Chapter 8 : 
1795, 1796
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Author : William Godwin

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CHAPTER VIII. 1795, 1796.

 
In April 1795, Mary returned once more to London, being requested to do so
by Mr. Imlay, who even sent a servant to Paris to wait upon her in the
journey, before she could complete the necessary arrangements for her
departure. But, notwithstanding these favorable appearances, she came to
England with a heavy heart, not daring, after all the uncertainties and
anguish she had endured, to trust to the suggestions of hope.

The gloomy forebodings of her mind, were but too faithfully verified. Mr.
Imlay had already formed another connection; as it is said, with a young
actress from a strolling company of players. His attentions therefore to
Mary were formal and constrained, and she probably had but little of his
society. This alteration could not escape her penetrating glance. He
ascribed it to pressure of business, and some pecuniary embarrassments
which, at that time, occurred to him; it was of little consequence to Mary
what was the cause. She saw, but too well, though she strove not to see,
that his affections were lost to her for ever.

It is impossible to imagine a period of greater pain and mortification than
Mary passed, for about seven weeks, from the sixteenth of April to the
sixth of June, in a furnished house that Mr. Imlay had provided for her.
She had come over to England, a country for which she, at this time,
expressed "a repugnance, that almost amounted to horror," in search of
happiness. She feared that that happiness had altogether escaped her; but
she was encouraged by the eagerness and impatience which Mr. Imlay at
length seemed to manifest for her arrival. When she saw him, all her fears
were confirmed. What a picture was she capable of forming to herself, of
the overflowing kindness of a meeting, after an interval of so much anguish
and apprehension! A thousand images of this sort were present to her
burning imagination. It is in vain, on such occasions, for reserve and
reproach to endeavor to curb in the emotions of an affectionate heart. But
the hopes she nourished were speedily blasted. Her reception by Mr. Imlay,
was cold and embarrassed. Discussions ("explanations" they were called)
followed; cruel explanations, that only added to the anguish of a heart
already overwhelmed in grief! They had small pretensions indeed to
explicitness; but they sufficiently told, that the case admitted not of
remedy.

Mary was incapable of sustaining her equanimity in this pressing emergency.
"Love, dear, delusive love!" as she expressed herself to a friend some time
afterwards, "rigorous reason had forced her to resign; and now her rational
prospects were blasted, just as she had learned to be contented with
rational enjoyments". Thus situated, life became an intolerable burden.
While she was absent from Mr. Imlay, she could talk of purposes of
reparation and independence. But, now that they were in the same house, she
could not withhold herself from endeavors to revive their mutual
cordiality; and unsuccessful endeavors continually added fuel to the fire
that destroyed her. She formed a desperate purpose to die.

This part of the story of Mary is involved in considerable obscurity. I
only know, that Mr. Imlay became acquainted with her purpose, at a moment
when he was uncertain whether or no it were already executed, and that his
feelings were roused by the intelligence. It was perhaps owing to his
activity and representations, that her life was, at this time, saved. She
determined to continue to exist. Actuated by this purpose, she took a
resolution, worthy both of the strength and affectionateness of her mind.
Mr. Imlay was involved in a question of considerable difficulty, respecting
a mercantile adventure in Norway. It seemed to require the presence of some
very judicious agent, to conduct the business to its desired termination.
Mary determined to make the voyage, and take the business into her own
hands. Such a voyage seemed the most desireable thing to recruit her
health, and, if possible, her spirits, in the present crisis. It was also
gratifying to her feelings, to be employed in promoting the interest of a
man, from whom she had experienced such severe unkindness, but to whom she
ardently desired to be reconciled. The moment of desperation I have
mentioned, occurred in the close of May, and, in about a week after, she
set out upon this new expedition.

The narrative of this voyage is before the world, and perhaps a book of
travels that so irresistibly seizes on the heart, never, in any other
instance, found its way from the press. The occasional harshness and
ruggedness of character, that diversify her Vindication of the Rights of
Woman, here totally disappear. If ever there was a book calculated to make
a man in love with its author, this appears to me to be the book. She
speaks of her sorrows, in a way that fills us with melancholy, and
dissolves us in tenderness, at the same time that she displays a genius
which commands all our admiration. Affliction had tempered her heart to a
softness almost more than human; and the gentleness of her spirit seems
precisely to accord with all the romance of unbounded attachment.

Thus softened and improved, thus fraught with imagination and sensibility,
with all, and more than all, "that youthful poets fancy, when they love,"
she returned to England, and, if he had so pleased, to the arms of her
former lover. Her return was hastened by the ambiguity, to her
apprehension, of Mr. Imlay's conduct. He had promised to meet her upon her
return from Norway, probably at Hamburgh; and they were then to pass some
time in Switzerland. The style however of his letters to her during her
tour, was not such as to inspire confidence; and she wrote to him very
urgently, to explain himself, relative to the footing upon which they were
hereafter to stand to each other. In his answer, which reached her at
Hamburgh, he treated her questions as "extraordinary and unnecessary," and
desired her to be at the pains to decide for herself. Feeling herself
unable to accept this as an explanation, she instantly determined to sail
for London by the very first opportunity, that she might thus bring to a
termination the suspence that preyed upon her soul.

It was not long after her arrival in London in the commencement of October,
that she attained the certainty she sought. Mr. Imlay procured her a
lodging. But the neglect she experienced from him after she entered it,
flashed conviction upon her, in spite of his asseverations. She made
further inquiries, and at length was informed by a servant, of the real
state of the case. Under the immediate shock which the painful certainty
gave her, her first impulse was to repair to him at the ready-furnished
house he had provided for his new mistress. What was the particular nature
of their conference I am unable to relate. It is sufficient to say that the
wretchedness of the night which succeeded this fatal discovery, impressed
her with the feeling, that she would sooner suffer a thousand deaths, than
pass another of equal misery.

The agony of her mind determined her; and that determination gave her a
sort of desperate serenity. She resolved to plunge herself in the Thames;
and, not being satisfied with any spot nearer to London, she took a boat,
and rowed to Putney. Her first thought had led her to Battersea-bridge, but
she found it too public. It was night when she arrived at Putney, and by
that time had begun to rain with great violence. The rain suggested to her
the idea of walking up and down the bridge, till her clothes were
thoroughly drenched and heavy with the wet, which she did for half an hour
without meeting a human being. She then leaped from the top of the bridge,
but still seemed to find a difficulty in sinking, which she endeavored to
counteract by pressing her clothes closely round her. After some time she
became insensible; but she always spoke of the pain she underwent as such,
that, though she could afterwards have determined upon almost any other
species of voluntary death, it would have been impossible for her to
resolve upon encountering the same sensations again. I am doubtful, whether
this is to be ascribed to the mere nature of suffocation, or was not rather
owing to the preternatural action of a desperate spirit.

After having been for a considerable time insensible, she was recovered by
the exertions of those by whom the body was found. She had sought, with
cool and deliberate firmness, to put a period to her existence, and yet she
lived to have every prospect of a long possession of enjoyment and
happiness. It is perhaps not an unfrequent case with suicides, that we find
reason to suppose, if they had survived their gloomy purpose, that they
would, at a subsequent period, have been considerably happy. It arises
indeed, in some measure, out of the very nature of a spirit of
self-destruction; which implies a degree of anguish, that the constitution
of the human mind will not suffer to remain long undiminished. This is a
serious reflection, Probably no man would destroy himself from an
impatience of present pain, if he felt a moral certainty that there were
years of enjoyment still in reserve for him. It is perhaps a futile
attempt, to think of reasoning with a man in that state of mind which
precedes suicide. Moral reasoning is nothing but the awakening of certain
feelings: and the feeling by which he is actuated, is too strong to leave
us much chance of impressing him with other feelings, that should have
force enough to counterbalance it. But, if the prospect of future
tranquility and pleasure cannot be expected to have much weight with a man
under an immediate purpose of suicide, it is so much the more to be wished,
that men would impress their minds, in their sober moments, with a
conception, which, being rendered habitual, seems to promise to act as a
successful antidote in a paroxysm of desperation.

The present situation of Mary, of necessity produced some further
intercourse between her and Mr. Imlay. He sent a physician to her; and Mrs.
Christie, at his desire, prevailed on her to remove to her house in
Finsbury-square. In the mean time Mr. Imlay assured her that his present
was merely a casual, sensual connection; and, of course, fostered in her
mind the idea that it would be once more in her choice to live with him.
With whatever intention the idea was suggested, it was certainly calculated
to increase the agitation of her mind. In one respect however it produced
an effect unlike that which might most obviously have been looked for. It
roused within her the characteristic energy of mind, which she seemed
partially to have forgotten. She saw the necessity of bringing the affair
to a point, and not suffering months and years to roll on in uncertainty
and suspence. This idea inspired her with an extraordinary resolution. The
language she employed, was, in effect, as follows: "If we are ever to live
together again, it must be now. We meet now, or we part for ever. You say,
You cannot abruptly break off the connection you have formed. It is
unworthy of my courage and character, to wait the uncertain issue of that
connection. I am determined to come to a decision. I consent then, for the
present, to live with you, and the woman to whom you have associated
yourself. I think it important that you should learn habitually to feel for
your child the affection of a father. But, if you reject this proposal,
here we end. You are now free. We will correspond no more. We will have no
intercourse of any kind. I will be to you as a person that is dead."

The proposal she made, extraordinary and injudicious as it was, was at
first accepted; and Mr. Imlay took her accordingly, to look at a house he
was upon the point of hiring, that she might judge whether it was
calculated to please her. Upon second thoughts however he retracted his
concession.

In the following month, Mr. Imlay, and the woman with whom he was at
present connected, went to Paris, where they remained three months. Mary
had, previously to this, fixed herself in a lodging in Finsbury-place,
where, for some time, she saw scarcely any one but Mrs. Christie, for the
sake of whose neighborhood she had chosen this situation; "existing," as
she expressed it, "in a living tomb, and her life but an exercise of
fortitude, continually on the stretch."

Thus circumstanced, it was unavoidable for her thoughts to brood upon a
passion, which all that she had suffered had not yet been able to
extinguish. Accordingly, as soon as Mr. Imlay returned to England, she
could not restrain herself from making another effort, and desiring to see
him once more. "During his absence, affection had led her to make
numberless excuses for his conduct," and she probably wished to believe
that his present connection was, as he represented it, purely of a casual
nature. To this application, she observes, that "he returned no other
answer, except declaring, with unjustifiable passion, that he would not see
her."

This answer, though, at the moment, highly irritating to Mary, was not the
ultimate close of the affair. Mr. Christie was connected in business with
Mr. Imlay, at the same time that the house of Mr. Christie was the only one
at which Mary habitually visited. The consequence of this was, that, when
Mr. Imlay had been already more than a fortnight in town, Mary called at
Mr. Christie's one evening, at a time when Mr. Imlay was in the parlor. The
room was full of company. Mrs. Christie heard Mary's voice in the passage,
and hastened to her, to intreat her not to make her appearance. Mary
however was not to be controlled. She thought, as she afterwards told me,
that it was not consistent with conscious rectitude, that she should
shrink, as if abashed, from the presence of one by whom she deemed herself
injured. Her child was with her. She entered; and, in a firm manner,
immediately led up the child, now near two years of age, to the knees of
its father. He retired with Mary into another apartment, and promised to
dine with her at her lodging, I believe, the next day.

In the interview which took place in consequence of this appointment, he
expressed himself to her in friendly terms, and in a manner calculated to
sooth her despair. Though he could conduct himself, when absent from her,
in a way which she censured as unfeeling; this species of sternness
constantly expired when he came into her presence. Mary was prepared at
this moment to catch at every phantom of happiness; and the gentleness of
his carriage, was to her as a sun-beam, awakening the hope of returning
day. For an instant she gave herself up to delusive visions; and, even
after the period of delirium expired, she still dwelt, with an aching eye,
upon the air-built and unsubstantial prospect of a reconciliation.

At his particular request, she retained the name of Imlay, which, a short
time before, he had seemed to dispute with her. "It was not," as she
expresses herself in a letter to a friend, "for the world that she did
so—not in the least—but she was unwilling to cut the Gordian knot, or
tear herself away in appearance, when she could not in reality".

The day after this interview, she set out upon a visit to the country,
where she spent nearly the whole of the month of March. It was, I believe,
while she was upon this visit, that some epistolary communication with Mr.
Imlay, induced her resolutely to expel from her mind, all remaining doubt
as to the issue of the affair.

Mary was now aware that every demand of forbearance towards him, of duty to
her child, and even of indulgence to her own deep-rooted predilection, was
discharged. She determined to rouse herself, and cast off for ever an
attachment, which to her had been a spring of inexhaustible bitterness. Her
present residence among the scenes of nature, was favorable to this
purpose. She was at the house of an old and intimate friend, a lady of the
name of Cotton, whose partiality for her was strong and sincere. Mrs.
Cotton's nearest neighbor was Sir William East, baronet; and, from the
joint effect of the kindness of her friend, and the hospitable and
distinguishing attentions of this respectable family, she derived
considerable benefit. She had been amused and interested in her journey to
Norway; but with this difference, that, at that time, her mind perpetually
returned with trembling anxiety to conjectures respecting Mr. Imlay's
future conduct, whereas now, with a lofty and undaunted spirit, she threw
aside every thought that recurred to him, while she felt herself called
upon to make one more effort for life and happiness.

Once after this, to my knowledge, she saw Mr. Imlay; probably, not long
after her return to town. They met by accident upon the New Road; he
alighted from his horse, and walked with her for some time; and the
rencounter passed, as she assured me, without producing in her any
oppressive emotion.

Be it observed, by the way, and I may be supposed best to have known the
real state of the case, she never spoke of Mr. Imlay with acrimony, and was
displeased when any person, in her hearing, expressed contempt of him. She
was characterized by a strong sense of indignation; but her emotions of
this sort were short-lived, and in no long time subsided into a dignified
sereneness and equanimity.

The question of her connection with Mr. Imlay, as we have seen, was not
completely dismissed, till March 1796. But it is worthy to be observed,
that she did not, like ordinary persons under extreme anguish of mind,
suffer her understanding, in the mean time, to sink into listlessness and
debility. The most inapprehensive reader may conceive what was the mental
torture she endured, when he considers, that she was twice, with an
interval of four months, from the end of May to the beginning of October,
prompted by it to purposes of suicide. Yet in this period she wrote her
Letters from Norway. Shortly after its expiration she prepared them for the
press, and they were published in the close of that year. In January 1796,
she finished the sketch of a comedy, which turns, in the serious scenes,
upon the incidents of her own story. It was offered to both the
winter-managers, and remained among her papers at the period of her
decease; but it appeared to me to be in so crude and imperfect a state,
that I judged it most respectful to her memory to commit it to the flames.
To understand this extraordinary degree of activity, we must recollect
however the entire solitude, in which most of her hours were at that time
consumed.




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     Chapter 8 -- Added : January 05, 2021

     Chapter 8 -- Updated : January 17, 2022

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