7th of November to Everina,--
I am, my dear girl, once more thrown on the world. I _have_ left
Lord K.'s, and they return next week to Mitchelstown. I long since
imagined that my departure would be sudden. I have not _seen_ Mrs.
Burgh, but I have informed her of this circumstance, and at the
same time mentioned to her, that I was determined not to see any of
my friends till I am in a way to earn my own subsistence. And to
this determination I _will_ adhere. You can conceive how
disagreeable pity and advice would be at this juncture. I have two
other cogent reasons. Before I go on will you pause, and if, after
deliberating, you will promise not to mention to any one what you
know of my designs, though you may think my requesting you to
conceal them unreasonable, I will trust to your honor, and proceed.
Mr. Johnson, whose uncommon kindness, I believe, has saved me from
despair and vexation I shrink back from, and fear to encounter,
assures me that if I exert my talents in writing, I may support
myself in a comfortable way. I am then going to be the first of a
new genus. I tremble at the attempt; yet if I fail _I_ only suffer;
and should I succeed, my dear girls will ever in sickness have a
home and a refuge, where for a few months in the year they may
forget the cares that disturb the rest. I shall strain every nerve
to obtain a situation for Eliza nearer town: in short, I am once
more involved in schemes. Heaven only knows whether they will
answer! Yet while they are pursued life slips away. I would not on
any account inform my father or Edward of my designs. You and Eliza
are the only part of the family I am interested about; I wish to be
a mother to you both. My undertaking would subject me to ridicule
and an inundation of friendly advice to which I cannot listen; I
must be independent. I wish to introduce you to Mr. Johnson. You
would respect him; and his sensible conversation would soon wear
away the impression that a formality, or rather stiffness of
manners, first makes to his disadvantage. I am sure you would love
him, did you know with what tenderness and humanity he has behaved
to me....
I cannot write more explicitly. I have indeed been very much
harassed. But Providence has been very kind to me, and when I
reflect on past mercies, I am not without hope with respect to the
future; and freedom, even uncertain freedom, is dear.... This
project has long floated in my mind. You know I am not born to
tread in the beaten track; the peculiar bent of my nature pushes me
on. Adieu; believe me ever your sincere friend and affectionate
sister,
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
Seas will not now divide us, nor years elapse before we see each
other.
Thus, hopeful for herself and her sisters, she started out upon a new
road, which, smoother than any she had yet trodden, was not without its
many thorns and pitfalls. For a little while she stayed with Mr. Johnson,
whose house was then, as ever, open to her. But as soon as possible she
moved to lodgings he found for her in George Street, in the neighborhood
of Blackfriars' Bridge. Here she was near him, and this was an important
consideration, as the work he proposed to give her necessitated frequent
intercourse between them, and it was also an advantage for her to be
within reasonable distance of the only friend she possessed in London.
Mr. Johnson made her his "reader;" that is to say, he gave her the
manuscripts sent to him to read and criticise; he also required that she
should translate for him foreign works, for which there was then a great
demand, and that she should contribute to the "Analytical Review," which
had just been established. Her position was a good one. It is true it
left her little time for original work, and Godwin thought that it
contracted rather than enlarged her genius for the time being. But it
gave her a certain valuable experience and much practice which she would
not otherwise have obtained, and it insured her steady employment. She
was to the publisher what a staff contributor is to a newspaper. Whenever
anything was to be done, she was called upon to do it. Therefore, there
was no danger of her dying of starvation in a garret, like Chatterton, or
of her offering her manuscripts to one unwilling bookseller after
another, as happened to Carlyle.
She did not disappoint Mr. Johnson's expectations. She worked well and
diligently, being thoroughly conscientious in whatever she did. The
office of "reader" is no mere sinecure; it requires a keen critical
sense, an impartial mind, and not a little moral courage. The first of
these qualifications Mary possessed naturally, and her honesty enabled
her to cultivate the two last. She was as fearless in her criticisms as
she was just; she praised and found fault with equal temerity. This
disagreeable duty was the indirect cause of the happiest event of her
life. The circumstance in question belongs to a later date, but it may
more appropriately be mentioned here in connection with this branch of
her work. On one occasion she had to read a volume of Essays written by
Miss Hayes. The preface displeased her, and this she told the author,
stating her reasons with unhesitating frankness. Miss Hayes was a woman
capable of appreciating such candor of speech; and the business
transaction led to a sincere and lasting friendship. Miss Hayes was the
mutual friend who succeeded in producing a better feeling between Godwin
and Mary, who, as the sequel will show, were not very friendly when they
first met. This fact adds a personal interest to Mary's letter. She
writes,--
"I yesterday mentioned to Mr. Johnson your request, and he
assented, desiring that the titlepage might be sent to him. I
therefore can say nothing more, for trifles of this kind I have
always left to him to settle; and you must be aware, madam, that
the _honor_ of publishing, the phrase on which you have laid a
stress, is the cant of both trade and sex; for if really equality
should ever take place in society, the man who is employed and
gives a just equivalent for the money he receives will not behave
with the servile obsequiousness of a servant.
"I am now going to treat you with still greater frankness. I do not
approve of your preface, and I will tell you why: if your work
should deserve attention, it is a blur on the very face of it.
Disadvantages of education, etc., ought, in my opinion, never to be
pleaded with the public in excuse for defects of any importance,
because if the writer has not sufficient strength of mind to
overcome the common difficulties that lie in his way, nature seems
to command him, with a very audible voice, to leave the task of
instructing others to those who can. This kind of vain humility has
ever disgusted me; and I should say to an author, who humbly sued
for forbearance, If you have not a tolerably good opinion of your
own production, why intrude it on the public? We have plenty of bad
books already, that have just gasped for breath and died. The last
paragraph I particularly object to, it is so full of vanity. Your
male friends will still treat you like a woman; and many a man, for
instance Dr. Johnson, Lord Littleton, and even Dr. Priestley have
insensibly been led to utter warm eulogiums in private that they
would be sorry openly to avow without some cooling explanatory ifs.
An author, especially a woman, should be cautious, lest she too
hastily swallows the crude praises which partial friend and polite
acquaintance bestow thoughtlessly when the supplicating eye looks
for them. In short, it requires great resolution to try rather to
be useful than to please. With this remark in your head, I must beg
you to pardon my freedom whilst you consider the purport of what I
am going to add,--rest on yourself. If your essays have merit,
they will stand alone; if not, the _shouldering up_ of Dr. this or
that will not long keep them from falling to the ground. The vulgar
have a pertinent proverb, 'Too many cooks spoil the broth;' and let
me remind you that when weakness claims indulgence, it seems to
justify the despotism of strength. Indeed, the preface, and even
your pamphlet, is too full of yourself. Inquiries ought to be made
before they are answered; and till a work strongly interests the
public, true modesty should keep the author in the background, for
it is only about the character and life of a _good_ author that
curiosity is active. A blossom is but a blossom."
It is a pity that most of Mary's contributions to the "Analytical
Review," being unsigned, cannot be credited to her. She wrote for it many
reviews and similar articles, and they probably were characterized by her
uncompromising honesty and straightforwardness of speech. "If you do not
like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J----'s S---- on his wife," she
wrote in a note to Mr. Johnson, "be it known unto you, I _will_ not do it
any other way. I felt some pleasure in paying a just tribute of respect
to the memory of a man, who, spite of all his faults, I have an affection
for." From this it appears, that to tell the truth in these matters was
not always an uncongenial duty.
She was principally occupied in translating. Following Mr. Johnson's
advice, she had while in Ireland perfected her French. She was tolerably
familiar with Italian; and she now devoted all her spare minutes, and
these could not have been many, to mastering German. Her energy was
unflagging, and her determination to succeed in the calling she had
chosen, indomitable. By studying she was laying up the only capital she
knew how to accumulate, and she feared her future loss should she not
make use of present opportunities. She wrote to Mr. Johnson, who was
materially interested in her progress,--
I really want a German grammar, as I intend to attempt to learn
that language, and I will tell you the reason why. While I live, I
am persuaded, I must exert my understanding to procure an
independence and render myself useful. To make the task easier, I
ought to store my mind with knowledge. The seed-time is passing
away. I see the necessity of laboring now, and of that necessity I
do not complain; on the contrary, I am thankful that I have more
than common incentives to pursue knowledge, and draw my pleasures
from the employments that are within my reach. You perceive this is
not a gloomy day. I feel at this moment particularly grateful to
you. Without your humane and _delicate_ assistance, how many
obstacles should I not have had to encounter! Too often should I
have been out of patience with my fellow-creatures, whom I wish to
love. Allow me to love you, my dear sir, and call friend a being I
respect. Adieu.
MARY W.
She had indeed reason to be grateful to Mr. Johnson, and she expressed
her gratitude in a more practical way than by protestations. The German
grammar was not wasted. Before long Mary undertook for practice to
translate Salzmann's "Elements of Morality," and her exercise proved so
masterly that she, with a few corrections and additions, published it.
This gave rise to a correspondence between the author and herself; and
after several years the former returned the compliment by translating the
"Rights of Women" into German. Some idea will be given of her industry
when it is stated that during the five years of her London life, she, in
addition to the work already mentioned, rewrote a translation from the
Dutch of "Young Grandison;" translated from the French "Young Robinson,"
Necker on "Religious Opinions," and Lavater's "Physiognomy;" wrote a
volume of "Original Stories from Real Life for Children," and compiled a
"Female Reader." As these works were undertaken for money rather than for
fame, she did not through them exert any personal influence on
contemporary thought, or leave any impression on posterity.
She never degenerated, however, into a mere hack writer, nor did she
accept the literary tasks which came in her way, unless she felt able to
accomplish them. She was too conscientious to fall into a fault
unfortunately common among men and women in a similar position. She did
not shrink from any work, if she knew she was capable of doing it
justice. When it was beyond her powers, she frankly admitted this to be
the case. Thus, she once wrote to Mr. Johnson:--
"I return you the Italian manuscript, but do not hastily imagine
that I am indolent. I would not spare any labor to do my duty; that
single thought would solace me more than any pleasures the senses
could enjoy. I find I could not translate the manuscript well. If
it were not a manuscript I should not be so easily intimidated; but
the hand, and errors in orthography or abbreviations, are a
stumbling-block at the first setting out. I cannot bear to do
anything I cannot do well; and I should lose time in the vain
attempt."
When she settled in London, she was in no humor for social pleasures. Her
sole ambition was to be useful, and she worked incessantly. She at first
hid herself from almost everybody. When she expected her sisters to stay
with her, she begged them beforehand, "If you pay any visits, you will
comply with my whim and not mention my place of abode or mode of life."
She lived in very simple fashion; her rooms were furnished with the
merest necessities. Another warning she had to give Everina and Mrs.
Bishop was, "I have a room, but not furniture. J. offered you both a bed
in his house, but that would not be pleasant. I believe I must try to
purchase a bed, which I shall reserve for my poor girls while I have a
house." It has been recorded that Talleyrand visited her in her lodgings
on George Street, and that while the two discussed social and political
problems, they drank their tea and then their wine from tea-cups,
wine-glasses being an elegance beyond Mary's means. Her dress was as
plain as her furniture. Her gowns were mean in material and often shabby,
and her hair hung loosely on her shoulders, instead of being twisted and
looped as was then fashionable. Knowles, in his "Life of Fuseli," finds
fault with her on this account. She was not, however, a _philosophical
sloven_, with _romantic_ ideas of benevolence, as he intimates. Either he
or Fuseli strangely misjudged her. The reason she paid so little heed to
the luxuries and frivolities which custom then exacted, was because other
more pressing demands were made upon her limited income. Then, as usual,
she was troubled by the wretched complications and misfortunes of her
family. The entire care and responsibility fell upon her shoulders. None
of the other members seemed to consider that she was as destitute as they
were,--that what she _did_ was literally her one source of revenue.
Assistance would have been as welcome to her as it was to them. But they
accepted what she had to give, and were never deterred by reflecting upon
the difficulty with which she responded to their needs. This is always
the way. The strong are made to bear the burdens of the weak.
The amount of practical help she gave them is almost incredible. Eliza
and Everina had, when the school at Newington Green failed, become
governesses, but their education had been so sadly neglected that they
were not competent for their work. Mary, knowing this, sent Everina to
France, that she might study to be a good French teacher. The tide of
emigration caused by the Revolution had only just begun, and French
governesses and tutors were not the drug on the market they became later.
Everina remained two years in France at her eldest sister's expense. Mary
found a place for Eliza, first as parlor boarder, and then as assistant,
in an excellent school near London. For most of the time, however, both
sisters were birds of passage. Everina was for a while at Putney, and
then in Ireland, where she probably learned for herself the discomforts
which Mary had once endured. Eliza was now at Market Harborough and
Henley, and again at Putney, and finally she obtained a situation in
Pembrokeshire, Wales, which she retained longer than any she had hitherto
held. During these years there were occasional intermissions when both
sisters were out of work, and there were holiday seasons to be provided
for. To their father's house it was still impossible for them to go. Its
wretchedness was so great, it could no longer be called a home. Eliza,
soon to see it, found it unbearable. Edward, it appears, was willing to
give shelter to Everina; but this brother, of whom less mention is made
in the sisters' letters, was never a favorite, and residence with him was
an evil to be avoided. The one place, therefore, where they were sure of
a warm welcome was the humble lodging near Blackfriars' Bridge. Mary
fulfilled her promise of being a mother to them both. She stinted herself
that she might make their lot more endurable.
When Eliza went to begin her Welsh engagement at Upton Castle, she spent
a night on the way with her father. Her report of this visit opened a new
channel for Mary's benevolence. Mr. Wollstonecraft was then living at
Laugharne, where he had taken his family many years before, and where his
daughters had made several very good friends. But Eliza, as she lamented
to Everina, went sadly from one old beloved haunt to another, without
meeting an eye which glistened at seeing her. Old acquaintances were
dead, or had sought a home elsewhere. The few who were left would not,
probably because of the father's disgrace, come to see her. The
step-mother, the second Mrs. Wollstonecraft, was helpful and economical;
but her thrift availed little against the drunken follies of her husband.
The latter had but just recovered from an illness. He was worn to a
skeleton, he coughed and groaned all night in a way to make the
listener's blood run cold, and he could not walk ten yards without
pausing to pant for breath. His poverty was so abject that his clothes
were barely decent, and his habits so low that he was indifferent to
personal cleanliness. For days and weeks after she had seen him, Eliza
was haunted by the memory of his unkempt hair and beard, his red face
and his beggarly shabbiness. Poor unfortunate Charles, the last child
left at home, was half-naked, and his time was spent in quarrelling with
his father. Eliza, who knew how to be independent, was irritated by her
brother's idleness. "I am very cool to Charles, and have said all I can
to rouse him," she wrote to Everina; but then immediately she added,
forced to do him justice, "But where can he go in his present plight?" It
scarcely seems possible that such misery should have befallen a
gentleman's family. Mr. Wollstonecraft's one cry, through it all, was for
money. He threatened to go to London in his rags, and compel the obdurate
Edward to comply with his demands. When Eliza told him of the sacrifices
Mary made in order to help him, he only flew into a rage.
It was not long before Mary had brought Charles to London. The first
thing to be done for him was much what Mr. Dick had advised in the case
of ragged David Copperfield, and her initiatory act in his behalf was to
clothe him. She took him to her house, where he lived, if not elegantly
and extravagantly, at least decently, a new experience for the poor lad.
She then had him articled to Edward, the attorney; but this experiment,
as might have been expected, proved a failure. Mary next consulted with
Mr. Barlow about the chances of settling him advantageously on a farm in
America; and to prepare him for this life, which seemed full of promise,
she sent him to serve a sort of apprenticeship with an English farmer.
About this time James, the second son, who had been at sea, came home,
and for him also Mary found room in her lodgings until, through her
influence, he went to Woolwich, where for a few months he was under the
instruction of Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, as a preparation to
enter the Royal Navy. He eventually went on Lord Hood's fleet as a
midshipman, and was then promoted to the rank of lieutenant, after which
he appears to have been able to shift for himself.
Mary, as if this were not enough, also undertook the care of her father's
estate, or rather of the little left of it. Mr. Wollstonecraft had long
since been incapable of managing his own affairs, and had intrusted them
to some relations, with whose management Mary was not satisfied. She
consequently took matters into her own hands, though she could ill afford
to spare the time for this new duty. She did all that was possible to
disembarrass the estate so that it might produce sufficient for her
father's maintenance. She was ably assisted by Mr. Johnson. "During a
part of this period," he wrote of her residence in George Street, "which
certainly was the most active part of her life, she had the care of her
father's estate, which was attended with no little trouble to both of us.
She could not," he adds, "during this time, I think, expend less than
L200 on her brothers and sisters." Their combined efforts were in vain.
Mr. Wollstonecraft had succeeded too well in ruining himself; and for the
remainder of her life all Mary could do for him was to help him with her
money. Godwin says that, in addition to these already burdensome duties,
she took charge, in her own house, of a little girl of seven years of
age, a relation of Mr. Skeys.
She struggled bravely, but there were times when it required superhuman
efforts to persevere. She was subject to attacks of depression which
usually resulted in physical illness. She gives a graphic description of
the mental and bodily weakness against which she had to fight, in a note
written at this period and addressed to Mr. Johnson:--
"I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
suggestions of reason. Your note, I can scarcely tell why, hurt me,
and produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of
despondent tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill;
Heaven knows it was more than fancy. After some sleepless,
wearisome nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious. Last
Thursday, in particular, I imagined ---- was thrown into his great
distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist him, was in an
agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of irritation I
suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary, and might
have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blush when I
recollect how often I have teased you with childish complaints and
the reveries of a disordered imagination. I even _imagined_ that I
intruded on you, because you never called on me though you
perceived that I was not well. I have nourished a sickly kind of
delicacy, which gave me as many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge
that life is but a jest, and often a frightful dream, yet catch
myself every day searching for something serious, and feel real
misery from the disappointment. I am a strange compound of weakness
and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will endeavor to
suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my mind; my
wayward heart creates its own misery. Why I am made thus, I cannot
tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence,
I must be content to weep and dance like a child,--long for a toy,
and be tired of it as soon as I get it.
"We must each of us wear a fool's cap; but mine, alas! has lost its
bells and grown so heavy I find it intolerably troublesome.
Good-night! I have been pursuing a number of strange thoughts since
I began to write, and have actually both laughed and wept
immoderately. Surely I am a fool."
In these dark days it was always to Mr. Johnson she turned for sympathy
and advice. She had never been on very confidential terms with either of
her sisters, and her friendship with George Blood had grown cooler. Their
paths in life had so widely diverged that this was unavoidable. The
following extract from a letter Mary wrote to him in the winter of 1791
shows that the change in their intimacy had not been caused by
ill-feeling on either side. He apparently had, through her, renewed his
offer of marriage to Everina, as he was now able to support a wife:--
"... Now, my dear George, let me more particularly allude to your
own affairs. I ought to have done so sooner, but there was an
awkwardness in the business that made me shrink back. We have all,
my good friend, a sisterly affection for you; and this very morning
Everina declared to me that she had more affection for you than for
either of her brothers; but, accustomed to view you in that light,
she cannot view you in any other. Let us then be on the old
footing; love us as we love you, but give your heart to some worthy
girl, and do not cherish an affection which may interfere with your
prospects when there is no reason to suppose that it will ever be
returned. Everina does not seem to think of marriage. She has no
particular attachment; yet she was anxious when I spoke explicitly
to her, to speak to you in the same terms, that she might
correspond with you as she has ever done, with sisterly freedom and
affection."
But good friends as they continued to be, he was far away in Dublin, with
different interests; and Mary craved immediate and comprehensive
sympathy. Mr. Johnson was ever ready to administer to her spiritual
wants; he was a friend in very truth. He evidently understood her nature
and knew how best to deal with her when she was in these moods. "During
her stay in George Street," he says in a note referring to her, "she
spent many of her afternoons and most of her evenings with me. She was
incapable of disguise. Whatever was the state of her mind, it appeared
when she entered, and the tone of conversation might easily be guessed.
When harassed, which was very often the case, she was relieved by
unbosoming herself, and generally returned home calm, frequently in
spirits." Sometimes her mental condition threatened to interfere
seriously with her work, and then again Mr. Johnson knew how to stimulate
and encourage her. When she was writing her answer to Burke's
"Reflections on the French Revolution," and when the first half of her
paper had been sent to the printer, her interest in her subject and her
power of writing suddenly deserted her. It was important to publish all
that was written in the controversy while public attention was still
directed to it. And yet, though Mary knew this full well, it was simply
impossible for her to finish what she had eagerly begun. In this frame of
mind she called upon Mr. Johnson and told him her troubles. Instead of
finding fault with her, he was sympathetic and bade her not to worry, for
if she could not continue her pamphlet he would throw aside the printed
sheets. This roused her pride. It was a far better stimulus than abuse
would have been, and it sent her home to write the second half
immediately. That she at times reproached herself for taking undue
advantage of Mr. Johnson's kindness appears from the following apologetic
little note:--
You made me very low-spirited last night by your manner of talking.
You are my only friend, the only person I am _intimate_ with. I
never had a father or a brother; you have been both to me ever
since I knew you, yet I have sometimes been very petulant. I have
been thinking of those instances of ill-humor and quickness, and
they appear like crimes.
Yours sincerely,
MARY.
The dry morsel and quietness which were now her portion were infinitely
better than the house full of strife which she had just left. She was
happier than she had ever been before, but she was only happy by
comparison. Solitude was preferable to the society of Lady Kingsborough
and her friends, but for any one of Mary's temperament it could not be
esteemed as a good in itself. Her unnatural isolation fortunately did not
last very long. Her friendship with Mr. Johnson was sufficient in itself
to break through her barrier of reserve. She was constantly at his house,
and it was one of the gayest and most sociable in London. It was the
rendezvous of the _literati_ of the day. Persons of note, foreigners as
well as Englishmen, frequented it. There one could meet Fuseli,
impetuous, impatient, and overflowing with conversation; Paine, somewhat
hard to draw out of his shell; Bonnycastle, Dr. George Fordyce, Mr.
George Anderson, Dr. Geddes, and a host of other prominent artists,
scientists, and literary men. Their meetings were informal. They
gathered together to talk about what interested them, and not to simper
and smirk, and give utterance to platitudes and affectations, as was the
case with the society to which Mary had lately been introduced. The
people with whom she now became acquainted were too earnest to lay undue
stress on what Herbert Spencer calls the _non-essentials_ of social
intercourse. Sincerity was more valued by them than standard forms of
politeness. When Dr. Geddes was indignant with Fuseli, he did not
disguise his feelings, but in the face of the assembled company rushed
out of the room to walk two or three times around Saint Paul's
Churchyard, and then, when his rage had diminished, to return and resume
the argument. This indifference to conventionalities, which would have
been held by the polite world to be a fault, must have seemed to Mary,
after her late experience, an incomparable virtue. It is no wonder that
Mrs. Barbauld found the evenings she spent with her publisher lively. "We
protracted them sometimes till ----" she wrote to her brother in the
course of one of her visits to London. "But I am not telling tales. Ask
---- at what time we used to separate." Mary was also a welcome guest at
Mrs. Trimmer's house, which, like that of Mr. Johnson, was a centre of
attraction for clever people. This Mrs. Trimmer had acquired some little
literary reputation, and had secured the patronage of the royal family
and the clergy. She and Mary differed greatly, both in character and
creed, but they became very good friends. "I spent a day at Mrs.
Trimmer's, and found her a truly respectable woman," was the verdict the
latter sent to Everina; nor had she ever reason to alter it. Her intimacy
with Miss Hayes also brought her into contact with many of the same
class.
As soon as she began to be known in London, she was admired. She was
young,--being only twenty-nine when she came there to live--and she was
handsome. Her face was very striking. She had a profusion of auburn hair;
her eyes were brown and beautiful, despite a slight droop in one of them;
and her complexion, as is usually the case in connection with her
Titianesque coloring of hair and eyes, was rich and clear. The strength
and unutterable sadness of her expression combined with her other charms
to make her face one which a stranger would turn to look at a second
time. She possessed to a rare degree the power of attracting people. Few
could resist the influence of her personality. Added to this she talked
cleverly, and even brilliantly. The tone of her conversation was at times
acrid and gloomy. Long years of toil in a hard, unjust world had borne
the fruit of pessimism. She was too apt to overlook the bright for the
dark side of a picture. But this was a fault which was amply
counterbalanced by her talents. For the first time she made friends who
were competent to justly measure her merits. She was recognized to be a
woman of more than ordinary talents, and she was treated accordingly.
Mean clothes and shabby houses were no drawbacks to clever women in those
days. Mrs. Inchbald, in gowns "always becoming, and very seldom worth so
much as eight-pence," as one of her admirers described them, was
surrounded as soon as she entered a crowded room, even when powdered and
elegantly attired ladies of fashion were deserted. And Mary, though she
had not glasses out of which to drink her wine, and though her coiffure
was unfashionable, became a person of consequence in literary circles.
Under the influence of congenial social surroundings, she gave up her
habits of retirement. She began to find enjoyment in society, and her
interest in life revived. She could even be gay, nor was there so much
sorrow in her laughter as there had been of yore. Among the most intimate
of her new acquaintances were Mr. and Mrs. Fuseli; and the account has
been preserved of at least one pleasure party to which she accompanied
them. This was a masked ball, and young Lavater, then in England, was
with them. Masquerades were then at the height of popularity. All sorts
and conditions of men went to them. Beautiful Amelia Opie, in her poorest
days, spent five pounds to gain admittance to one given to the Russian
ambassadors. Mrs. Inchbald, when well advanced in years, could enter so
thoroughly into the spirit of another as to beg a friend to lend her a
faded blue silk handkerchief or sash, that she might represent her real
character of a _passee_ blue-stocking. Mary's gayety on the present
occasion was less artificial than it had been at the Dublin mask. But
Fuseli's hot temper and fondness for a joke brought their amusement to a
sudden end. They were watching the masks, when one among the latter,
dressed as a devil, danced up to them, and, with howls and many mad
pranks, made merry at their expense. Fuseli, when he found he could not
rid himself of the tormentor, called out half angrily, half facetiously,
"Go to Hell!" The devil proved to be of the dull species, and instead of
answering with a lively jest, broke out into a torrent of hot abuse, and
refused to be appeased. Fuseli, wishing to avoid a scene, literally
turned and fled, leaving Mary and the others to save themselves as best
they could.
At this period a man, whose name, luckily for himself, is now forgotten,
wished to make Mary his wife. Her treatment of him was characteristic. He
could not have known her very well, or else he would not have been so
foolish as to represent his financial prosperity as an argument in his
favor. For a woman to sell herself for money, even when the bargain was
sanctioned by the marriage ceremony, was, in her opinion, the
unpardonable sin. Therefore, what he probably intended as an honor, she
received as an insult. She declared that it must henceforward end her
acquaintance not only with him, but with the third person through whom
the offer was sent, and to whom Mary gave her answer. Her letters in
connection with this subject are among the most interesting in her
correspondence. They bear witness to the sanctity she attached to the
union of man and wife. Her views in this relation cannot be too
prominently brought forward, since, by manifesting the purity of her
principles, light is thrown on her subsequent conduct. In her first burst
of wrath she unbosomed herself to her ever-sympathetic confidant, Mr.
Johnson:--
"Mr. ---- called on me just now. Pray did you know his motive for
calling? I think him impertinently officious. He had left the house
before it had occurred to me in the strong light it does now, or I
should have told him so. My poverty makes me proud. I will not be
insulted by a superficial puppy. His intimacy with Miss ---- gave
him a privilege which he should not have assumed with me. A
proposal might be made to his cousin, a milliner's girl, which
should not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am
offended, and do not wish to see him again. When I meet him at your
house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him by the nose.
I can force my spirit to leave my body, but it shall never bend to
support that body. God of heaven, save thy child from this living
death! I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles; I am very
sick,--sick at heart."
Then she wrote to the man who had undertaken in an evil moment to deliver
the would-be lover's message:
SIR,--When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment, your
_officious_ message, which at first appeared to me a joke, looked
so very like an insult, I cannot forget it. To prevent, then, the
necessity of forcing a smile when I chance to meet you, I take the
earliest opportunity of informing you of my sentiments.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
This brief note seems to have called forth an answer, for Mary wrote
again, and this time more fully and explicitly:--
Sir,--It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter
again on a subject that has already raised a tumult of _indignant_
emotions in my bosom, which I was laboring to suppress when I
received your letter. I shall now _condescend_ to answer your
epistle; but let me first tell you that, in my _unprotected_
situation, I make a point of never forgiving a _deliberate
insult_,--and in that light I consider your late officious conduct.
It is not according to my nature to mince matters. I will tell you
in plain terms what I think. I have ever considered you in the
light of a _civil_ acquaintance,--on the word friend I lay a
peculiar emphasis,--and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and
_cruel_ to step forward to insult a woman whose conduct and
misfortunes demand respect. If my friend Mr. Johnson had made the
proposal, I should have been severely hurt, have thought him unkind
and unfeeling, but not _impertinent_. The privilege of intimacy you
had no claim to, and should have referred the man to myself, if you
had not sufficient discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor
and destitute; yet I have a spirit that will never bend, or take
indirect methods to obtain the consequences I despise; nay, if to
support life it was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the
struggle would soon be over. I can bear anything but my own
contempt.
In a few words, what I call an insult is the bare supposition that
I could for a moment think of _prostituting_ my person for a
maintenance; for in that point of view does such a marriage appear
to me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by
words and local opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my
own heart and understanding.
It is needless to say more; only you must excuse me when I add that
I wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could
so grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary, if
you were inclined to make one, nor any further expostulations. I
again repeat, I cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have
sufficient delicacy to respect poverty, even when it gives lustre
to a character; and I tell you, sir, I am _poor_, yet can live
without your benevolent exertions.
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.
Her struggles with work wearied her less than her struggles with the
follies of men, of which the foregoing is an example. Indeed, while she
was eminently fitted to enjoy society, she was also peculiarly
susceptible to the many slings and arrows from which those who live in
the world cannot escape. The very tenderness of her feelings for
humanity, which was a blessing in one way, was almost a curse in
another. For, just as the conferring of a benefit on one in need gave her
intense pleasure, so, if she was the chance cause of pain to friend or
foe, she suffered acutely. Intentionally she could not have injured any
man. But often a word or action, said or done in good faith, will involve
others in serious difficulties. The misery she endured under such
circumstances was greater than that aroused by her own individual
troubles. The thought that she had added to a fellow-sufferer's
life-burden cut her to the quick, and she was unsparing in her
self-reproaches. She then reached the very acme of mental torture, as is
seen by this letter to Mr. Johnson:--
"I am sick with vexation, and wish I could knock my foolish head
against the wall, that bodily pain might make me feel less anguish
from self-reproach! To say the truth, I was never more displeased
with myself, and I will tell you the cause. You may recollect that
I did not mention to you the circumstance of ---- having a fortune
left to him; nor did a hint of it drop from me when I conversed
with my sister, because I knew he had a sufficient motive for
concealing it. Last Sunday, when his character was aspersed, as I
thought unjustly, in the heat of vindication I informed ---- that
he was now independent; but, at the same time, desired him not to
repeat my information to B----; yet last Tuesday he told him all,
and the boy at B----'s gave Mrs. ---- an account of it. As Mr.
---- knew he had only made a confidant of me (I blush to think of
it!) he guessed the channel of intelligence, and this morning came,
not to reproach me,--I wish he had,--but to point out the injury I
have done him. Let what will be the consequence, I will reimburse
him, if I deny myself the necessaries of life, and even then my
folly will sting me. Perhaps you can scarcely conceive the misery I
at this moment endure. That I, whose power of doing good is so
limited, should do harm, galls my very soul. ---- may laugh at
these qualms, but, supposing Mr. ---- to be unworthy, I am not the
less to blame. Surely it is hell to despise one's self! I did not
want this additional vexation. At this time I have many that hang
heavily on my spirits. I shall not call on you this month, nor stir
out. My stomach has been so suddenly and violently affected, I am
unable to lean over the desk."
The sequel of the affair is not known, but this letter, because it is so
characteristic, is interesting.
The advantages social intercourse procured for her were, however, more
than sufficient compensation for the heart-beats it caused her. If there
is nothing so deteriorating as association with one's intellectual
inferiors, there is, on the other hand, nothing so improving as the
society of one's equals or superiors. Stimulated into mental activity by
her associates in the world in which she now moved, Mary's genius
expanded, and ideas but half formed developed into fixed principles. As
Swinburne says of Blake, she was born into the church of rebels. Her
present experience was her baptism. The times were exciting. The effect
of the work of Voltaire and the French philosophers was social upheaval
in France. The rebellion of the colonies and the agitation for reform at
home had encouraged the liberal party into new action. Men had fully
awakened to a realization of individual rights, and in their first
excitement could think and talk of nothing else. The interest then taken
in politics was general and wide-spread to a degree now unknown. Every
one, advocates and opponents alike, discussed the great social problems
of the day.
As a rule, the most regular frequenters of Mr. Johnson's house, and the
leaders of conversation during his evenings, were Reformers. Men like
Paine and Fuseli and Dr. Priestley were, each in his own fashion, seeking
to discover the true nature of human rights. As the Reformation in the
sixteenth century had aimed at freeing the religion of Christ from the
abuses and errors of centuries, and thus restoring it to its original
purity, so the political movement of the latter half of the eighteenth
century had for object the destruction of arbitrary laws and the
re-establishment of government on primary principles. The French
Revolution and the American Rebellion were but means to the greater end.
Philosophers, who systematized the dissatisfaction which the people felt
without being able to trace it to its true source, preached the necessity
of distinguishing between right and wrong _per se_, and right and wrong
as defined by custom. This was the doctrine which Mary heard most
frequently discussed, and it was but the embodiment of the motives which
had invariably governed her actions from the time she had urged her
sister to leave her husband. She had never, even in her most religious
days, been orthodox in her beliefs, nor conservative in her conduct. As
she said in a letter just quoted, she considered right and wrong in the
abstract, and never shielded herself by words or local opinions.
Hitherto, owing chiefly to her circumstances, she had been content to
accept her theory as a guide for herself in her relations to the world
and her fellow-beings. But now that her scope of influence was extended,
she felt compelled to communicate to others her moral creed, which had
assumed definite shape.
Her first public profession of her political and social faith was her
answer to Burke's "Reflections on the French Revolution," which had
summoned all the Liberals and Reformers in England to arms. Many came
forward boldly and refuted his arguments in print. Mary was among the
foremost, her pamphlet in reply to his being the first published. Later
authorities have given precedence to Dr. Priestley's, but this fact is
asserted by Godwin in his Memoirs, and he would hardly have made the
statement at a time when there were many living to deny it, had it not
been true. These answers naturally were received with abuse and sneers by
the Tories. Burke denounced his female opponents as "viragoes and English
_poissardes_;" and Horace Walpole wrote of them as "Amazonian allies,"
who "spit their rage at eighteen-pence a head, and will return to
Fleet-ditch, more fortunate in being forgotten than their predecessors,
immortalized in the 'Dunciad.'" Peter Burke, in his "Life of Burke," says
that the replies made by Dr. Price, Mrs. Macaulay, and Mary
Wollstonecraft were merely attempts and nothing more. Yet all three were
writers of too much force to be ignored. They were thrown into the shade
because Paine's "Rights of Man," written for the same purpose, was so
much more startling in its wholesale condemnation of government that the
principal attention of the public was drawn to it.
Mary's pamphlet, however, added considerably to her reputation,
especially among the Liberals. It was her first really important work.
Her success encouraged her greatly. It increased her confidence in her
powers and possibilities to influence the reading public. It therefore
proved an incentive to fresh exertions in the same field. Much as she was
interested in the rights of men, she was even more concerned with the
rights of women. The former had obtained many able defenders, but no one
had as yet thought of saying a word for the latter. Her own experience
had been so bitter that she realized the disadvantages of her sex as
others, whose path had been easier, never could. She saw that women were
hindered and hampered in a thousand and one ways by obstacles created not
by nature, but by man. And she also saw that long suffering had blinded
them to their, in her estimation, humiliating and too often painful
condition. A change for the better must originate with them, and yet how
was this possible, if they did not see their degradation?
"Can the sower sow by night,
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?"
Clearly, since she had found the light, it was her duty to illuminate
with it those who were groping in darkness. She could not with a word
revolutionize womankind, but she could at least be the herald to proclaim
the dawn of the day during which the good seed was to be sown. She had
discovered her life's mission, and, in her enthusiasm, she wrote the
"Vindication of the Rights of Women."