LIFE WITH GODWIN: MARRIAGE.
1796-1797.
Godwin and Mary did not at once marry. The former, in his "Political
Justice," had frankly confessed to the world that he thought the existing
institution of marriage an evil. Mary had by her conduct avowed her
agreement with him. But their views in this connection having already
been fully stated need not be repeated. In omitting to seek legal
sanction to their union both were acting in perfect accord with their
standard of morality. Judged according to their motives, neither can be
accused of wrong-doing. Pure in their own eyes, they deserve to be so in
the world's esteem. Their mistake consisted in their disregard of the
fact that, to preserve social order in the community, sacrifices are
required from the individual. They forgot--as Godwin, who was opposed to
sudden change, should not have forgotten--that laws made for men in
general cannot be arbitrarily altered to suit each man in particular.
Godwin, strange to say, was ruled in this matter not only by principle,
but by sentiment. For the first time his emotions were stirred, and he
really loved. He was more awed by his passion than a more susceptible man
would have been. It seemed to him too sacred to flaunt before the
public. "Nothing can be so ridiculous upon the face of it," he says in
the story of their love, "or so contrary to the genuine march of
sentiment, as to require the overflowing of the soul to wait upon a
ceremony, and that which, wherever delicacy and imagination exist, is of
all things most sacredly private, to blow a trumpet before it, and to
record the moment when it has arrived at its climax." Mary was anxious to
conceal, at least for a time, their new relationship. She was not ashamed
of it, for never, even when her actions seem most daring, did she swerve
from her ideas of right and wrong. But though, as a rule, people had
blinded themselves to the truth, some bitter things had been said about
her life with Imlay, and some friends had found it their duty to be
unkind. All that was unpleasant she had of course heard. One is always
sure to hear the evil spoken of one. A second offence against social
decrees would assuredly call forth redoubled discussion and increased
vituperation. The misery caused by her late experience was still vivid in
her memory. She was no less sensitive than she had been then, and she
shrank from a second scandal. She dreaded the world's harshness, much as
a Tennyson might that of critics whom he knows to be immeasurably his
inferiors.
The great change in their relations made little difference in their way
of living. Their determination to keep it secret would have been
sufficient to prevent any domestic innovations in the establishment of
either. But, in addition to this, Godwin had certain theories upon the
subject. Because his love was the outcome of strong feeling and not of
calm discussion, his reliance upon reason, as the regulator of his
actions, did not cease. The habits of a life-time could not be so easily
broken. If he had not governed love in its growth, he at least ruled its
expression. It was necessary to decide upon a course of conduct for the
two lives now made one. At this juncture he was again the placid
philosopher. It had occurred to him, probably in the days when Hannah
Godwin was wife-hunting for him, or later, when Amelia Alderson met with
his good-will, that if husband and wife live on too intimate and familiar
terms, the chances are they will tire of each other very soon. When the
charm of novelty and uncertainty is removed, there is danger of satiety.
Whereas, if domestic pleasures can be combined with a little of the
formality which exists previous to marriage, all the advantages of the
married state are secured, while the monotony that too often kills
passion is avoided. Since he and Mary were to be really, if not legally,
man and wife, the time had come to test the truth of these ideas. The
plan he proposed was that they should be as independent of each other as
they had hitherto been, that the time spent together should not in any
way be restricted or regulated by stated hours, and that, in their
amusements and social intercourse, each should continue wholly free.
Mary readily acquiesced, though such a suggestion would probably never
have originated with her. Her heart was too large and warm for doubts,
where love was concerned. She was the very opposite of Godwin in this
respect. She had the poetic rather than the philosophic temperament, and
when she loved it was with an intensity that made analysis of her
feelings and their possible results out of the question. It is true that
in her "Rights of Women" she had shown that passion must inevitably lose
its first ardor, and that love between man and wife must in the course of
time become either friendship or indifference. But while she had reasoned
dispassionately in an abstract treatise, she had not been equally
temperate in the direction of her own affairs. Her love for Imlay had not
passed into the second stage, but his had deteriorated into indifference
very quickly. Godwin was, as she well knew, in every way unlike Imlay.
That she felt perfect confidence in him is seen by her willingness to
live with him. But still, sure as she was of his innate uprightness, when
he suggested to her means by which to insure the continuance of his love,
she was only too glad to adopt them. She had learned, if not to be
prudent herself, at least to comply with the prudence of others.
It would not be well perhaps for every one to follow their plan of life,
but with them it succeeded admirably. Godwin remained in his lodgings,
Mary in hers. He continued his old routine of work, made his usual round
of visits, and went by himself, as of yore, to the theatre, and to the
dinners and suppers of his friends. Mary pursued uninterruptedly her
studies and writings, conducted her domestic concerns in the same way,
and sought her amusements singly, sometimes meeting Godwin quite
unexpectedly at the play or in private houses. His visits to her were as
irregular in point of time as they had previously been, and when one
wanted to make sure of the other for a certain hour or at a certain
place, a regular engagement had to be made. The thoroughness with which
they maintained their independence is illustrated by the following note
which Mary sent to Godwin one morning, about a month before their
marriage:--
"Did I not see you, friend Godwin, at the theatre last night? I
thought I met a smile, but you went out without looking around."
She was not mistaken. Godwin has recorded in his diary that he was at the
theatre on that particular occasion. They not only did not inform each
other of their movements, but they even considered it unnecessary to
speak when they met by chance. Godwin's realization of his theory further
confirmed him in the belief that in this particular he was right. When he
wrote "St. Leon," he is supposed to have intended Marguerite, the
heroine, for the picture of his wife. In that novel, in his account of
the hero's domestic affairs, he indirectly testifies to the merits of his
own home-life. St. Leon says:--
"We had each our separate pursuits, whether for the cultivation of
our minds or the promotion of our mutual interests. Separation gave
us respectability in each other's eyes, while it prepared us to
enter with fresh ardor into society and conversation."
The peculiar terms on which they lived had at least one advantage. They
were the means of giving to later generations a clear insight into their
domestic relations. For, as the two occupied separate lodgings and were
apart during the greater part of the day, they often wrote to each other
concerning matters which people so united usually settle by word of
mouth. Godwin's diary was a record of bare facts. Mary never kept one.
There was no one else to describe their every-day life. This is exactly
what is accomplished by the notes which thus, while they are without
absolute merit, are of relative importance. They are really little
informal conversations on paper. To read them is like listening to some
one talking. They show how ready Mary was to enlist Godwin's sympathy on
all occasions, small as well as great, and how equally ready he was to be
interested. It is always a surprise to find that the children of light
are, despite their high mission, made of the same stuff as other men. It
is therefore strange to hear these two apostles of reform talking much in
the same strain as ordinary mortals, making engagements to dine on beef,
groaning over petty ailments and miseries, and greeting each other in
true _bon compagnon_ style. Mary's notes, like her letters to Imlay, are
essentially feminine. Short as they are, they are full of womanly
tenderness and weakness. Sometimes she wrote to invite Godwin to dinner
or to notify him that she intended calling at his apartments, at the same
time sending a bulletin of her health and of her plans for the day. At
others she seems to have written simply because she could not wait, even
a few hours, to make a desired explanation, to express an irrepressible
complaint, or to acquaint him with some domestic _contretemps_. The
following are fair specimens of this correspondence:--
Jan. 5, 1797.
_Thursday morning._--I was very glad that you were not with me last
night, for I could not rouse myself. To say the truth, I was unwell
and out of spirits; I am better to-day.
I shall take a walk before dinner, and expect to see you this
evening, _chez moi_, about eight, if you have no objection.
Jan. 12, 1797.
_Thursday morning._--I am better this morning, but it snows so
incessantly that I do not know how I shall be able to keep my
appointment this evening. What say you? But you have no petticoats
to dangle in the snow. Poor women,--how they are beset with plagues
within and without!
Jan. 13, 1797.
_Friday morning._--I believe I ought to beg your pardon for talking
at you last night, though it was in sheer simplicity of heart, and
I have been asking myself why it so happened. Faith and troth, it
was because there was nobody else worth attacking, or who could
converse. C. had wearied me before you entered. But be assured,
when I find a man that has anything in him, I shall let my
every-day dish alone.
I send you the "Emma" for Mrs. Inchbald, supposing you have not
altered your mind.
Bring Holcroft's remarks with you, and Ben Jonson.
Jan. 27, 1797.
I am not well this morning. It is very tormenting to be thus,
neither sick nor well, especially as you scarcely imagine me
indisposed.
Women are certainly great fools; but nature made them so. I have
not time or paper, else I could draw an inference, not very
illustrative of your chance-medley system. But I spare the
moth-like opinion; there is room enough in the world, etc.
Feb. 3, 1797.
_Friday morning._--Mrs. Inchbald was gone into the city to dinner,
so I had to measure back my steps.
To-day I find myself better, and, as the weather is fine, mean to
call on Dr. Fordyce. I shall leave home about two o'clock. I tell
you so, lest you should call after that hour. I do not think of
visiting you in my way, because I seem inclined to be industrious.
I believe I feel affectionate to you in proportion as I am in
spirits; still I must not dally with you, when I can do anything
else. There is a civil speech for you to chew.
Feb. 22, 1797.
Everina's [her sister was at this time staying with her] cold is
still so bad, that unless pique urges her, she will not go out
to-day. For to-morrow I think I may venture to promise. I will
call, if possible, this morning. I know I must come before half
after one; but if you hear nothing more from me, you had better
come to my house this evening.
Will you send the second volume of "Caleb," and pray _lend_ me a
bit of Indian-rubber. I have lost mine. Should you be obliged to
quit home before the hour I have mentioned, say. You will not
forget that we are to dine at four. I wish to be exact, because I
have promised to let Mary go and assist her brother this afternoon.
I have been tormented all this morning by puss, who has had four or
five fits. I could not conceive what occasioned them, and took care
that she should not be terrified. But she flew up my chimney, and
was so wild, that I thought it right to have her drowned. Fanny
imagines that she was sick and ran away.
March 11, 1797.
_Saturday morning._--I must dine to-day with Mrs. Christie, and
mean to return as early as I can; they seldom dine before five.
Should you call and find only books, have a little patience, and I
shall be with you.
Do not give Fanny a cake to-day. I am afraid she stayed too long
with you yesterday.
You are to dine with me on Monday, remember; the salt beef awaits
your pleasure.
March 17, 1797.
_Friday morning._--And so, you goose, you lost your supper, and
deserved to lose it, for not desiring Mary to give you some beef.
There is a good boy, write me a review of Vaurien. I remember there
is an absurd attack on a Methodist preacher because he denied the
eternity of future punishments.
I should be glad to have the Italian, were it possible, this week,
because I promised to let Johnson have it this week.
These notes speak for themselves.
There was now a decided improvement in the lives of both Mary and Godwin.
The latter, under the new influence, was humanized. Domestic ties, which
he had never known before, softened him. He hereafter appears not only as
the passionless philosopher, but as the loving husband and the
affectionate father, little Fanny Imlay being treated by him as if she
had been his own child. His love transformed him from a mere student of
men to a man like all others. He who had always been, so far as his
emotional nature was concerned, apart from the rest of his kind, was, in
the end, one with them. From being a sceptic on the subject, he was
converted into a firm believer in human passion. With the zeal usually
attributed to converts, he became as warm in his praise of the emotions
as he had before been indifferent in his estimation of them. This change
is greatly to Mary's credit. As, in his Introduction to "St. Leon" he
made his public recantation of faith, so in the course of the story he
elaborated his new doctrines, and, by so doing, paid tribute to the woman
who had wrought the wonder. His hero's description of married pleasures
being based on his own knowledge of them, he writes:--
"Now only it was that I tasted of perfect happiness. To judge from
my own experience in this situation, I should say that nature has
atoned for all the disasters and miseries she so copiously and
incessantly pours upon her sons by this one gift, the transcendent
enjoyment and nameless delights which, wherever the heart is pure
and the soul is refined, wait on the attachment of two persons of
opposite sexes.... It has been said to be a peculiar felicity for
any one to be praised by a man who is himself eminently a subject
of praise; how much happier to be prized and loved by a person
worthy of love. A man may be prized and valued by his friend; but
in how different a style of sentiment from the regard and
attachment that may reign in the bosom of his mistress or his
wife.... In every state we long for some fond bosom on which to
rest our weary head; some speaking eye with which to exchange the
glances of intelligence and affection. Then the soul warms and
expands itself; then it shuns the observation of every other
beholder; then it melts with feelings that are inexpressible, but
which the heart understands without the aid of words; then the eyes
swim with rapture, then the frame languishes with enjoyment; then
the soul burns with fire; then the two persons thus blest are no
longer two; distance vanishes, one thought animates, one mind
informs them. Thus love acts; thus it is ripened to perfection;
never does man feel himself so much alive, so truly ethereal, as
when, bursting the bonds of diffidence, uncertainty, and reserve,
he pours himself entire into the bosom of the woman he adores."
Mary was as much metamorphosed by her new circumstances as Godwin. Her
heart at rest, she grew gay and happy. She was at all times, even when
harassed with cares, thoughtful of other people. When her own troubles
had ceased, her increased kindliness was shown in many little ways, which
unfortunately cannot be appreciated by posterity, but which made her, to
her contemporaries, a more than ever delightful companion and sympathetic
friend. "She had always possessed," Godwin says of her, "in an
unparalleled degree the art of communicating happiness, and she was now
in the constant and unlimited exercise of it. She seemed to have attained
that situation which her disposition and character imperiously demanded,
but which she had never before attained; and her understanding and her
heart felt the benefit of it." She never at any time tried to hide her
feelings, whatever these might be; therefore she did not disguise her
new-found happiness, though she gave no reason for its existence. It
revealed itself in her face, in her manners, and even in her
conversation. "The serenity of her countenance," again to quote Godwin,
best of all authorities for this period of her life, "the increasing
sweetness of her manners, and that consciousness of enjoyment that seemed
ambitious that every one she saw should be happy as well as herself, were
matters of general observation to all her acquaintance." Her beauty,
depending so much more upon expression than upon charm of coloring or
regularity of features, naturally developed rather than decreased with
years. Suffering and happiness had left their impress upon her face,
giving it the strength, the strange melancholy, and the tenderness which
characterize her portrait, painted by Opie about this time. Southey, who
was just then visiting London, bears witness to her striking personal
appearance. He wrote to his friend Cottle:--
"Of all the lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's
countenance is the best, infinitely the best; the only fault in it
is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke
display,--an expression indicating superiority, not haughtiness,
not sarcasm in Mary Imlay, but still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are
light brown, and although the lid of one of them is affected by a
little paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw."{1}
{1} Mr. Kegan Paul, in the spring of 1884, showed the author of this
Life a lock of Mary Wollstonecraft's hair. It is wonderfully
soft in texture, and in color a rich auburn, turning to gold in
the sunlight.
On March 29, 1797, after they had lived together happily and serenely for
seven months, Mary and Godwin were married. The marriage ceremony was
performed at old Saint Pancras Church, in London, and Mr. Marshal, their
mutual friend, and the clerk were the only witnesses. So unimportant did
it seem to Godwin, to whom reason was more binding than any conventional
form, that he never mentioned it in his diary, though in the latter he
kept a strict account of his daily actions. It meant as little to Mary as
it did to him, and she playfully alluded to the change, in one of her
notes written a day or two afterwards:
March 31, 1797.
_Tuesday._--I return you the volumes; will you get me the rest? I
have not perhaps given it as careful a reading as some of the
sentiments deserve.
Pray send me by Mary, for my luncheon, a part of the supper you
announced to me last night, as I am to be a partaker of your
worldly goods, you know!
They were induced to take this step, not by any dissatisfaction with the
nature of the connection they had already formed, but by the fact that
Mary was soon to become a mother for the second time. Godwin explains
that "she was unwilling, and perhaps with reason, to incur that exclusion
from the society of many valuable and excellent individuals, which custom
awards in cases of this sort. I should have felt an extreme repugnance to
the having caused her such an inconvenience." But probably another
equally strong motive was, that both had at heart the welfare of their
unborn child. In Godwin's ideal state of society, illegitimacy would be
no disgrace. But men were very far from having attained it; and children
born of unmarried parents were still treated as if they were criminals.
Mary doubtlessly realized the bitterness in store for Fanny, through no
fault of her own, and was unwilling to bring another child into the world
to meet so cruel a fate. So long as their actions affected no one but
themselves, she and Godwin could plead a right to bid defiance to society
and its customs, since they were willing to bear the penalty; but once
they became responsible for a third life, they were no longer free
agents. The duties they would thereby incur were so many arguments for
compliance with social laws.
At first they told no one of their marriage. Mrs. Shelley gives two
reasons for their silence. Godwin was very sensitive to criticism,
perhaps even more so than Mary. He confessed once to Holcroft: "Though I
certainly give myself credit for intellectual powers, yet I have a
failing which I have never been able to overcome. I am so cowed and cast
down by rude and unqualified assault, that for a time I am unable to
recover." This was true not only in connection with his literary work,
but with all his relations in life. He knew that severe comments would be
called forth by an act in direct contradiction to doctrines he had
emphatically preached. His adherents would condemn him as an apostate.
His enemies would accept his practical retraction of one of his theories
as a proof of the unsoundness of the rest. It required no little courage
to submit to such an ordeal. But the other motive for secrecy was more
urgent. Mary, after Imlay left her, was penniless. She resumed at once
her old tasks. But her expenses were greater than they had been, and her
free time less, since she had to provide for and take care of Fanny.
Besides, Imlay's departure had caused certain money complications. Mr.
Johnson and other kind friends, however, were now, as always, ready to
help her out of pressing difficulties, and to assume the debts which she
could not meet. Godwin, who had made it a rule of life not to earn more
money than was absolutely necessary for his very small wants, and who had
never looked forward to maintaining a family, could not at once
contribute towards Mary's support, or relieve her financial
embarrassments. The announcement of their marriage would be the signal
for her friends to cease giving her their aid, and she could not, as yet,
settle her affairs alone. This was the difficulty which forced them into
temporary silence.
However, to secure the end for which they had married, long concealment
was impossible. Godwin applied to Mr. Thomas Wedgwood of Etruria for a
loan of L50, without giving him any explanation for his request, though
he was sure, on account of his well-known economy and simple habits, it
would appear extraordinary. This sum enabled Mary to tide over her
present emergency, and the marriage was made public on the 6th of April,
a few days after the ceremony had been performed. One of the first to
whom Godwin told the news was Miss Hayes. This was but fair, since it was
under her auspices that they renewed their acquaintance to such good
purpose. His note is dated April 10:--
"My fair neighbor desires me to announce to you a piece of news
which it is consonant to the regard which she and I entertain for
you, you should rather learn from us than from any other quarter.
She bids me remind you of the earnest way in which you pressed me
to prevail upon her to change her name, and she directs me to add
that it has happened to me, like many other disputants, to be
entrapped in my own toils; in short, that we found that there was
no way so obvious for her to drop the name of Imlay as to assume
the name of Godwin. Mrs. Godwin--who the devil is that?--will be
glad to see you at No. 29 Polygon, Somer's Town, whenever you are
inclined to favor her with a call."
About ten days later he wrote to Mr. Wedgwood, and his letter confirms
Mrs. Shelley's statement. His effort to prove that his conduct was not
inconsistent with his creed shows how keenly he felt the criticisms it
would evoke; and his demand for more money reveals the slender state of
the finances of husband and wife:--
NO. 7 EVESHAM BUILDINGS, SOMER'S TOWN,
April 19, 1797.
You have by this time heard from B. Montague of my marriage. This
was the solution of my late application to you, which I promised
speedily to communicate. Some persons have found an inconsistency
between my practice in this instance and my doctrines. But I cannot
see it. The doctrine of my "Political Justice" is, that an
attachment in some degree permanent between two persons of opposite
sexes is right, but that marriage as practised in European
countries is wrong. I still adhere to that opinion. Nothing but a
regard for the happiness of the individual which I had no right to
injure could have induced me to submit to an institution which I
wish to see abolished, and which I would recommend to my fellow-men
never to practise but with the greatest caution. Having done what I
thought necessary for the peace and respectability of the
individual, I hold myself no otherwise bound than I was before the
ceremony took place.
It is possible, however, that you will not see the subject in the
same light, and I perhaps went too far, when I presumed to suppose
that if you were acquainted with the nature of the case, you would
find it to be such as to make the interference I requested of you
appear reasonable. I trust you will not accuse me of duplicity in
having told you that it was not for myself that I wanted your
assistance. You will perceive that that remark was in reference to
the seeming inconsistency between my habits of economy and
independence, and the application in question.
I can see no reason to doubt that, as we are both successful
authors, we shall be able by our literary exertions, though with no
other fortune, to maintain ourselves either separately or, which is
more desirable, jointly. The loan I requested of you was rendered
necessary by some complication in her pecuniary affairs, the
consequence of her former connection, the particulars of which you
have probably heard. Now that we have entered into a new mode of
living, which will probably be permanent, I find a further supply
of fifty pounds will be necessary to enable us to start fair. This
you shall afford us, if you feel perfectly assured of its
propriety; but if there be the smallest doubt in your mind, I shall
be much more gratified by your obeying that doubt, than superseding
it. I do not at present feel inclined to remain long in any man's
debt, not even in yours. As to the not having published our
marriage at first, I yielded in that to her feelings. Having
settled the principal point in conformity to her interests, I felt
inclined to leave all inferior matters to her disposal.
We do not entirely cohabit.
W. GODWIN.
Strange to say, the announcement of their marriage did not produce quite
so satisfactory an effect as they had anticipated. Mary, notwithstanding
her frank protest, was still looked upon as Imlay's wife. Her intimate
connection with Godwin had been very generally understood, but not
absolutely known, and hence it had not ostracized her socially. If
conjectures and comments were made, they were whispered, and not uttered
aloud. But the marriage had to be recognized, and the fact that Mary was
free to marry Godwin, though Imlay was alive, was an incontrovertible
proof that her relation to the latter had been illegal. People who had
been deaf to her statements could not ignore this formal demonstration of
their truth. Hitherto, their friendliness to her could not be construed
into approval of her unconventionality. But now, by continuing to visit
her and receive her at their houses, they would be countenancing an
offence against morality which the world ranks with the unpardonable
sins. They might temporize with their own consciences, but not with
public opinion. They were therefore in a dilemma, from which there was no
middle course of extrication. Thus forced to decisive measures, a number
of her friends felt obliged to forego all acquaintance with her. Two whom
she then lost, and whom she most deeply regretted, were Mrs. Siddons and
Mrs. Inchbald. In speaking of their secession, Godwin says: "Mrs.
Siddons, I am sure, regretted the necessity which she conceived to be
imposed on her by the peculiarity of her situation, to conform to the
rules I have described." Mrs. Inchbald wept when she heard the news.
Godwin was one of her highly valued friends and admirers, and was a
constant visitor at her house. She feared, now he had a wife, his visits
would be less frequent. Her conduct on this occasion was so ungracious
that one wonders if her vanity were not more deeply wounded than her
moral sensibility. Her congratulations seem inspired by personal pique,
rather than by strong principle. She wrote and wished Godwin joy, and
then declared that she was so sure his new-found happiness would make him
forgetful of all other engagements, that she had invited some one else to
take his place at the theatre on a certain night when they had intended
going together. "If I have done wrong," she told him, "when you next
marry, I will do differently." Notwithstanding her note, Godwin thought
her friendship would stand the test to which he had put it, and both he
and Mary accompanied her on the appointed night. But Mrs. Inchbald was
very much in earnest, and did not hesitate to show her feelings. She
spoke to Mary in a way that Godwin later declared to be "base, cruel, and
insulting;" adding, "There were persons in the box who heard it, and they
thought as I do." The breach thus made was never completely healed. Mr.
and Mrs. Twiss, at whose house Mary had hitherto been cordially welcomed,
also sacrificed her friendship to what, Godwin says, they were "silly
enough to think a proper etiquette."
But there still remained men and women of larger minds and hearts who
fully appreciated that Mary's case was exceptional, and not to be judged
by ordinary standards. The majority of her acquaintances, knowing that
her intentions were pure, though her actions were opposed to accepted
ideals of purity, were brave enough to regulate their behavior to her by
their convictions. Beautiful Mrs. Reveley was as much moved as Mrs.
Inchbald when she heard the news of Godwin's marriage, but her friendship
was formed in a finer mould. Mrs. Shelley says that "she feared to lose a
kind and constant friend; but becoming intimate with Mary Wollstonecraft,
she soon learnt to appreciate her virtues and to love her. She soon
found, as she told me in after days, that instead of losing one she had
secured two friends, unequalled, perhaps, in the world for genius,
single-heartedness, and nobleness of disposition, and a cordial
intercourse subsisted between them." It was from Mrs. Reveley that Mrs.
Shelley obtained most of her information about her mother's married life.
Men like Johnson, Basil Montague, Thomas Wedgwood, Horne Tooke, Thomas
Holcroft, did not of course allow the marriage to interfere with their
friendship. It is rather strange that Fuseli should have now been willing
enough to be civil. Marriage, in his opinion, had restored Mary to
respectability. "You have not, perhaps, heard," he wrote to a friend,
"that the assertrix of female rights has given her hand to the
_balancier_ of political justice." He not only called on Mrs. Godwin, but
he dined with her, an experiment, however, which did not prove
pleasurable, for Horne Tooke, Curran, and Grattan were of the party, and
they discussed politics. Fuseli, who loved nothing better than to talk,
had never a chance to say a word. "I wonder you invited me to meet such
wretched company," he exclaimed to Mary in disgust.
Thomas Holcroft, one of the four men whom Godwin acknowledged to have
greatly influenced him, wrote them an enthusiastic letter of
congratulation. Addressing them both, he says:--
"From my very heart and soul I give you joy. I think you the most
extraordinary married pair in existence. May your happiness be as
pure as I firmly persuade myself it must be. I hope and expect to
see you both, and very soon. If you show coldness, or refuse me,
you will do injustice to a heart which, since it has really known
you, never for a moment felt cold to you.
"I cannot be mistaken concerning the woman you have married. It is
Mrs. W. Your secrecy a little pains me. It tells me you do not yet
know me."
This latter paragraph is explained by the fact that Godwin, when he wrote
to inform Holcroft of his marriage, was so sure the latter would
understand whom he had chosen that he never mentioned Mary's name.
Another friend who rejoiced in her new-found happiness was Mr. Archibald
Hamilton Rowan. But he was then living near Wilmington, Delaware, and the
news was long in reaching him. His letter of congratulation was,
strangely enough, written the very day on which Mary was buried.
The announcement of this marriage was received in Norfolk by the Godwin
family with pleasure. Mrs. Godwin, poor old lady, thought that if her son
could thus alter his moral code, there was a greater chance of his being
converted from his spiritual backslidings. She wrote one of her long
letters, so curious because of their medley of pious sentiment and
prosaic realism, and wished Godwin and his wife happiness in her own name
and that of all his friends in her part of the country. Her good will to
Mary was practically expressed by an invitation to her house and a
present of eggs, together with an offer of a feather-bed. Her motherly
warning and advice to them was:--
"My dears, whatever you do, do not make invitations and
entertainments. That was what hurt Jo. Live comfortable with one
another. The Hart of her husband safely trusts in her. I cannot
give you no better advice than out of Proverbs, the Prophets, and
New Testament. My best affections attend you both."
Mary's family were not so cordial. Everina and Mrs. Bishop apparently
never quite forgave her for the letter she wrote after her return to
England with Imlay, and they disapproved of her marriage. They complained
that her strange course of conduct made it doubly difficult for them, as
her sisters, to find situations. When, shortly after the marriage, Godwin
went to stay a day or two at Etruria, Everina, who was then governess in
the Wedgwood household, would not at first come down to see him, and, as
far as can be judged from his letters, treated him very coolly throughout
his visit.
Godwin and Mary now made their joint home in the Polygon, Somer's Town.
But the former had his separate lodgings in the Evesham Buildings, where
he went every morning to work, and where he sometimes spent the night.
They saw little, if any, more of each other than they had before, and
were as independent in their goings-out and comings-in. On the 8th of
April, when the news was just being spread, Mary wrote to Godwin, as if
to assure him that she, for her part, intended to discourage the least
change in their habits. She says:--
"I have just thought that it would be very pretty in you to call on
Johnson to-day. It would spare me some awkwardness, and please him;
and I want you to visit him often on a Tuesday. This is quite
disinterested, as I shall never be of the party. Do, you would
oblige me. But when I press anything, it is always with a true
wifish submission to your judgment and inclination. Remember to
leave the key of No. 25 with us, on account of the wine."
While Mary seconded Godwin in his domestic theories, there were times
when less independence would have pleased her better. She had been
obliged to fight the battle of life alone, and, when the occasion
required it, she was equal to meeting single-handed whatever difficulties
might arise. But instinctively she preferred to lean upon others for
protection and help. Godwin would never wittingly have been selfish or
cruel in withholding his assistance. But, as each had agreed to go his
and her own way, it no more occurred to him to interfere with what he
thought her duties, than it would have pleased him had she interfered
with his. She had consented to his proposition, and in accepting her
consent, he had not been wise enough to read between the lines. Much as
he loved Mary, he never seems to have really understood her. She had now
to take entire charge of matters which her friends had hitherto been
eager to attend to for her. They could not well come forward, once it had
become Godwin's right to do what to them had been a privilege. Mary felt
their loss and his indifference, and frankly told him so:--
"I am not well to-day," she wrote in one of their little
conversational notes, dated the 11th of April; "my spirits have
been harassed. Mary will tell you about the state of the sink, etc.
Do you know you plague me--a little--by not speaking more
determinately to the landlord, of whom I have a mean opinion. He
tires me by his pitiful way of doing everything. I like a man who
will say yes or no at once."
The trouble seems to have been not easily disposed of, for the same day
she wrote again, this time with some degree of temper:--
"I wish you would desire Mr. Marshal to call on me. Mr. Johnson or
somebody has always taken the disagreeable business of settling
with tradespeople off my hands. I am perhaps as unfit as yourself
to do it, and my time appears to me as valuable as that of other
persons accustomed to employ themselves. Things of this kind are
easily settled with money, I know; but I am tormented by the want
of money, and feel, to say the truth, as if I was not treated with
respect, owing to your desire not to be disturbed."
These were mere passing clouds over the bright horizon of their lives,
such as it is almost impossible for any two people living together in the
same relationship to escape. Both were sensitive, and each had certain
qualities peculiarly calculated to irritate the other. Mary was
quick-tempered and nervous. Godwin was cool and methodical. With Mary,
love was the first consideration; Godwin, who had lived alone for many
years, was ruled by habit. Their natures were so dissimilar, that
occasional interruptions to their peace were unavoidable. But these never
developed into serious warfare. They loved each other too honestly to
cherish ill-feeling. Godwin wrote to Mary one morning,--
"I am pained by the recollection of our conversation last night [of
the conversation there is unfortunately no record]. The sole
principle of conduct of which I am conscious in my behavior to you
has been in everything to study your happiness. I found a wounded
heart, and as that heart cast itself on me, it was my ambition to
heal it. Do not let me be wholly disappointed.
"Let me have the relief of seeing you this morning. If I do not
call before you go out, call on me."
He was not disappointed. A reconciliatory interview must have taken
place, for on the very same day Mary wrote him this essentially friendly
note:--
"Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I wish
you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I
shall probably knock at your door in my way to Opie's; but should I
not find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening.
Do not give Fanny butter with her pudding."
"Ours was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory
pleasures," Godwin asserts in referring to the months of their married
life. Mary never let her work come to a standstill. Idleness was a
failing unknown to her, nor had marriage, as has been seen, lessened the
necessity of industry. Indeed, it was now especially important that she
should exert her powers of working to the utmost, which is probably the
reason that little remains to show as product of this period. Reviewing
and translating were still more profitable, because more certain, than
original writing; and her notes to Godwin prove by their allusions that
Johnson continued to keep her supplied with employment of this kind. She
had several larger schemes afoot, for the accomplishment of which nothing
was wanting but time. She proposed, among other things, to write a series
of letters on the management of infants. This was a subject to which in
earlier years she had given much attention, and her experience with her
own child had been a practical confirmation of conclusions then formed.
This was to have been followed by another series of books for the
instruction of children. The latter project was really the older of the
two. Her remarks on education in the "Rights of Women" make it a matter
of regret that she did not live to carry it out. But her chief literary
enterprise during the last year of her life was her story of "Maria; or,
The Wrongs of Woman." Her interest in it as an almost personal narrative,
and her desire to make it a really good novel, were so great that she
wrote and rewrote parts of it many times. She devoted more hours to it
than would be supposed possible, judging from the rapidity with which her
other books were produced.
But, however busy she might be, she was always at leisure to do good.
Business was never an excuse for her to decline the offices of humanity.
Everina was her guest during this year, and at a time, too, when it was
particularly inconvenient for her to have visitors. Her kindness also
revealed itself in many minor ways. When she had to choose between her
own pleasure and that of others, she was sure to decide in their favor. A
proof of her readiness to sacrifice herself in small matters is contained
in the following note, written to Godwin:--
_Saturday morning_, May 21, 1797.
... Montague called on me this morning, that is, breakfasted with
me, and invited me to go with him and the Wedgwoods into the
country to-morrow and return the next day. As I love the country,
and think, with a poor mad woman I know, that there is God or
something very consolatory in the air, I should without hesitation
have accepted the invitation, but for my engagement with your
sister. To her even I should have made an apology, could I have
seen her, or rather have stated that the circumstance would not
occur again. As it is, I am afraid of wounding her feelings,
because an engagement often becomes important in proportion as it
has been anticipated. I began to write to ask your opinion
respecting the propriety of sending to her, and feel as I write
that I had better conquer my desire of contemplating
unsophisticated nature, than give her a moment's pain.