The Project Gutenberg eBook of Maria, by Mary Wollstonecraft
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Maria
or, The Wrongs of Woman
Author: Mary Wollstonecraft
Release Date: May, 1994 [eBook #134]
[Most recently updated: April 18, 2023]
Language: English
Produced by: Judith Boss and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARIA ***
MARIA
or
The Wrongs of Woman
by MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT
(1759-1797)
After the edition of 1798
CONTENTS
MARIA
or
The Wrongs of Woman
PREFACE
The public are here presented with the last literary attempt of an author,
whose fame has been uncommonly extensive, and whose talents have probably been
most admired, by the persons by whom talents are estimated with the greatest
accuracy and discrimination. There are few, to whom her writings could in any
case have given pleasure, that would have wished that this fragment should have
been suppressed, because it is a fragment. There is a sentiment, very dear to
minds of taste and imagination, that finds a melancholy delight in
contemplating these unfinished productions of genius, these sketches of what,
if they had been filled up in a manner adequate to the writer’s conception,
would perhaps have given a new impulse to the manners of a world.
The purpose and structure of the following work, had long formed a favourite
subject of meditation with its author, and she judged them capable of producing
an important effect. The composition had been in progress for a period of
twelve months. She was anxious to do justice to her conception, and recommenced
and revised the manuscript several different times. So much of it as is here
given to the public, she was far from considering as finished, and, in a letter
to a friend directly written on this subject, she says, “I am perfectly aware
that some of the incidents ought to be transposed, and heightened by more
harmonious shading; and I wished in some degree to avail myself of criticism,
before I began to adjust my events into a story, the outline of which I had
sketched in my mind.”[1] The only
friends to whom the author communicated her manuscript, were Mr. Dyson, the
translator of the Sorcerer, and the present editor; and it was impossible for
the most inexperienced author to display a stronger desire of profiting by the
censures and sentiments that might be suggested.[2]
[1]
A more copious extract of this letter is subjoined to the author’s preface.
[2]
The part communicated consisted of the first fourteen chapters.
In revising these sheets for the press, it was necessary for the editor, in
some places, to connect the more finished parts with the pages of an older
copy, and a line or two in addition sometimes appeared requisite for that
purpose. Wherever such a liberty has been taken, the additional phrases will be
found inclosed in brackets; it being the editor’s most earnest desire to
intrude nothing of himself into the work, but to give to the public the words,
as well as ideas, of the real author.
What follows in the ensuing pages, is not a preface regularly drawn out by the
author, but merely hints for a preface, which, though never filled up in the
manner the writer intended, appeared to be worth preserving.
W. GODWIN.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
The wrongs of woman, like the wrongs of the oppressed part of mankind, may be
deemed necessary by their oppressors: but surely there are a few, who will dare
to advance before the improvement of the age, and grant that my sketches are
not the abortion of a distempered fancy, or the strong delineations of a
wounded heart.
In writing this novel, I have rather endeavoured to pourtray passions than
manners.
In many instances I could have made the incidents more dramatic, would I have
sacrificed my main object, the desire of exhibiting the misery and oppression,
peculiar to women, that arise out of the partial laws and customs of society.
In the invention of the story, this view restrained my fancy; and the history
ought rather to be considered, as of woman, than of an individual.
The sentiments I have embodied.
In many works of this species, the hero is allowed to be mortal, and to become
wise and virtuous as well as happy, by a train of events and circumstances. The
heroines, on the contrary, are to be born immaculate, and to act like goddesses
of wisdom, just come forth highly finished Minervas from the head of Jove.
[The following is an extract of a letter from the author to a friend, to whom
she communicated her manuscript.]
For my part, I cannot suppose any situation more distressing, than for a woman
of sensibility, with an improving mind, to be bound to such a man as I have
described for life; obliged to renounce all the humanizing affections, and to
avoid cultivating her taste, lest her perception of grace and refinement of
sentiment, should sharpen to agony the pangs of disappointment. Love, in which
the imagination mingles its bewitching colouring, must be fostered by delicacy.
I should despise, or rather call her an ordinary woman, who could endure such a
husband as I have sketched.
These appear to me (matrimonial despotism of heart and conduct) to be the
peculiar Wrongs of Woman, because they degrade the mind. What are termed great
misfortunes, may more forcibly impress the mind of common readers; they have
more of what may justly be termed stage-effect; but it is the delineation of
finer sensations, which, in my opinion, constitutes the merit of our best
novels. This is what I have in view; and to show the wrongs of different
classes of women, equally oppressive, though, from the difference of education,
necessarily various.
CHAPTER 1
Abodes of horror have frequently been described, and castles, filled with
spectres and chimeras, conjured up by the magic spell of genius to harrow the
soul, and absorb the wondering mind. But, formed of such stuff as dreams are
made of, what were they to the mansion of despair, in one corner of which Maria
sat, endeavouring to recall her scattered thoughts!
Surprise, astonishment, that bordered on distraction, seemed to have suspended
her faculties, till, waking by degrees to a keen sense of anguish, a whirlwind
of rage and indignation roused her torpid pulse. One recollection with
frightful velocity following another, threatened to fire her brain, and make
her a fit companion for the terrific inhabitants, whose groans and shrieks were
no unsubstantial sounds of whistling winds, or startled birds, modulated by a
romantic fancy, which amuse while they affright; but such tones of misery as
carry a dreadful certainty directly to the heart. What effect must they then
have produced on one, true to the touch of sympathy, and tortured by maternal
apprehension!
Her infant’s image was continually floating on Maria’s sight, and the first
smile of intelligence remembered, as none but a mother, an unhappy mother, can
conceive. She heard her half speaking half cooing, and felt the little
twinkling fingers on her burning bosom—a bosom bursting with the nutriment for
which this cherished child might now be pining in vain. From a stranger she
could indeed receive the maternal aliment, Maria was grieved at the thought—but
who would watch her with a mother’s tenderness, a mother’s self-denial?
The retreating shadows of former sorrows rushed back in a gloomy train, and
seemed to be pictured on the walls of her prison, magnified by the state of
mind in which they were viewed—Still she mourned for her child, lamented she
was a daughter, and anticipated the aggravated ills of life that her sex
rendered almost inevitable, even while dreading she was no more. To think that
she was blotted out of existence was agony, when the imagination had been long
employed to expand her faculties; yet to suppose her turned adrift on an
unknown sea, was scarcely less afflicting.
After being two days the prey of impetuous, varying emotions, Maria began to
reflect more calmly on her present situation, for she had actually been
rendered incapable of sober reflection, by the discovery of the act of atrocity
of which she was the victim. She could not have imagined, that, in all the
fermentation of civilized depravity, a similar plot could have entered a human
mind. She had been stunned by an unexpected blow; yet life, however joyless,
was not to be indolently resigned, or misery endured without exertion, and
proudly termed patience. She had hitherto meditated only to point the dart of
anguish, and suppressed the heart heavings of indignant nature merely by the
force of contempt. Now she endeavoured to brace her mind to fortitude, and to
ask herself what was to be her employment in her dreary cell? Was it not to
effect her escape, to fly to the succour of her child, and to baffle the
selfish schemes of her tyrant—her husband?
These thoughts roused her sleeping spirit, and the self-possession returned,
that seemed to have abandoned her in the infernal solitude into which she had
been precipitated. The first emotions of overwhelming impatience began to
subside, and resentment gave place to tenderness, and more tranquil meditation;
though anger once more stopt the calm current of reflection when she attempted
to move her manacled arms. But this was an outrage that could only excite
momentary feelings of scorn, which evaporated in a faint smile; for Maria was
far from thinking a personal insult the most difficult to endure with
magnanimous indifference.
She approached the small grated window of her chamber, and for a considerable
time only regarded the blue expanse; though it commanded a view of a desolate
garden, and of part of a huge pile of buildings, that, after having been
suffered, for half a century, to fall to decay, had undergone some clumsy
repairs, merely to render it habitable. The ivy had been torn off the turrets,
and the stones not wanted to patch up the breaches of time, and exclude the
warring elements, left in heaps in the disordered court. Maria contemplated
this scene she knew not how long; or rather gazed on the walls, and pondered on
her situation. To the master of this most horrid of prisons, she had, soon
after her entrance, raved of injustice, in accents that would have justified
his treatment, had not a malignant smile, when she appealed to his judgment,
with a dreadful conviction stifled her remonstrating complaints. By force, or
openly, what could be done? But surely some expedient might occur to an active
mind, without any other employment, and possessed of sufficient resolution to
put the risk of life into the balance with the chance of freedom.
A woman entered in the midst of these reflections, with a firm, deliberate
step, strongly marked features, and large black eyes, which she fixed steadily
on Maria’s, as if she designed to intimidate her, saying at the same time “You
had better sit down and eat your dinner, than look at the clouds.”
“I have no appetite,” replied Maria, who had previously determined to speak
mildly; “why then should I eat?”
“But, in spite of that, you must and shall eat something. I have had many
ladies under my care, who have resolved to starve themselves; but, soon or
late, they gave up their intent, as they recovered their senses.”
“Do you really think me mad?” asked Maria, meeting the searching glance of her
eye.
“Not just now. But what does that prove?—Only that you must be the more
carefully watched, for appearing at times so reasonable. You have not touched a
morsel since you entered the house.”—Maria sighed intelligibly.—“Could any
thing but madness produce such a disgust for food?”
“Yes, grief; you would not ask the question if you knew what it was.” The
attendant shook her head; and a ghastly smile of desperate fortitude served as
a forcible reply, and made Maria pause, before she added—“Yet I will take some
refreshment: I mean not to die.—No; I will preserve my senses; and convince
even you, sooner than you are aware of, that my intellects have never been
disturbed, though the exertion of them may have been suspended by some infernal
drug.”
Doubt gathered still thicker on the brow of her guard, as she attempted to
convict her of mistake.
“Have patience!” exclaimed Maria, with a solemnity that inspired awe. “My God!
how have I been schooled into the practice!” A suffocation of voice betrayed
the agonizing emotions she was labouring to keep down; and conquering a qualm
of disgust, she calmly endeavoured to eat enough to prove her docility,
perpetually turning to the suspicious female, whose observation she courted,
while she was making the bed and adjusting the room.
“Come to me often,” said Maria, with a tone of persuasion, in consequence of a
vague plan that she had hastily adopted, when, after surveying this woman’s
form and features, she felt convinced that she had an understanding above the
common standard, “and believe me mad, till you are obliged to acknowledge the
contrary.” The woman was no fool, that is, she was superior to her class; nor
had misery quite petrified the life’s-blood of humanity, to which reflections
on our own misfortunes only give a more orderly course. The manner, rather than
the expostulations, of Maria made a slight suspicion dart into her mind with
corresponding sympathy, which various other avocations, and the habit of
banishing compunction, prevented her, for the present, from examining more
minutely.
But when she was told that no person, excepting the physician appointed by her
family, was to be permitted to see the lady at the end of the gallery, she
opened her keen eyes still wider, and uttered a—“hem!” before she
enquired—“Why?” She was briefly told, in reply, that the malady was hereditary,
and the fits not occurring but at very long and irregular intervals, she must
be carefully watched; for the length of these lucid periods only rendered her
more mischievous, when any vexation or caprice brought on the paroxysm of
phrensy.
Had her master trusted her, it is probable that neither pity nor curiosity
would have made her swerve from the straight line of her interest; for she had
suffered too much in her intercourse with mankind, not to determine to look for
support, rather to humouring their passions, than courting their approbation by
the integrity of her conduct. A deadly blight had met her at the very threshold
of existence; and the wretchedness of her mother seemed a heavy weight fastened
on her innocent neck, to drag her down to perdition. She could not heroically
determine to succour an unfortunate; but, offended at the bare supposition that
she could be deceived with the same ease as a common servant, she no longer
curbed her curiosity; and, though she never seriously fathomed her own
intentions, she would sit, every moment she could steal from observation,
listening to the tale, which Maria was eager to relate with all the persuasive
eloquence of grief.
It is so cheering to see a human face, even if little of the divinity of virtue
beam in it, that Maria anxiously expected the return of the attendant, as of a
gleam of light to break the gloom of idleness. Indulged sorrow, she perceived,
must blunt or sharpen the faculties to the two opposite extremes; producing
stupidity, the moping melancholy of indolence; or the restless activity of a
disturbed imagination. She sunk into one state, after being fatigued by the
other: till the want of occupation became even more painful than the actual
pressure or apprehension of sorrow; and the confinement that froze her into a
nook of existence, with an unvaried prospect before her, the most insupportable
of evils. The lamp of life seemed to be spending itself to chase the vapours of
a dungeon which no art could dissipate.—And to what purpose did she rally all
her energy?—Was not the world a vast prison, and women born slaves?
Though she failed immediately to rouse a lively sense of injustice in the mind
of her guard, because it had been sophisticated into misanthropy, she touched
her heart. Jemima (she had only a claim to a Christian name, which had not
procured her any Christian privileges) could patiently hear of Maria’s
confinement on false pretences; she had felt the crushing hand of power,
hardened by the exercise of injustice, and ceased to wonder at the perversions
of the understanding, which systematize oppression; but, when told that her
child, only four months old, had been torn from her, even while she was
discharging the tenderest maternal office, the woman awoke in a bosom long
estranged from feminine emotions, and Jemima determined to alleviate all in her
power, without hazarding the loss of her place, the sufferings of a wretched
mother, apparently injured, and certainly unhappy. A sense of right seems to
result from the simplest act of reason, and to preside over the faculties of
the mind, like the master-sense of feeling, to rectify the rest; but (for the
comparison may be carried still farther) how often is the exquisite sensibility
of both weakened or destroyed by the vulgar occupations, and ignoble pleasures
of life?
The preserving her situation was, indeed, an important object to Jemima, who
had been hunted from hole to hole, as if she had been a beast of prey, or
infected with a moral plague. The wages she received, the greater part of which
she hoarded, as her only chance for independence, were much more considerable
than she could reckon on obtaining any where else, were it possible that she,
an outcast from society, could be permitted to earn a subsistence in a
reputable family. Hearing Maria perpetually complain of listlessness, and the
not being able to beguile grief by resuming her customary pursuits, she was
easily prevailed on, by compassion, and that involuntary respect for abilities,
which those who possess them can never eradicate, to bring her some books and
implements for writing. Maria’s conversation had amused and interested her, and
the natural consequence was a desire, scarcely observed by herself, of
obtaining the esteem of a person she admired. The remembrance of better days
was rendered more lively; and the sentiments then acquired appearing less
romantic than they had for a long period, a spark of hope roused her mind to
new activity.
How grateful was her attention to Maria! Oppressed by a dead weight of
existence, or preyed on by the gnawing worm of discontent, with what eagerness
did she endeavour to shorten the long days, which left no traces behind! She
seemed to be sailing on the vast ocean of life, without seeing any land-mark to
indicate the progress of time; to find employment was then to find variety, the
animating principle of nature.
CHAPTER 2
Earnestly as Maria endeavoured to soothe, by reading, the anguish of her
wounded mind, her thoughts would often wander from the subject she was led to
discuss, and tears of maternal tenderness obscured the reasoning page. She
descanted on “the ills which flesh is heir to,” with bitterness, when the
recollection of her babe was revived by a tale of fictitious woe, that bore any
resemblance to her own; and her imagination was continually employed, to
conjure up and embody the various phantoms of misery, which folly and vice had
let loose on the world. The loss of her babe was the tender string; against
other cruel remembrances she laboured to steel her bosom; and even a ray of
hope, in the midst of her gloomy reveries, would sometimes gleam on the dark
horizon of futurity, while persuading herself that she ought to cease to hope,
since happiness was no where to be found.—But of her child, debilitated by the
grief with which its mother had been assailed before it saw the light, she
could not think without an impatient struggle.
“I, alone, by my active tenderness, could have saved,” she would exclaim, “from
an early blight, this sweet blossom; and, cherishing it, I should have had
something still to love.”
In proportion as other expectations were torn from her, this tender one had
been fondly clung to, and knit into her heart.
The books she had obtained, were soon devoured, by one who had no other
resource to escape from sorrow, and the feverish dreams of ideal wretchedness
or felicity, which equally weaken the intoxicated sensibility. Writing was then
the only alternative, and she wrote some rhapsodies descriptive of the state of
her mind; but the events of her past life pressing on her, she resolved
circumstantially to relate them, with the sentiments that experience, and more
matured reason, would naturally suggest. They might perhaps instruct her
daughter, and shield her from the misery, the tyranny, her mother knew not how
to avoid.
This thought gave life to her diction, her soul flowed into it, and she soon
found the task of recollecting almost obliterated impressions very interesting.
She lived again in the revived emotions of youth, and forgot her present in the
retrospect of sorrows that had assumed an unalterable character.
Though this employment lightened the weight of time, yet, never losing sight of
her main object, Maria did not allow any opportunity to slip of winning on the
affections of Jemima; for she discovered in her a strength of mind, that
excited her esteem, clouded as it was by the misanthropy of despair.
An insulated being, from the misfortune of her birth, she despised and preyed
on the society by which she had been oppressed, and loved not her
fellow-creatures, because she had never been beloved. No mother had ever
fondled her, no father or brother had protected her from outrage; and the man
who had plunged her into infamy, and deserted her when she stood in greatest
need of support, deigned not to smooth with kindness the road to ruin. Thus
degraded, was she let loose on the world; and virtue, never nurtured by
affection, assumed the stern aspect of selfish independence.
This general view of her life, Maria gathered from her exclamations and dry
remarks. Jemima indeed displayed a strange mixture of interest and suspicion;
for she would listen to her with earnestness, and then suddenly interrupt the
conversation, as if afraid of resigning, by giving way to her sympathy, her
dear-bought knowledge of the world.
Maria alluded to the possibility of an escape, and mentioned a compensation, or
reward; but the style in which she was repulsed made her cautious, and
determine not to renew the subject, till she knew more of the character she had
to work on. Jemima’s countenance, and dark hints, seemed to say, “You are an
extraordinary woman; but let me consider, this may only be one of your lucid
intervals.” Nay, the very energy of Maria’s character, made her suspect that
the extraordinary animation she perceived might be the effect of madness.
“Should her husband then substantiate his charge, and get possession of her
estate, from whence would come the promised annuity, or more desired
protection? Besides, might not a woman, anxious to escape, conceal some of the
circumstances which made against her? Was truth to be expected from one who had
been entrapped, kidnapped, in the most fraudulent manner?”
In this train Jemima continued to argue, the moment after compassion and
respect seemed to make her swerve; and she still resolved not to be wrought on
to do more than soften the rigour of confinement, till she could advance on
surer ground.
Maria was not permitted to walk in the garden; but sometimes, from her window,
she turned her eyes from the gloomy walls, in which she pined life away, on the
poor wretches who strayed along the walks, and contemplated the most terrific
of ruins—that of a human soul. What is the view of the fallen column, the
mouldering arch, of the most exquisite workmanship, when compared with this
living memento of the fragility, the instability, of reason, and the wild
luxuriancy of noxious passions? Enthusiasm turned adrift, like some rich stream
overflowing its banks, rushes forward with destructive velocity, inspiring a
sublime concentration of thought. Thus thought Maria—These are the ravages over
which humanity must ever mournfully ponder, with a degree of anguish not
excited by crumbling marble, or cankering brass, unfaithful to the trust of
monumental fame. It is not over the decaying productions of the mind, embodied
with the happiest art, we grieve most bitterly. The view of what has been done
by man, produces a melancholy, yet aggrandizing, sense of what remains to be
achieved by human intellect; but a mental convulsion, which, like the
devastation of an earthquake, throws all the elements of thought and
imagination into confusion, makes contemplation giddy, and we fearfully ask on
what ground we ourselves stand.
Melancholy and imbecility marked the features of the wretches allowed to
breathe at large; for the frantic, those who in a strong imagination had lost a
sense of woe, were closely confined. The playful tricks and mischievous devices
of their disturbed fancy, that suddenly broke out, could not be guarded
against, when they were permitted to enjoy any portion of freedom; for, so
active was their imagination, that every new object which accidentally struck
their senses, awoke to phrenzy their restless passions; as Maria learned from
the burden of their incessant ravings.
Sometimes, with a strict injunction of silence, Jemima would allow Maria, at
the close of evening, to stray along the narrow avenues that separated the
dungeon-like apartments, leaning on her arm. What a change of scene! Maria
wished to pass the threshold of her prison, yet, when by chance she met the eye
of rage glaring on her, yet unfaithful to its office, she shrunk back with more
horror and affright, than if she had stumbled over a mangled corpse. Her busy
fancy pictured the misery of a fond heart, watching over a friend thus
estranged, absent, though present—over a poor wretch lost to reason and the
social joys of existence; and losing all consciousness of misery in its excess.
What a task, to watch the light of reason quivering in the eye, or with
agonizing expectation to catch the beam of recollection; tantalized by hope,
only to feel despair more keenly, at finding a much loved face or voice,
suddenly remembered, or pathetically implored, only to be immediately
forgotten, or viewed with indifference or abhorrence!
The heart-rending sigh of melancholy sunk into her soul; and when she retired
to rest, the petrified figures she had encountered, the only human forms she
was doomed to observe, haunting her dreams with tales of mysterious wrongs,
made her wish to sleep to dream no more.
Day after day rolled away, and tedious as the present moment appeared, they
passed in such an unvaried tenor, Maria was surprised to find that she had
already been six weeks buried alive, and yet had such faint hopes of effecting
her enlargement. She was, earnestly as she had sought for employment, now angry
with herself for having been amused by writing her narrative; and grieved to
think that she had for an instant thought of any thing, but contriving to
escape.
Jemima had evidently pleasure in her society: still, though she often left her
with a glow of kindness, she returned with the same chilling air; and, when her
heart appeared for a moment to open, some suggestion of reason forcibly closed
it, before she could give utterance to the confidence Maria’s conversation
inspired.
Discouraged by these changes, Maria relapsed into despondency, when she was
cheered by the alacrity with which Jemima brought her a fresh parcel of books;
assuring her, that she had taken some pains to obtain them from one of the
keepers, who attended a gentleman confined in the opposite corner of the
gallery.
Maria took up the books with emotion. “They come,” said she, “perhaps, from a
wretch condemned, like me, to reason on the nature of madness, by having
wrecked minds continually under his eye; and almost to wish himself—as I
do—mad, to escape from the contemplation of it.” Her heart throbbed with
sympathetic alarm; and she turned over the leaves with awe, as if they had
become sacred from passing through the hands of an unfortunate being, oppressed
by a similar fate.
Dryden’s Fables, Milton’s Paradise Lost, with several modern productions,
composed the collection. It was a mine of treasure. Some marginal notes, in
Dryden’s Fables, caught her attention: they were written with force and taste;
and, in one of the modern pamphlets, there was a fragment left, containing
various observations on the present state of society and government, with a
comparative view of the politics of Europe and America. These remarks were
written with a degree of generous warmth, when alluding to the enslaved state
of the labouring majority, perfectly in unison with Maria’s mode of thinking.
She read them over and over again; and fancy, treacherous fancy, began to
sketch a character, congenial with her own, from these shadowy outlines.—“Was
he mad?” She reperused the marginal notes, and they seemed the production of an
animated, but not of a disturbed imagination. Confined to this speculation,
every time she re-read them, some fresh refinement of sentiment, or acuteness
of thought impressed her, which she was astonished at herself for not having
before observed.
What a creative power has an affectionate heart! There are beings who cannot
live without loving, as poets love; and who feel the electric spark of genius,
wherever it awakens sentiment or grace. Maria had often thought, when
disciplining her wayward heart, “that to charm, was to be virtuous.” “They who
make me wish to appear the most amiable and good in their eyes, must possess in
a degree,” she would exclaim, “the graces and virtues they call into action.”
She took up a book on the powers of the human mind; but, her attention strayed
from cold arguments on the nature of what she felt, while she was feeling, and
she snapt the chain of the theory to read Dryden’s Guiscard and Sigismunda.
Maria, in the course of the ensuing day, returned some of the books, with the
hope of getting others—and more marginal notes. Thus shut out from human
intercourse, and compelled to view nothing but the prison of vexed spirits, to
meet a wretch in the same situation, was more surely to find a friend, than to
imagine a countryman one, in a strange land, where the human voice conveys no
information to the eager ear.
“Did you ever see the unfortunate being to whom these books belong?” asked
Maria, when Jemima brought her slipper. “Yes. He sometimes walks out, between
five and six, before the family is stirring, in the morning, with two keepers;
but even then his hands are confined.”
“What! is he so unruly?” enquired Maria, with an accent of disappointment.
“No, not that I perceive,” replied Jemima; “but he has an untamed look, a
vehemence of eye, that excites apprehension. Were his hands free, he looks as
if he could soon manage both his guards: yet he appears tranquil.”
“If he be so strong, he must be young,” observed Maria.
“Three or four and thirty, I suppose; but there is no judging of a person in
his situation.”
“Are you sure that he is mad?” interrupted Maria with eagerness. Jemima quitted
the room, without replying.
“No, no, he certainly is not!” exclaimed Maria, answering herself; “the man who
could write those observations was not disordered in his intellects.”
She sat musing, gazing at the moon, and watching its motion as it seemed to
glide under the clouds. Then, preparing for bed, she thought, “Of what use
could I be to him, or he to me, if it be true that he is unjustly
confined?—Could he aid me to escape, who is himself more closely watched?—Still
I should like to see him.” She went to bed, dreamed of her child, yet woke
exactly at half after five o’clock, and starting up, only wrapped a gown around
her, and ran to the window. The morning was chill, it was the latter end of
September; yet she did not retire to warm herself and think in bed, till the
sound of the servants, moving about the house, convinced her that the unknown
would not walk in the garden that morning. She was ashamed at feeling
disappointed; and began to reflect, as an excuse to herself, on the little
objects which attract attention when there is nothing to divert the mind; and
how difficult it was for women to avoid growing romantic, who have no active
duties or pursuits.
At breakfast, Jemima enquired whether she understood French? for, unless she
did, the stranger’s stock of books was exhausted. Maria replied in the
affirmative; but forbore to ask any more questions respecting the person to
whom they belonged. And Jemima gave her a new subject for contemplation, by
describing the person of a lovely maniac, just brought into an adjoining
chamber. She was singing the pathetic ballad of old Rob[3] with the most heart-melting falls and pauses.
Jemima had half-opened the door, when she distinguished her voice, and Maria
stood close to it, scarcely daring to respire, lest a modulation should escape
her, so exquisitely sweet, so passionately wild. She began with sympathy to
pourtray to herself another victim, when the lovely warbler flew, as it were,
from the spray, and a torrent of unconnected exclamations and questions burst
from her, interrupted by fits of laughter, so horrid, that Maria shut the door,
and, turning her eyes up to heaven, exclaimed—“Gracious God!”
[3]
A blank space about ten characters in length occurs here in the original
edition [Publisher’s note].
Several minutes elapsed before Maria could enquire respecting the rumour of the
house (for this poor wretch was obviously not confined without a cause); and
then Jemima could only tell her, that it was said, “she had been married,
against her inclination, to a rich old man, extremely jealous (no wonder, for
she was a charming creature); and that, in consequence of his treatment, or
something which hung on her mind, she had, during her first lying-in, lost her
senses.”
What a subject of meditation—even to the very confines of madness.
“Woman, fragile flower! why were you suffered to adorn a world exposed to the
inroad of such stormy elements?” thought Maria, while the poor maniac’s strain
was still breathing on her ear, and sinking into her very soul.
Towards the evening, Jemima brought her Rousseau’s Heloise; and she sat reading
with eyes and heart, till the return of her guard to extinguish the light. One
instance of her kindness was, the permitting Maria to have one, till her own
hour of retiring to rest. She had read this work long since; but now it seemed
to open a new world to her—the only one worth inhabiting. Sleep was not to be
wooed; yet, far from being fatigued by the restless rotation of thought, she
rose and opened her window, just as the thin watery clouds of twilight made the
long silent shadows visible. The air swept across her face with a voluptuous
freshness that thrilled to her heart, awakening indefinable emotions; and the
sound of a waving branch, or the twittering of a startled bird, alone broke the
stillness of reposing nature. Absorbed by the sublime sensibility which renders
the consciousness of existence felicity, Maria was happy, till an autumnal
scent, wafted by the breeze of morn from the fallen leaves of the adjacent
wood, made her recollect that the season had changed since her confinement; yet
life afforded no variety to solace an afflicted heart. She returned dispirited
to her couch, and thought of her child till the broad glare of day again
invited her to the window. She looked not for the unknown, still how great was
her vexation at perceiving the back of a man, certainly he, with his two
attendants, as he turned into a side-path which led to the house! A confused
recollection of having seen somebody who resembled him, immediately occurred,
to puzzle and torment her with endless conjectures. Five minutes sooner, and
she should have seen his face, and been out of suspense—was ever any thing so
unlucky! His steady, bold step, and the whole air of his person, bursting as it
were from a cloud, pleased her, and gave an outline to the imagination to
sketch the individual form she wished to recognize.
Feeling the disappointment more severely than she was willing to believe, she
flew to Rousseau, as her only refuge from the idea of him, who might prove a
friend, could she but find a way to interest him in her fate; still the
personification of Saint Preux, or of an ideal lover far superior, was after
this imperfect model, of which merely a glance had been caught, even to the
minutiae of the coat and hat of the stranger. But if she lent St. Preux, or the
demi-god of her fancy, his form, she richly repaid him by the donation of all
St. Preux’s sentiments and feelings, culled to gratify her own, to which he
seemed to have an undoubted right, when she read on the margin of an
impassioned letter, written in the well-known hand—“Rousseau alone, the true
Prometheus of sentiment, possessed the fire of genius necessary to pourtray the
passion, the truth of which goes so directly to the heart.”
Maria was again true to the hour, yet had finished Rousseau, and begun to
transcribe some selected passages; unable to quit either the author or the
window, before she had a glimpse of the countenance she daily longed to see;
and, when seen, it conveyed no distinct idea to her mind where she had seen it
before. He must have been a transient acquaintance; but to discover an
acquaintance was fortunate, could she contrive to attract his attention, and
excite his sympathy.
Every glance afforded colouring for the picture she was delineating on her
heart; and once, when the window was half open, the sound of his voice reached
her. Conviction flashed on her; she had certainly, in a moment of distress,
heard the same accents. They were manly, and characteristic of a noble mind;
nay, even sweet—or sweet they seemed to her attentive ear.
She started back, trembling, alarmed at the emotion a strange coincidence of
circumstances inspired, and wondering why she thought so much of a stranger,
obliged as she had been by his timely interference; [for she recollected, by
degrees all the circumstances of their former meeting.] She found however that
she could think of nothing else; or, if she thought of her daughter, it was to
wish that she had a father whom her mother could respect and love.
CHAPTER 3
When perusing the first parcel of books, Maria had, with her pencil, written in
one of them a few exclamations, expressive of compassion and sympathy, which
she scarcely remembered, till turning over the leaves of one of the volumes,
lately brought to her, a slip of paper dropped out, which Jemima hastily
snatched up.
“Let me see it,” demanded Maria impatiently, “You surely are not afraid of
trusting me with the effusions of a madman?” “I must consider,” replied Jemima;
and withdrew, with the paper in her hand.
In a life of such seclusion, the passions gain undue force; Maria therefore
felt a great degree of resentment and vexation, which she had not time to
subdue, before Jemima, returning, delivered the paper.
“Whoever you are, who partake of my fate, accept my sincere commiseration—I
would have said protection; but the privilege of man is denied me.
“My own situation forces a dreadful suspicion on my mind—I may not always
languish in vain for freedom—say are you—I cannot ask the question; yet I will
remember you when my remembrance can be of any use. I will enquire, why you are
so mysteriously detained—and I will have an answer.
“HENRY DARNFORD.”
By the most pressing intreaties, Maria prevailed on Jemima to permit her to
write a reply to this note. Another and another succeeded, in which
explanations were not allowed relative to their present situation; but Maria,
with sufficient explicitness, alluded to a former obligation; and they
insensibly entered on an interchange of sentiments on the most important
subjects. To write these letters was the business of the day, and to receive
them the moment of sunshine. By some means, Darnford having discovered Maria’s
window, when she next appeared at it, he made her, behind his keepers, a
profound bow of respect and recognition.
Two or three weeks glided away in this kind of intercourse, during which period
Jemima, to whom Maria had given the necessary information respecting her
family, had evidently gained some intelligence, which increased her desire of
pleasing her charge, though she could not yet determine to liberate her. Maria
took advantage of this favourable charge, without too minutely enquiring into
the cause; and such was her eagerness to hold human converse, and to see her
former protector, still a stranger to her, that she incessantly requested her
guard to gratify her more than curiosity.
Writing to Darnford, she was led from the sad objects before her, and
frequently rendered insensible to the horrid noises around her, which
previously had continually employed her feverish fancy. Thinking it selfish to
dwell on her own sufferings, when in the midst of wretches, who had not only
lost all that endears life, but their very selves, her imagination was occupied
with melancholy earnestness to trace the mazes of misery, through which so many
wretches must have passed to this gloomy receptacle of disjointed souls, to the
grand source of human corruption. Often at midnight was she waked by the dismal
shrieks of demoniac rage, or of excruciating despair, uttered in such wild
tones of indescribable anguish as proved the total absence of reason, and
roused phantoms of horror in her mind, far more terrific than all that dreaming
superstition ever drew. Besides, there was frequently something so
inconceivably picturesque in the varying gestures of unrestrained passion, so
irresistibly comic in their sallies, or so heart-piercingly pathetic in the
little airs they would sing, frequently bursting out after an awful silence, as
to fascinate the attention, and amuse the fancy, while torturing the soul. It
was the uproar of the passions which she was compelled to observe; and to mark
the lucid beam of reason, like a light trembling in a socket, or like the flash
which divides the threatening clouds of angry heaven only to display the
horrors which darkness shrouded.
Jemima would labour to beguile the tedious evenings, by describing the persons
and manners of the unfortunate beings, whose figures or voices awoke
sympathetic sorrow in Maria’s bosom; and the stories she told were the more
interesting, for perpetually leaving room to conjecture something
extraordinary. Still Maria, accustomed to generalize her observations, was led
to conclude from all she heard, that it was a vulgar error to suppose that
people of abilities were the most apt to lose the command of reason. On the
contrary, from most of the instances she could investigate, she thought it
resulted, that the passions only appeared strong and disproportioned, because
the judgment was weak and unexercised; and that they gained strength by the
decay of reason, as the shadows lengthen during the sun’s decline.
Maria impatiently wished to see her fellow-sufferer; but Darnford was still
more earnest to obtain an interview. Accustomed to submit to every impulse of
passion, and never taught, like women, to restrain the most natural, and
acquire, instead of the bewitching frankness of nature, a factitious propriety
of behaviour, every desire became a torrent that bore down all opposition.
His travelling trunk, which contained the books lent to Maria, had been sent to
him, and with a part of its contents he bribed his principal keeper; who, after
receiving the most solemn promise that he would return to his apartment without
attempting to explore any part of the house, conducted him, in the dusk of the
evening, to Maria’s room.
Jemima had apprized her charge of the visit, and she expected with trembling
impatience, inspired by a vague hope that he might again prove her deliverer,
to see a man who had before rescued her from oppression. He entered with an
animation of countenance, formed to captivate an enthusiast; and, hastily
turned his eyes from her to the apartment, which he surveyed with apparent
emotions of compassionate indignation. Sympathy illuminated his eye, and,
taking her hand, he respectfully bowed on it, exclaiming—“This is
extraordinary!—again to meet you, and in such circumstances!” Still, impressive
as was the coincidence of events which brought them once more together, their
full hearts did not overflow.—[4]
[4]
The copy which had received the author’s last corrections breaks off in this
place, and the pages which follow, to the end of Chap. IV, are printed from a
copy in a less finished state. [Godwin’s note]
[And though, after this first visit, they were permitted frequently to repeat
their interviews, they were for some time employed in] a reserved conversation,
to which all the world might have listened; excepting, when discussing some
literary subject, flashes of sentiment, inforced by each relaxing feature,
seemed to remind them that their minds were already acquainted.
[By degrees, Darnford entered into the particulars of his story.] In a few
words, he informed her that he had been a thoughtless, extravagant young man;
yet, as he described his faults, they appeared to be the generous luxuriancy of
a noble mind. Nothing like meanness tarnished the lustre of his youth, nor had
the worm of selfishness lurked in the unfolding bud, even while he had been the
dupe of others. Yet he tardily acquired the experience necessary to guard him
against future imposition.
“I shall weary you,” continued he, “by my egotism; and did not powerful
emotions draw me to you,”—his eyes glistened as he spoke, and a trembling
seemed to run through his manly frame,—“I would not waste these precious
moments in talking of myself.
“My father and mother were people of fashion; married by their parents. He was
fond of the turf, she of the card-table. I, and two or three other children
since dead, were kept at home till we became intolerable. My father and mother
had a visible dislike to each other, continually displayed; the servants were
of the depraved kind usually found in the houses of people of fortune. My
brothers and parents all dying, I was left to the care of guardians; and sent
to Eton. I never knew the sweets of domestic affection, but I felt the want of
indulgence and frivolous respect at school. I will not disgust you with a
recital of the vices of my youth, which can scarcely be comprehended by female
delicacy. I was taught to love by a creature I am ashamed to mention; and the
other women with whom I afterwards became intimate, were of a class of which
you can have no knowledge. I formed my acquaintance with them at the theaters;
and, when vivacity danced in their eyes, I was not easily disgusted by the
vulgarity which flowed from their lips. Having spent, a few years after I was
of age, [the whole of] a considerable patrimony, excepting a few hundreds, I
had no resource but to purchase a commission in a new-raised regiment, destined
to subjugate America. The regret I felt to renounce a life of pleasure, was
counter-balanced by the curiosity I had to see America, or rather to travel;
[nor had any of those circumstances occurred to my youth, which might have been
calculated] to bind my country to my heart. I shall not trouble you with the
details of a military life. My blood was still kept in motion; till, towards
the close of the contest, I was wounded and taken prisoner.
“Confined to my bed, or chair, by a lingering cure, my only refuge from the
preying activity of my mind, was books, which I read with great avidity,
profiting by the conversation of my host, a man of sound understanding. My
political sentiments now underwent a total change; and, dazzled by the
hospitality of the Americans, I determined to take up my abode with freedom. I,
therefore, with my usual impetuosity, sold my commission, and travelled into
the interior parts of the country, to lay out my money to advantage. Added to
this, I did not much like the puritanical manners of the large towns.
Inequality of condition was there most disgustingly galling. The only pleasure
wealth afforded, was to make an ostentatious display of it; for the cultivation
of the fine arts, or literature, had not introduced into the first circles that
polish of manners which renders the rich so essentially superior to the poor in
Europe. Added to this, an influx of vices had been let in by the Revolution,
and the most rigid principles of religion shaken to the centre, before the
understanding could be gradually emancipated from the prejudices which led
their ancestors undauntedly to seek an inhospitable clime and unbroken soil.
The resolution, that led them, in pursuit of independence, to embark on rivers
like seas, to search for unknown shores, and to sleep under the hovering mists
of endless forests, whose baleful damps agued their limbs, was now turned into
commercial speculations, till the national character exhibited a phenomenon in
the history of the human mind—a head enthusiastically enterprising, with cold
selfishness of heart. And woman, lovely woman!—they charm everywhere—still
there is a degree of prudery, and a want of taste and ease in the manners of
the American women, that renders them, in spite of their roses and lilies, far
inferior to our European charmers. In the country, they have often a bewitching
simplicity of character; but, in the cities, they have all the airs and
ignorance of the ladies who give the tone to the circles of the large trading
towns in England. They are fond of their ornaments, merely because they are
good, and not because they embellish their persons; and are more gratified to
inspire the women with jealousy of these exterior advantages, than the men with
love. All the frivolity which often (excuse me, Madam) renders the society of
modest women so stupid in England, here seemed to throw still more leaden
fetters on their charms. Not being an adept in gallantry, I found that I could
only keep myself awake in their company by making downright love to them.
“But, not to intrude on your patience, I retired to the track of land which I
had purchased in the country, and my time passed pleasantly enough while I cut
down the trees, built my house, and planted my different crops. But winter and
idleness came, and I longed for more elegant society, to hear what was passing
in the world, and to do something better than vegetate with the animals that
made a very considerable part of my household. Consequently, I determined to
travel. Motion was a substitute for variety of objects; and, passing over
immense tracks of country, I exhausted my exuberant spirits, without obtaining
much experience. I every where saw industry the fore-runner and not the
consequence, of luxury; but this country, everything being on an ample scale,
did not afford those picturesque views, which a certain degree of cultivation
is necessary gradually to produce. The eye wandered without an object to fix
upon over immeasureable plains, and lakes that seemed replenished by the ocean,
whilst eternal forests of small clustering trees, obstructed the circulation of
air, and embarrassed the path, without gratifying the eye of taste. No cottage
smiling in the waste, no travellers hailed us, to give life to silent nature;
or, if perchance we saw the print of a footstep in our path, it was a dreadful
warning to turn aside; and the head ached as if assailed by the scalping knife.
The Indians who hovered on the skirts of the European settlements had only
learned of their neighbours to plunder, and they stole their guns from them to
do it with more safety.
“From the woods and back settlements, I returned to the towns, and learned to
eat and drink most valiantly; but without entering into commerce (and I
detested commerce) I found I could not live there; and, growing heartily weary
of the land of liberty and vulgar aristocracy, seated on her bags of dollars, I
resolved once more to visit Europe. I wrote to a distant relation in England,
with whom I had been educated, mentioning the vessel in which I intended to
sail. Arriving in London, my senses were intoxicated. I ran from street to
street, from theater to theater, and the women of the town (again I must beg
pardon for my habitual frankness) appeared to me like angels.
“A week was spent in this thoughtless manner, when, returning very late to the
hotel in which I had lodged ever since my arrival, I was knocked down in a
private street, and hurried, in a state of insensibility, into a coach, which
brought me hither, and I only recovered my senses to be treated like one who
had lost them. My keepers are deaf to my remonstrances and enquiries, yet
assure me that my confinement shall not last long. Still I cannot guess, though
I weary myself with conjectures, why I am confined, or in what part of England
this house is situated. I imagine sometimes that I hear the sea roar, and
wished myself again on the Atlantic, till I had a glimpse of you.”[5]
[5]
The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria in a former instance,
appears to have been an after-thought of the author. This has occasioned the
omission of any allusion to that circumstance in the preceding narration.
EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]
A few moments were only allowed to Maria to comment on this narrative, when
Darnford left her to her own thoughts, to the “never ending, still beginning,”
task of weighing his words, recollecting his tones of voice, and feeling them
reverberate on her heart.
CHAPTER 4
Pity, and the forlorn seriousness of adversity, have both been considered as
dispositions favourable to love, while satirical writers have attributed the
propensity to the relaxing effect of idleness; what chance then had Maria of
escaping, when pity, sorrow, and solitude all conspired to soften her mind, and
nourish romantic wishes, and, from a natural progress, romantic expectations?
Maria was six-and-twenty. But, such was the native soundness of her
constitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character of her
mind. Revolving thought, and exercised affections had banished some of the
playful graces of innocence, producing insensibly that irregularity of features
which the struggles of the understanding to trace or govern the strong emotions
of the heart, are wont to imprint on the yielding mass. Grief and care had
mellowed, without obscuring, the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulness
which resided on her brow did not take from the feminine softness of her
features; nay, such was the sensibility which often mantled over it, that she
frequently appeared, like a large proportion of her sex, only born to feel; and
the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almost voluptuous figure,
inspired the idea of strength of mind, rather than of body. There was a
simplicity sometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine
ingenuousness, that led people of common discernment to underrate her talents,
and smile at the flights of her imagination. But those who could not comprehend
the delicacy of her sentiments, were attached by her unfailing sympathy, so
that she was very generally beloved by characters of very different
descriptions; still, she was too much under the influence of an ardent
imagination to adhere to common rules.
There are mistakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the strength of
the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would demonstrate its weakness, its
incapacity to acquire a sane judgment. The youths who are satisfied with the
ordinary pleasures of life, and do not sigh after ideal phantoms of love and
friendship, will never arrive at great maturity of understanding; but if these
reveries are cherished, as is too frequently the case with women, when
experience ought to have taught them in what human happiness consists, they
become as useless as they are wretched. Besides, their pains and pleasures are
so dependent on outward circumstances, on the objects of their affections, that
they seldom act from the impulse of a nerved mind, able to choose its own
pursuit.
Having had to struggle incessantly with the vices of mankind, Maria’s
imagination found repose in pourtraying the possible virtues the world might
contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an informing soul. She,
on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a hero’s mind, and fate
presented a statue in which she might enshrine them.
We mean not to trace the progress of this passion, or recount how often
Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midst of an interesting
conversation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and frequently
separated them on a false alarm, when they would have given worlds to remain a
little longer together.
A magic lamp now seemed to be suspended in Maria’s prison, and fairy landscapes
flitted round the gloomy walls, late so blank. Rushing from the depth of
despair, on the seraph wing of hope, she found herself happy.—She was beloved,
and every emotion was rapturous.
To Darnford she had not shown a decided affection; the fear of outrunning his,
a sure proof of love, made her often assume a coldness and indifference foreign
from her character; and, even when giving way to the playful emotions of a
heart just loosened from the frozen bond of grief, there was a delicacy in her
manner of expressing her sensibility, which made him doubt whether it was the
effect of love.
One evening, when Jemima left them, to listen to the sound of a distant
footstep, which seemed cautiously to approach, he seized Maria’s hand—it was
not withdrawn. They conversed with earnestness of their situation; and, during
the conversation, he once or twice gently drew her towards him. He felt the
fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to touch the lips from which
it issued; spirits of purity seemed to guard them, while all the enchanting
graces of love sported on her cheeks, and languished in her eyes.
Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret, and, she
once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria stood near his chair, to approach
her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back with solemnity, he hung down
his head abashed; but lifting his eyes timidly, they met her’s; she had
determined, during that instant, and suffered their rays to mingle. He took,
with more ardour, reassured, a half-consenting, half-reluctant kiss, reluctant
only from modesty; and there was a sacredness in her dignified manner of
reclining her glowing face on his shoulder, that powerfully impressed him.
Desire was lost in more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from insult and
sorrow—to make her happy, seemed not only the first wish of his heart, but the
most noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the fidelity of
honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulsation, could he ever change,
could he be a villain? The emotion with which she, for a moment, allowed
herself to be pressed to his bosom, the tear of rapturous sympathy, mingled
with a soft melancholy sentiment of recollected disappointment, said—more of
truth and faithfulness, than the tongue could have given utterance to in hours!
They were silent—yet discoursed, how eloquently? till, after a moment’s
reflection, Maria drew her chair by the side of his, and, with a composed
sweetness of voice, and supernatural benignity of countenance, said, “I must
open my whole heart to you; you must be told who I am, why I am here, and why,
telling you I am a wife, I blush not to”—the blush spoke the rest.
Jemima was again at her elbow, and the restraint of her presence did not
prevent an animated conversation, in which love, sly urchin, was ever at
bo-peep.
So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradise bloomed around them; or they,
by a powerful spell, had been transported into Armida’s garden. Love, the grand
enchanter, “lapt them in Elysium,” and every sense was harmonized to joy and
social extacy. So animated, indeed, were their accents of tenderness, in
discussing what, in other circumstances, would have been commonplace subjects,
that Jemima felt, with surprise, a tear of pleasure trickling down her rugged
cheeks. She wiped it away, half ashamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the
cause, with all the eager solicitude of a happy being wishing to impart to all
nature its overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the first tear that
social enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She seemed indeed to breathe more
freely; the cloud of suspicion cleared away from her brow; she felt herself,
for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.
Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evanescent tints of hope
fostered by thee? A despondent gloom had long obscured Maria’s horizon—now the
sun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every prospect was fair. Horror
still reigned in the darkened cells, suspicion lurked in the passages, and
whispered along the walls. The yells of men possessed, sometimes, made them
pause, and wonder that they felt so happy, in a tomb of living death. They even
chid themselves for such apparent insensibility; still the world contained not
three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the passage, was so
softened by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that she
voluntarily began an account of herself.
CHAPTER 5
“My father,” said Jemima, “seduced my mother, a pretty girl, with whom he lived
fellow-servant; and she no sooner perceived the natural, the dreaded
consequence, than the terrible conviction flashed on her—that she was ruined.
Honesty, and a regard for her reputation, had been the only principles
inculcated by her mother; and they had been so forcibly impressed, that she
feared shame, more than the poverty to which it would lead. Her incessant
importunities to prevail upon my father to screen her from reproach by marrying
her, as he had promised in the fervour of seduction, estranged him from her so
completely, that her very person became distasteful to him; and he began to
hate, as well as despise me, before I was born.
“My mother, grieved to the soul by his neglect, and unkind treatment, actually
resolved to famish herself; and injured her health by the attempt; though she
had not sufficient resolution to adhere to her project, or renounce it
entirely. Death came not at her call; yet sorrow, and the methods she adopted
to conceal her condition, still doing the work of a house-maid, had such an
effect on her constitution, that she died in the wretched garret, where her
virtuous mistress had forced her to take refuge in the very pangs of labour,
though my father, after a slight reproof, was allowed to remain in his
place—allowed by the mother of six children, who, scarcely permitting a
footstep to be heard, during her month’s indulgence, felt no sympathy for the
poor wretch, denied every comfort required by her situation.
“The day my mother, died, the ninth after my birth, I was consigned to the care
of the cheapest nurse my father could find; who suckled her own child at the
same time, and lodged as many more as she could get, in two cellar-like
apartments.
“Poverty, and the habit of seeing children die off her hands, had so hardened
her heart, that the office of a mother did not awaken the tenderness of a
woman; nor were the feminine caresses which seem a part of the rearing of a
child, ever bestowed on me. The chicken has a wing to shelter under; but I had
no bosom to nestle in, no kindred warmth to foster me. Left in dirt, to cry
with cold and hunger till I was weary, and sleep without ever being prepared by
exercise, or lulled by kindness to rest; could I be expected to become any
thing but a weak and rickety babe? Still, in spite of neglect, I continued to
exist, to learn to curse existence, [her countenance grew ferocious as she
spoke,] and the treatment that rendered me miserable, seemed to sharpen my
wits. Confined then in a damp hovel, to rock the cradle of the succeeding
tribe, I looked like a little old woman, or a hag shrivelling into nothing. The
furrows of reflection and care contracted the youthful cheek, and gave a sort
of supernatural wildness to the ever watchful eye. During this period, my
father had married another fellow-servant, who loved him less, and knew better
how to manage his passion, than my mother. She likewise proving with child,
they agreed to keep a shop: my step-mother, if, being an illegitimate
offspring, I may venture thus to characterize her, having obtained a sum of a
rich relation, for that purpose.
“Soon after her lying-in, she prevailed on my father to take me home, to save
the expense of maintaining me, and of hiring a girl to assist her in the care
of the child. I was young, it was true, but appeared a knowing little thing,
and might be made handy. Accordingly I was brought to her house; but not to a
home—for a home I never knew. Of this child, a daughter, she was extravagantly
fond; and it was a part of my employment, to assist to spoil her, by humouring
all her whims, and bearing all her caprices. Feeling her own consequence,
before she could speak, she had learned the art of tormenting me, and if I ever
dared to resist, I received blows, laid on with no compunctious hand, or was
sent to bed dinnerless, as well as supperless. I said that it was a part of my
daily labour to attend this child, with the servility of a slave; still it was
but a part. I was sent out in all seasons, and from place to place, to carry
burdens far above my strength, without being allowed to draw near the fire, or
ever being cheered by encouragement or kindness. No wonder then, treated like a
creature of another species, that I began to envy, and at length to hate, the
darling of the house. Yet, I perfectly remember, that it was the caresses, and
kind expressions of my step-mother, which first excited my jealous discontent.
Once, I cannot forget it, when she was calling in vain her wayward child to
kiss her, I ran to her, saying, ‘I will kiss you, ma’am!’ and how did my heart,
which was in my mouth, sink, what was my debasement of soul, when pushed away
with—‘I do not want you, pert thing!’ Another day, when a new gown had excited
the highest good humour, and she uttered the appropriate dear, addressed
unexpectedly to me, I thought I could never do enough to please her; I was all
alacrity, and rose proportionably in my own estimation.
“As her daughter grew up, she was pampered with cakes and fruit, while I was,
literally speaking, fed with the refuse of the table, with her leavings. A
liquorish tooth is, I believe, common to children, and I used to steal any
thing sweet, that I could catch up with a chance of concealment. When detected,
she was not content to chastize me herself at the moment, but, on my father’s
return in the evening (he was a shopman), the principal discourse was to
recount my faults, and attribute them to the wicked disposition which I had
brought into the world with me, inherited from my mother. He did not fail to
leave the marks of his resentment on my body, and then solaced himself by
playing with my sister.—I could have murdered her at those moments. To save
myself from these unmerciful corrections, I resorted to falshood, and the
untruths which I sturdily maintained, were brought in judgment against me, to
support my tyrant’s inhuman charge of my natural propensity to vice. Seeing me
treated with contempt, and always being fed and dressed better, my sister
conceived a contemptuous opinion of me, that proved an obstacle to all
affection; and my father, hearing continually of my faults, began to consider
me as a curse entailed on him for his sins: he was therefore easily prevailed
on to bind me apprentice to one of my step-mother’s friends, who kept a
slop-shop in Wapping. I was represented (as it was said) in my true colours;
but she, ‘warranted,’ snapping her fingers, ‘that she should break my spirit or
heart.’
“My mother replied, with a whine, ‘that if any body could make me better, it
was such a clever woman as herself; though, for her own part, she had tried in
vain; but good-nature was her fault.’
“I shudder with horror, when I recollect the treatment I had now to endure. Not
only under the lash of my task-mistress, but the drudge of the maid,
apprentices and children, I never had a taste of human kindness to soften the
rigour of perpetual labour. I had been introduced as an object of abhorrence
into the family; as a creature of whom my step-mother, though she had been kind
enough to let me live in the house with her own child, could make nothing. I
was described as a wretch, whose nose must be kept to the grinding stone—and it
was held there with an iron grasp. It seemed indeed the privilege of their
superior nature to kick me about, like the dog or cat. If I were attentive, I
was called fawning, if refractory, an obstinate mule, and like a mule I
received their censure on my loaded back. Often has my mistress, for some
instance of forgetfulness, thrown me from one side of the kitchen to the other,
knocked my head against the wall, spit in my face, with various refinements on
barbarity that I forbear to enumerate, though they were all acted over again by
the servant, with additional insults, to which the appellation of bastard, was
commonly added, with taunts or sneers. But I will not attempt to give you an
adequate idea of my situation, lest you, who probably have never been drenched
with the dregs of human misery, should think I exaggerate.
“I stole now, from absolute necessity,—bread; yet whatever else was taken,
which I had it not in my power to take, was ascribed to me. I was the filching
cat, the ravenous dog, the dumb brute, who must bear all; for if I endeavoured
to exculpate myself, I was silenced, without any enquiries being made, with
‘Hold your tongue, you never tell truth.’ Even the very air I breathed was
tainted with scorn; for I was sent to the neighbouring shops with Glutton,
Liar, or Thief, written on my forehead. This was, at first, the most bitter
punishment; but sullen pride, or a kind of stupid desperation, made me, at
length, almost regardless of the contempt, which had wrung from me so many
solitary tears at the only moments when I was allowed to rest.
“Thus was I the mark of cruelty till my sixteenth year; and then I have only to
point out a change of misery; for a period I never knew. Allow me first to make
one observation. Now I look back, I cannot help attributing the greater part of
my misery, to the misfortune of having been thrown into the world without the
grand support of life—a mother’s affection. I had no one to love me; or to make
me respected, to enable me to acquire respect. I was an egg dropped on the
sand; a pauper by nature, hunted from family to family, who belonged to
nobody—and nobody cared for me. I was despised from my birth, and denied the
chance of obtaining a footing for myself in society. Yes; I had not even the
chance of being considered as a fellow-creature—yet all the people with whom I
lived, brutalized as they were by the low cunning of trade, and the despicable
shifts of poverty, were not without bowels, though they never yearned for me. I
was, in fact, born a slave, and chained by infamy to slavery during the whole
of existence, without having any companions to alleviate it by sympathy, or
teach me how to rise above it by their example. But, to resume the thread of my
tale—
“At sixteen, I suddenly grew tall, and something like comeliness appeared on a
Sunday, when I had time to wash my face, and put on clean clothes. My master
had once or twice caught hold of me in the passage; but I instinctively avoided
his disgusting caresses. One day however, when the family were at a methodist
meeting, he contrived to be alone in the house with me, and by blows—yes; blows
and menaces, compelled me to submit to his ferocious desire; and, to avoid my
mistress’s fury, I was obliged in future to comply, and skulk to my loft at his
command, in spite of increasing loathing.
“The anguish which was now pent up in my bosom, seemed to open a new world to
me: I began to extend my thoughts beyond myself, and grieve for human misery,
till I discovered, with horror—ah! what horror!—that I was with child. I know
not why I felt a mixed sensation of despair and tenderness, excepting that,
ever called a bastard, a bastard appeared to me an object of the greatest
compassion in creation.
“I communicated this dreadful circumstance to my master, who was almost equally
alarmed at the intelligence; for he feared his wife, and public censure at the
meeting. After some weeks of deliberation had elapsed, I in continual fear that
my altered shape would be noticed, my master gave me a medicine in a phial,
which he desired me to take, telling me, without any circumlocution, for what
purpose it was designed. I burst into tears, I thought it was killing
myself—yet was such a self as I worth preserving? He cursed me for a fool, and
left me to my own reflections. I could not resolve to take this infernal
potion; but I wrapped it up in an old gown, and hid it in a corner of my box.
“Nobody yet suspected me, because they had been accustomed to view me as a
creature of another species. But the threatening storm at last broke over my
devoted head—never shall I forget it! One Sunday evening when I was left, as
usual, to take care of the house, my master came home intoxicated, and I became
the prey of his brutal appetite. His extreme intoxication made him forget his
customary caution, and my mistress entered and found us in a situation that
could not have been more hateful to her than me. Her husband was ‘pot-valiant,’
he feared her not at the moment, nor had he then much reason, for she instantly
turned the whole force of her anger another way. She tore off my cap,
scratched, kicked, and buffetted me, till she had exhausted her strength,
declaring, as she rested her arm, ‘that I had wheedled her husband from
her.—But, could any thing better be expected from a wretch, whom she had taken
into her house out of pure charity?’ What a torrent of abuse rushed out? till,
almost breathless, she concluded with saying, ‘that I was born a strumpet; it
ran in my blood, and nothing good could come to those who harboured me.’
“My situation was, of course, discovered, and she declared that I should not
stay another night under the same roof with an honest family. I was therefore
pushed out of doors, and my trumpery thrown after me, when it had been
contemptuously examined in the passage, lest I should have stolen any thing.
“Behold me then in the street, utterly destitute! Whither could I creep for
shelter? To my father’s roof I had no claim, when not pursued by shame—now I
shrunk back as from death, from my mother’s cruel reproaches, my father’s
execrations. I could not endure to hear him curse the day I was born, though
life had been a curse to me. Of death I thought, but with a confused emotion of
terror, as I stood leaning my head on a post, and starting at every footstep,
lest it should be my mistress coming to tear my heart out. One of the boys of
the shop passing by, heard my tale, and immediately repaired to his master, to
give him a description of my situation; and he touched the right key—the
scandal it would give rise to, if I were left to repeat my tale to every
enquirer. This plea came home to his reason, who had been sobered by his wife’s
rage, the fury of which fell on him when I was out of her reach, and he sent
the boy to me with half-a-guinea, desiring him to conduct me to a house, where
beggars, and other wretches, the refuse of society, nightly lodged.
“This night was spent in a state of stupefaction, or desperation. I detested
mankind, and abhorred myself.
“In the morning I ventured out, to throw myself in my master’s way, at his
usual hour of going abroad. I approached him, he ‘damned me for a b——, declared
I had disturbed the peace of the family, and that he had sworn to his wife,
never to take any more notice of me.’ He left me; but, instantly returning, he
told me that he should speak to his friend, a parish-officer, to get a nurse
for the brat I laid to him; and advised me, if I wished to keep out of the
house of correction, not to make free with his name.
“I hurried back to my hole, and, rage giving place to despair, sought for the
potion that was to procure abortion, and swallowed it, with a wish that it
might destroy me, at the same time that it stopped the sensations of new-born
life, which I felt with indescribable emotion. My head turned round, my heart
grew sick, and in the horrors of approaching dissolution, mental anguish was
swallowed up. The effect of the medicine was violent, and I was confined to my
bed several days; but, youth and a strong constitution prevailing, I once more
crawled out, to ask myself the cruel question, ‘Whither I should go?’ I had but
two shillings left in my pocket, the rest had been expended, by a poor woman
who slept in the same room, to pay for my lodging, and purchase the necessaries
of which she partook.
“With this wretch I went into the neighbouring streets to beg, and my
disconsolate appearance drew a few pence from the idle, enabling me still to
command a bed; till, recovering from my illness, and taught to put on my rags
to the best advantage, I was accosted from different motives, and yielded to
the desire of the brutes I met, with the same detestation that I had felt for
my still more brutal master. I have since read in novels of the blandishments
of seduction, but I had not even the pleasure of being enticed into vice.
“I shall not,” interrupted Jemima, “lead your imagination into all the scenes
of wretchedness and depravity, which I was condemned to view; or mark the
different stages of my debasing misery. Fate dragged me through the very
kennels of society: I was still a slave, a bastard, a common property. Become
familiar with vice, for I wish to conceal nothing from you, I picked the
pockets of the drunkards who abused me; and proved by my conduct, that I
deserved the epithets, with which they loaded me at moments when distrust ought
to cease.
“Detesting my nightly occupation, though valuing, if I may so use the word, my
independence, which only consisted in choosing the street in which I should
wander, or the roof, when I had money, in which I should hide my head, I was
some time before I could prevail on myself to accept of a place in a house of
ill fame, to which a girl, with whom I had accidentally conversed in the
street, had recommended me. I had been hunted almost into a fever, by the
watchmen of the quarter of the town I frequented; one, whom I had unwittingly
offended, giving the word to the whole pack. You can scarcely conceive the
tyranny exercised by these wretches: considering themselves as the instruments
of the very laws they violate, the pretext which steels their conscience,
hardens their heart. Not content with receiving from us, outlaws of society
(let other women talk of favours) a brutal gratification gratuitously as a
privilege of office, they extort a tithe of prostitution, and harrass with
threats the poor creatures whose occupation affords not the means to silence
the growl of avarice. To escape from this persecution, I once more entered into
servitude.
“A life of comparative regularity restored my health; and—do not start—my
manners were improved, in a situation where vice sought to render itself
alluring, and taste was cultivated to fashion the person, if not to refine the
mind. Besides, the common civility of speech, contrasted with the gross
vulgarity to which I had been accustomed, was something like the polish of
civilization. I was not shut out from all intercourse of humanity. Still I was
galled by the yoke of service, and my mistress often flying into violent fits
of passion, made me dread a sudden dismission, which I understood was always
the case. I was therefore prevailed on, though I felt a horror of men, to
accept the offer of a gentleman, rather in the decline of years, to keep his
house, pleasantly situated in a little village near Hampstead.
“He was a man of great talents, and of brilliant wit; but, a worn-out votary of
voluptuousness, his desires became fastidious in proportion as they grew weak,
and the native tenderness of his heart was undermined by a vitiated
imagination. A thoughtless career of libertinism and social enjoyment, had
injured his health to such a degree, that, whatever pleasure his conversation
afforded me (and my esteem was ensured by proofs of the generous humanity of
his disposition), the being his mistress was purchasing it at a very dear rate.
With such a keen perception of the delicacies of sentiment, with an imagination
invigorated by the exercise of genius, how could he sink into the grossness of
sensuality!
“But, to pass over a subject which I recollect with pain, I must remark to you,
as an answer to your often-repeated question, ‘Why my sentiments and language
were superior to my station?’ that I now began to read, to beguile the
tediousness of solitude, and to gratify an inquisitive, active mind. I had
often, in my childhood, followed a ballad-singer, to hear the sequel of a
dismal story, though sure of being severely punished for delaying to return
with whatever I was sent to purchase. I could just spell and put a sentence
together, and I listened to the various arguments, though often mingled with
obscenity, which occurred at the table where I was allowed to preside: for a
literary friend or two frequently came home with my master, to dine and pass
the night. Having lost the privileged respect of my sex, my presence, instead
of restraining, perhaps gave the reins to their tongues; still I had the
advantage of hearing discussions, from which, in the common course of life,
women are excluded.
“You may easily imagine, that it was only by degrees that I could comprehend
some of the subjects they investigated, or acquire from their reasoning what
might be termed a moral sense. But my fondness of reading increasing, and my
master occasionally shutting himself up in this retreat, for weeks together, to
write, I had many opportunities of improvement. At first, considering money (I
was right!” exclaimed Jemima, altering her tone of voice) “as the only means,
after my loss of reputation, of obtaining respect, or even the toleration of
humanity, I had not the least scruple to secrete a part of the sums intrusted
to me, and to screen myself from detection by a system of falshood. But,
acquiring new principles, I began to have the ambition of returning to the
respectable part of society, and was weak enough to suppose it possible. The
attention of my unassuming instructor, who, without being ignorant of his own
powers, possessed great simplicity of manners, strengthened the illusion.
Having sometimes caught up hints for thought, from my untutored remarks, he
often led me to discuss the subjects he was treating, and would read to me his
productions, previous to their publication, wishing to profit by the criticism
of unsophisticated feeling. The aim of his writings was to touch the simple
springs of the heart; for he despised the would-be oracles, the self-elected
philosophers, who fright away fancy, while sifting each grain of thought to
prove that slowness of comprehension is wisdom.
“I should have distinguished this as a moment of sunshine, a happy period in my
life, had not the repugnance the disgusting libertinism of my protector
inspired, daily become more painful.—And, indeed, I soon did recollect it as
such with agony, when his sudden death (for he had recourse to the most
exhilarating cordials to keep up the convivial tone of his spirits) again threw
me into the desert of human society. Had he had any time for reflection, I am
certain he would have left the little property in his power to me: but,
attacked by the fatal apoplexy in town, his heir, a man of rigid morals,
brought his wife with him to take possession of the house and effects, before I
was even informed of his death,—‘to prevent,’ as she took care indirectly to
tell me, ‘such a creature as she supposed me to be, from purloining any of
them, had I been apprized of the event in time.’
“The grief I felt at the sudden shock the information gave me, which at first
had nothing selfish in it, was treated with contempt, and I was ordered to pack
up my clothes; and a few trinkets and books, given me by the generous deceased,
were contested, while they piously hoped, with a reprobating shake of the head,
‘that God would have mercy on his sinful soul!’ With some difficulty, I
obtained my arrears of wages; but asking—such is the spirit-grinding
consequence of poverty and infamy—for a character for honesty and economy,
which God knows I merited, I was told by this—why must I call her woman?—‘that
it would go against her conscience to recommend a kept mistress.’ Tears started
in my eyes, burning tears; for there are situations in which a wretch is
humbled by the contempt they are conscious they do not deserve.
“I returned to the metropolis; but the solitude of a poor lodging was
inconceivably dreary, after the society I had enjoyed. To be cut off from human
converse, now I had been taught to relish it, was to wander a ghost among the
living. Besides, I foresaw, to aggravate the severity of my fate, that my
little pittance would soon melt away. I endeavoured to obtain needlework; but,
not having been taught early, and my hands being rendered clumsy by hard work,
I did not sufficiently excel to be employed by the ready-made linen shops, when
so many women, better qualified, were suing for it. The want of a character
prevented my getting a place; for, irksome as servitude would have been to me,
I should have made another trial, had it been feasible. Not that I disliked
employment, but the inequality of condition to which I must have submitted. I
had acquired a taste for literature, during the five years I had lived with a
literary man, occasionally conversing with men of the first abilities of the
age; and now to descend to the lowest vulgarity, was a degree of wretchedness
not to be imagined unfelt. I had not, it is true, tasted the charms of
affection, but I had been familiar with the graces of humanity.
“One of the gentlemen, whom I had frequently dined in company with, while I was
treated like a companion, met me in the street, and enquired after my health. I
seized the occasion, and began to describe my situation; but he was in haste to
join, at dinner, a select party of choice spirits; therefore, without waiting
to hear me, he impatiently put a guinea into my hand, saying, ‘It was a pity
such a sensible woman should be in distress—he wished me well from his soul.’
“To another I wrote, stating my case, and requesting advice. He was an advocate
for unequivocal sincerity; and had often, in my presence, descanted on the
evils which arise in society from the despotism of rank and riches.
“In reply, I received a long essay on the energy of the human mind, with
continual allusions to his own force of character. He added, ‘That the woman
who could write such a letter as I had sent him, could never be in want of
resources, were she to look into herself, and exert her powers; misery was the
consequence of indolence, and, as to my being shut out from society, it was the
lot of man to submit to certain privations.’
“How often have I heard,” said Jemima, interrupting her narrative, “in
conversation, and read in books, that every person willing to work may find
employment? It is the vague assertion, I believe, of insensible indolence, when
it relates to men; but, with respect to women, I am sure of its fallacy, unless
they will submit to the most menial bodily labour; and even to be employed at
hard labour is out of the reach of many, whose reputation misfortune or folly
has tainted.
“How writers, professing to be friends to freedom, and the improvement of
morals, can assert that poverty is no evil, I cannot imagine.”
“No more can I,” interrupted Maria, “yet they even expatiate on the peculiar
happiness of indigence, though in what it can consist, excepting in brutal
rest, when a man can barely earn a subsistence, I cannot imagine. The mind is
necessarily imprisoned in its own little tenement; and, fully occupied by
keeping it in repair, has not time to rove abroad for improvement. The book of
knowledge is closely clasped, against those who must fulfil their daily task of
severe manual labour or die; and curiosity, rarely excited by thought or
information, seldom moves on the stagnate lake of ignorance.”
“As far as I have been able to observe,” replied Jemima, “prejudices, caught up
by chance, are obstinately maintained by the poor, to the exclusion of
improvement; they have not time to reason or reflect to any extent, or minds
sufficiently exercised to adopt the principles of action, which form perhaps
the only basis of contentment in every station.”[6]
[6]
The copy which appears to have received the author’s last corrections, ends at
this place. [Godwin’s note]
“And independence,” said Darnford, “they are necessarily strangers to, even the
independence of despising their persecutors. If the poor are happy, or can be
happy, things are very well as they are. And I cannot conceive on what
principle those writers contend for a change of system, who support this
opinion. The authors on the other side of the question are much more
consistent, who grant the fact; yet, insisting that it is the lot of the
majority to be oppressed in this life, kindly turn them over to another, to
rectify the false weights and measures of this, as the only way to justify the
dispensations of Providence. I have not,” continued Darnford, “an opinion more
firmly fixed by observation in my mind, than that, though riches may fail to
produce proportionate happiness, poverty most commonly excludes it, by shutting
up all the avenues to improvement.”
“And as for the affections,” added Maria, with a sigh, “how gross, and even
tormenting do they become, unless regulated by an improving mind! The culture
of the heart ever, I believe, keeps pace with that of the mind. But pray go
on,” addressing Jemima, “though your narrative gives rise to the most painful
reflections on the present state of society.”
“Not to trouble you,” continued she, “with a detailed description of all the
painful feelings of unavailing exertion, I have only to tell you, that at last
I got recommended to wash in a few families, who did me the favour to admit me
into their houses, without the most strict enquiry, to wash from one in the
morning till eight at night, for eighteen or twenty-pence a day. On the
happiness to be enjoyed over a washing-tub I need not comment; yet you will
allow me to observe, that this was a wretchedness of situation peculiar to my
sex. A man with half my industry, and, I may say, abilities, could have
procured a decent livelihood, and discharged some of the duties which knit
mankind together; whilst I, who had acquired a taste for the rational, nay, in
honest pride let me assert it, the virtuous enjoyments of life, was cast aside
as the filth of society. Condemned to labour, like a machine, only to earn
bread, and scarcely that, I became melancholy and desperate.
“I have now to mention a circumstance which fills me with remorse, and fear it
will entirely deprive me of your esteem. A tradesman became attached to me, and
visited me frequently,—and I at last obtained such a power over him, that he
offered to take me home to his house.—Consider, dear madam, I was famishing:
wonder not that I became a wolf!—The only reason for not taking me home
immediately, was the having a girl in the house, with child by him—and this
girl—I advised him—yes, I did! would I could forget it!—to turn out of doors:
and one night he determined to follow my advice. Poor wretch! She fell upon her
knees, reminded him that he had promised to marry her, that her parents were
honest!—What did it avail?—She was turned out.
“She approached her father’s door, in the skirts of London,—listened at the
shutters,—but could not knock. A watchman had observed her go and return
several times—Poor wretch!—[The remorse Jemima spoke of, seemed to be stinging
her to the soul, as she proceeded.]
“She left it, and, approaching a tub where horses were watered, she sat down in
it, and, with desperate resolution, remained in that attitude—till resolution
was no longer necessary!
“I happened that morning to be going out to wash, anticipating the moment when
I should escape from such hard labour. I passed by, just as some men, going to
work, drew out the stiff, cold corpse—Let me not recall the horrid moment!—I
recognized her pale visage; I listened to the tale told by the spectators, and
my heart did not burst. I thought of my own state, and wondered how I could be
such a monster!—I worked hard; and, returning home, I was attacked by a fever.
I suffered both in body and mind. I determined not to live with the wretch. But
he did not try me; he left the neighbourhood. I once more returned to the
wash-tub.
“Still this state, miserable as it was, admitted of aggravation. Lifting one
day a heavy load, a tub fell against my shin, and gave me great pain. I did not
pay much attention to the hurt, till it became a serious wound; being obliged
to work as usual, or starve. But, finding myself at length unable to stand for
any time, I thought of getting into an hospital. Hospitals, it should seem (for
they are comfortless abodes for the sick) were expressly endowed for the
reception of the friendless; yet I, who had on that plea a right to assistance,
wanted the recommendation of the rich and respectable, and was several weeks
languishing for admittance; fees were demanded on entering; and, what was still
more unreasonable, security for burying me, that expence not coming into the
letter of the charity. A guinea was the stipulated sum—I could as soon have
raised a million; and I was afraid to apply to the parish for an order, lest
they should have passed me, I knew not whither. The poor woman at whose house I
lodged, compassionating my state, got me into the hospital; and the family
where I received the hurt, sent me five shillings, three and six-pence of which
I gave at my admittance—I know not for what.
“My leg grew quickly better; but I was dismissed before my cure was completed,
because I could not afford to have my linen washed to appear decently, as the
virago of a nurse said, when the gentlemen (the surgeons) came. I cannot give
you an adequate idea of the wretchedness of an hospital; every thing is left to
the care of people intent on gain. The attendants seem to have lost all feeling
of compassion in the bustling discharge of their offices; death is so familiar
to them, that they are not anxious to ward it off. Every thing appeared to be
conducted for the accommodation of the medical men and their pupils, who came
to make experiments on the poor, for the benefit of the rich. One of the
physicians, I must not forget to mention, gave me half-a-crown, and ordered me
some wine, when I was at the lowest ebb. I thought of making my case known to
the lady-like matron; but her forbidding countenance prevented me. She
condescended to look on the patients, and make general enquiries, two or three
times a week; but the nurses knew the hour when the visit of ceremony would
commence, and every thing was as it should be.
“After my dismission, I was more at a loss than ever for a subsistence, and,
not to weary you with a repetition of the same unavailing attempts, unable to
stand at the washing-tub, I began to consider the rich and poor as natural
enemies, and became a thief from principle. I could not now cease to reason,
but I hated mankind. I despised myself, yet I justified my conduct. I was
taken, tried, and condemned to six months’ imprisonment in a house of
correction. My soul recoils with horror from the remembrance of the insults I
had to endure, till, branded with shame, I was turned loose in the street,
pennyless. I wandered from street to street, till, exhausted by hunger and
fatigue, I sunk down senseless at a door, where I had vainly demanded a morsel
of bread. I was sent by the inhabitant to the work-house, to which he had
surlily bid me go, saying, he ‘paid enough in conscience to the poor,’ when,
with parched tongue, I implored his charity. If those well-meaning people who
exclaim against beggars, were acquainted with the treatment the poor receive in
many of these wretched asylums, they would not stifle so easily involuntary
sympathy, by saying that they have all parishes to go to, or wonder that the
poor dread to enter the gloomy walls. What are the common run of workhouses,
but prisons, in which many respectable old people, worn out by immoderate
labour, sink into the grave in sorrow, to which they are carried like dogs!”
Alarmed by some indistinct noise, Jemima rose hastily to listen, and Maria,
turning to Darnford, said, “I have indeed been shocked beyond expression when I
have met a pauper’s funeral. A coffin carried on the shoulders of three or four
ill-looking wretches, whom the imagination might easily convert into a band of
assassins, hastening to conceal the corpse, and quarrelling about the prey on
their way. I know it is of little consequence how we are consigned to the
earth; but I am led by this brutal insensibility, to what even the animal
creation appears forcibly to feel, to advert to the wretched, deserted manner
in which they died.”
“True,” rejoined Darnford, “and, till the rich will give more than a part of
their wealth, till they will give time and attention to the wants of the
distressed, never let them boast of charity. Let them open their hearts, and
not their purses, and employ their minds in the service, if they are really
actuated by humanity; or charitable institutions will always be the prey of the
lowest order of knaves.”
Jemima returning, seemed in haste to finish her tale. “The overseer farmed the
poor of different parishes, and out of the bowels of poverty was wrung the
money with which he purchased this dwelling, as a private receptacle for
madness. He had been a keeper at a house of the same description, and conceived
that he could make money much more readily in his old occupation. He is a
shrewd—shall I say it?—villain. He observed something resolute in my manner,
and offered to take me with him, and instruct me how to treat the disturbed
minds he meant to intrust to my care. The offer of forty pounds a year, and to
quit a workhouse, was not to be despised, though the condition of shutting my
eyes and hardening my heart was annexed to it.
“I agreed to accompany him; and four years have I been attendant on many
wretches, and”—she lowered her voice,—“the witness of many enormities. In
solitude my mind seemed to recover its force, and many of the sentiments which
I imbibed in the only tolerable period of my life, returned with their full
force. Still what should induce me to be the champion for suffering
humanity?—Who ever risked any thing for me?—Who ever acknowledged me to be a
fellow-creature?”—
Maria took her hand, and Jemima, more overcome by kindness than she had ever
been by cruelty, hastened out of the room to conceal her emotions.
Darnford soon after heard his summons, and, taking leave of him, Maria promised
to gratify his curiosity, with respect to herself, the first opportunity.
CHAPTER 6
Active as love was in the heart of Maria, the story she had just heard made her
thoughts take a wider range. The opening buds of hope closed, as if they had
put forth too early, and the the happiest day of her life was overcast by the
most melancholy reflections. Thinking of Jemima’s peculiar fate and her own,
she was led to consider the oppressed state of women, and to lament that she
had given birth to a daughter. Sleep fled from her eyelids, while she dwelt on
the wretchedness of unprotected infancy, till sympathy with Jemima changed to
agony, when it seemed probable that her own babe might even now be in the very
state she so forcibly described.
Maria thought, and thought again. Jemima’s humanity had rather been benumbed
than killed, by the keen frost she had to brave at her entrance into life; an
appeal then to her feelings, on this tender point, surely would not be
fruitless; and Maria began to anticipate the delight it would afford her to
gain intelligence of her child. This project was now the only subject of
reflection; and she watched impatiently for the dawn of day, with that
determinate purpose which generally insures success.
At the usual hour, Jemima brought her breakfast, and a tender note from
Darnford. She ran her eye hastily over it, and her heart calmly hoarded up the
rapture a fresh assurance of affection, affection such as she wished to
inspire, gave her, without diverting her mind a moment from its design. While
Jemima waited to take away the breakfast, Maria alluded to the reflections,
that had haunted her during the night to the exclusion of sleep. She spoke with
energy of Jemima’s unmerited sufferings, and of the fate of a number of
deserted females, placed within the sweep of a whirlwind, from which it was
next to impossible to escape. Perceiving the effect her conversation produced
on the countenance of her guard, she grasped the arm of Jemima with that
irresistible warmth which defies repulse, exclaiming—“With your heart, and such
dreadful experience, can you lend your aid to deprive my babe of a mother’s
tenderness, a mother’s care? In the name of God, assist me to snatch her from
destruction! Let me but give her an education—let me but prepare her body and
mind to encounter the ills which await her sex, and I will teach her to
consider you as her second mother, and herself as the prop of your age. Yes,
Jemima, look at me—observe me closely, and read my very soul; you merit a
better fate;” she held out her hand with a firm gesture of assurance; “and I
will procure it for you, as a testimony of my esteem, as well as of my
gratitude.”
Jemima had not power to resist this persuasive torrent; and, owning that the
house in which she was confined, was situated on the banks of the Thames, only
a few miles from London, and not on the sea-coast, as Darnford had supposed,
she promised to invent some excuse for her absence, and go herself to trace the
situation, and enquire concerning the health, of this abandoned daughter. Her
manner implied an intention to do something more, but she seemed unwilling to
impart her design; and Maria, glad to have obtained the main point, thought it
best to leave her to the workings of her own mind; convinced that she had the
power of interesting her still more in favour of herself and child, by a simple
recital of facts.
In the evening, Jemima informed the impatient mother, that on the morrow she
should hasten to town before the family hour of rising, and received all the
information necessary, as a clue to her search. The “Good night!” Maria uttered
was peculiarly solemn and affectionate. Glad expectation sparkled in her eye;
and, for the first time since her detention, she pronounced the name of her
child with pleasureable fondness; and, with all the garrulity of a nurse,
described her first smile when she recognized her mother. Recollecting herself,
a still kinder “Adieu!” with a “God bless you!”—that seemed to include a
maternal benediction, dismissed Jemima.
The dreary solitude of the ensuing day, lengthened by impatiently dwelling on
the same idea, was intolerably wearisome. She listened for the sound of a
particular clock, which some directions of the wind allowed her to hear
distinctly. She marked the shadow gaining on the wall; and, twilight thickening
into darkness, her breath seemed oppressed while she anxiously counted
nine.—The last sound was a stroke of despair on her heart; for she expected
every moment, without seeing Jemima, to have her light extinguished by the
savage female who supplied her place. She was even obliged to prepare for bed,
restless as she was, not to disoblige her new attendant. She had been cautioned
not to speak too freely to her; but the caution was needless, her countenance
would still more emphatically have made her shrink back. Such was the ferocity
of manner, conspicuous in every word and gesture of this hag, that Maria was
afraid to enquire, why Jemima, who had faithfully promised to see her before
her door was shut for the night, came not?—and, when the key turned in the
lock, to consign her to a night of suspence, she felt a degree of anguish which
the circumstances scarcely justified.
Continually on the watch, the shutting of a door, or the sound of a foot-step,
made her start and tremble with apprehension, something like what she felt,
when, at her entrance, dragged along the gallery, she began to doubt whether
she were not surrounded by demons?
Fatigued by an endless rotation of thought and wild alarms, she looked like a
spectre, when Jemima entered in the morning; especially as her eyes darted out
of her head, to read in Jemima’s countenance, almost as pallid, the
intelligence she dared not trust her tongue to demand. Jemima put down the
tea-things, and appeared very busy in arranging the table. Maria took up a cup
with trembling hand, then forcibly recovering her fortitude, and restraining
the convulsive movement which agitated the muscles of her mouth, she said,
“Spare yourself the pain of preparing me for your information, I adjure you!—My
child is dead!” Jemima solemnly answered, “Yes;” with a look expressive of
compassion and angry emotions. “Leave me,” added Maria, making a fresh effort
to govern her feelings, and hiding her face in her handkerchief, to conceal her
anguish—“It is enough—I know that my babe is no more—I will hear the
particulars when I am”—calmer, she could not utter; and Jemima, without
importuning her by idle attempts to console her, left the room.
Plunged in the deepest melancholy, she would not admit Darnford’s visits; and
such is the force of early associations even on strong minds, that, for a
while, she indulged the superstitious notion that she was justly punished by
the death of her child, for having for an instant ceased to regret her loss.
Two or three letters from Darnford, full of soothing, manly tenderness, only
added poignancy to these accusing emotions; yet the passionate style in which
he expressed, what he termed the first and fondest wish of his heart, “that his
affection might make her some amends for the cruelty and injustice she had
endured,” inspired a sentiment of gratitude to heaven; and her eyes filled with
delicious tears, when, at the conclusion of his letter, wishing to supply the
place of her unworthy relations, whose want of principle he execrated, he
assured her, calling her his dearest girl, “that it should henceforth be the
business of his life to make her happy.”
He begged, in a note sent the following morning, to be permitted to see her,
when his presence would be no intrusion on her grief, and so earnestly
intreated to be allowed, according to promise, to beguile the tedious moments
of absence, by dwelling on the events of her past life, that she sent him the
memoirs which had been written for her daughter, promising Jemima the perusal
as soon as he returned them.
CHAPTER 7
“Addressing these memoirs to you, my child, uncertain whether I shall ever have
an opportunity of instructing you, many observations will probably flow from my
heart, which only a mother—a mother schooled in misery, could make.
“The tenderness of a father who knew the world, might be great; but could it
equal that of a mother—of a mother, labouring under a portion of the misery,
which the constitution of society seems to have entailed on all her kind? It
is, my child, my dearest daughter, only such a mother, who will dare to break
through all restraint to provide for your happiness—who will voluntarily brave
censure herself, to ward off sorrow from your bosom. From my narrative, my dear
girl, you may gather the instruction, the counsel, which is meant rather to
exercise than influence your mind.—Death may snatch me from you, before you can
weigh my advice, or enter into my reasoning: I would then, with fond anxiety,
lead you very early in life to form your grand principle of action, to save you
from the vain regret of having, through irresolution, let the spring-tide of
existence pass away, unimproved, unenjoyed.—Gain experience—ah! gain it—while
experience is worth having, and acquire sufficient fortitude to pursue your own
happiness; it includes your utility, by a direct path. What is wisdom too
often, but the owl of the goddess, who sits moping in a desolated heart; around
me she shrieks, but I would invite all the gay warblers of spring to nestle in
your blooming bosom.—Had I not wasted years in deliberating, after I ceased to
doubt, how I ought to have acted—I might now be useful and happy.—For my sake,
warned by my example, always appear what you are, and you will not pass through
existence without enjoying its genuine blessings, love and respect.
“Born in one of the most romantic parts of England, an enthusiastic fondness
for the varying charms of nature is the first sentiment I recollect; or rather
it was the first consciousness of pleasure that employed and formed my
imagination.
“My father had been a captain of a man of war; but, disgusted with the service,
on account of the preferment of men whose chief merit was their family
connections or borough interest, he retired into the country; and, not knowing
what to do with himself—married. In his family, to regain his lost consequence,
he determined to keep up the same passive obedience, as in the vessels in which
he had commanded. His orders were not to be disputed; and the whole house was
expected to fly, at the word of command, as if to man the shrouds, or mount
aloft in an elemental strife, big with life or death. He was to be
instantaneously obeyed, especially by my mother, whom he very benevolently
married for love; but took care to remind her of the obligation, when she
dared, in the slightest instance, to question his absolute authority. My eldest
brother, it is true, as he grew up, was treated with more respect by my father;
and became in due form the deputy-tyrant of the house. The representative of my
father, a being privileged by nature—a boy, and the darling of my mother, he
did not fail to act like an heir apparent. Such indeed was my mother’s
extravagant partiality, that, in comparison with her affection for him, she
might be said not to love the rest of her children. Yet none of the children
seemed to have so little affection for her. Extreme indulgence had rendered him
so selfish, that he only thought of himself; and from tormenting insects and
animals, he became the despot of his brothers, and still more of his sisters.
“It is perhaps difficult to give you an idea of the petty cares which obscured
the morning of my life; continual restraint in the most trivial matters;
unconditional submission to orders, which, as a mere child, I soon discovered
to be unreasonable, because inconsistent and contradictory. Thus are we
destined to experience a mixture of bitterness, with the recollection of our
most innocent enjoyments.
“The circumstances which, during my childhood, occurred to fashion my mind,
were various; yet, as it would probably afford me more pleasure to revive the
fading remembrance of newborn delight, than you, my child, could feel in the
perusal, I will not entice you to stray with me into the verdant meadow, to
search for the flowers that youthful hopes scatter in every path; though, as I
write, I almost scent the fresh green of spring—of that spring which never
returns!
“I had two sisters, and one brother, younger than myself, my brother Robert was
two years older, and might truly be termed the idol of his parents, and the
torment of the rest of the family. Such indeed is the force of prejudice, that
what was called spirit and wit in him, was cruelly repressed as forwardness in
me.
“My mother had an indolence of character, which prevented her from paying much
attention to our education. But the healthy breeze of a neighbouring heath, on
which we bounded at pleasure, volatilized the humours that improper food might
have generated. And to enjoy open air and freedom, was paradise, after the
unnatural restraint of our fireside, where we were often obliged to sit three
or four hours together, without daring to utter a word, when my father was out
of humour, from want of employment, or of a variety of boisterous amusement. I
had however one advantage, an instructor, the brother of my father, who,
intended for the church, had of course received a liberal education. But,
becoming attached to a young lady of great beauty and large fortune, and
acquiring in the world some opinions not consonant with the profession for
which he was designed, he accepted, with the most sanguine expectations of
success, the offer of a nobleman to accompany him to India, as his confidential
secretary.
“A correspondence was regularly kept up with the object of his affection; and
the intricacies of business, peculiarly wearisome to a man of a romantic turn
of mind, contributed, with a forced absence, to increase his attachment. Every
other passion was lost in this master-one, and only served to swell the
torrent. Her relations, such were his waking dreams, who had despised him,
would court in their turn his alliance, and all the blandishments of taste
would grace the triumph of love.—While he basked in the warm sunshine of love,
friendship also promised to shed its dewy freshness; for a friend, whom he
loved next to his mistress, was the confident, who forwarded the letters from
one to the other, to elude the observation of prying relations. A friend false
in similar circumstances, is, my dearest girl, an old tale; yet, let not this
example, or the frigid caution of coldblooded moralists, make you endeavour to
stifle hopes, which are the buds that naturally unfold themselves during the
spring of life! Whilst your own heart is sincere, always expect to meet one
glowing with the same sentiments; for to fly from pleasure, is not to avoid
pain!
“My uncle realized, by good luck, rather than management, a handsome fortune;
and returning on the wings of love, lost in the most enchanting reveries, to
England, to share it with his mistress and his friend, he found them—united.
“There were some circumstances, not necessary for me to recite, which
aggravated the guilt of the friend beyond measure, and the deception, that had
been carried on to the last moment, was so base, it produced the most violent
effect on my uncle’s health and spirits. His native country, the world! lately
a garden of blooming sweets, blasted by treachery, seemed changed into a
parched desert, the abode of hissing serpents. Disappointment rankled in his
heart; and, brooding over his wrongs, he was attacked by a raging fever,
followed by a derangement of mind, which only gave place to habitual
melancholy, as he recovered more strength of body.
“Declaring an intention never to marry, his relations were ever clustering
about him, paying the grossest adulation to a man, who, disgusted with mankind,
received them with scorn, or bitter sarcasms. Something in my countenance
pleased him, when I began to prattle. Since his return, he appeared dead to
affection; but I soon, by showing him innocent fondness, became a favourite;
and endeavouring to enlarge and strengthen my mind, I grew dear to him in
proportion as I imbibed his sentiments. He had a forcible manner of speaking,
rendered more so by a certain impressive wildness of look and gesture,
calculated to engage the attention of a young and ardent mind. It is not then
surprising that I quickly adopted his opinions in preference, and reverenced
him as one of a superior order of beings. He inculcated, with great warmth,
self-respect, and a lofty consciousness of acting right, independent of the
censure or applause of the world; nay, he almost taught me to brave, and even
despise its censure, when convinced of the rectitude of my own intentions.
“Endeavouring to prove to me that nothing which deserved the name of love or
friendship, existed in the world, he drew such animated pictures of his own
feelings, rendered permanent by disappointment, as imprinted the sentiments
strongly on my heart, and animated my imagination. These remarks are necessary
to elucidate some peculiarities in my character, which by the world are
indefinitely termed romantic.
“My uncle’s increasing affection led him to visit me often. Still, unable to
rest in any place, he did not remain long in the country to soften domestic
tyranny; but he brought me books, for which I had a passion, and they conspired
with his conversation, to make me form an ideal picture of life. I shall pass
over the tyranny of my father, much as I suffered from it; but it is necessary
to notice, that it undermined my mother’s health; and that her temper,
continually irritated by domestic bickering, became intolerably peevish.
“My eldest brother was articled to a neighbouring attorney, the shrewdest, and,
I may add, the most unprincipled man in that part of the country. As my brother
generally came home every Saturday, to astonish my mother by exhibiting his
attainments, he gradually assumed a right of directing the whole family, not
excepting my father. He seemed to take a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and
humbling me; and if I ever ventured to complain of this treatment to either my
father or mother, I was rudely rebuffed for presuming to judge of the conduct
of my eldest brother.
“About this period a merchant’s family came to settle in our neighbourhood. A
mansion-house in the village, lately purchased, had been preparing the whole
spring, and the sight of the costly furniture, sent from London, had excited my
mother’s envy, and roused my father’s pride. My sensations were very different,
and all of a pleasurable kind. I longed to see new characters, to break the
tedious monotony of my life; and to find a friend, such as fancy had
pourtrayed. I cannot then describe the emotion I felt, the Sunday they made
their appearance at church. My eyes were rivetted on the pillar round which I
expected first to catch a glimpse of them, and darted forth to meet a servant
who hastily preceded a group of ladies, whose white robes and waving plumes,
seemed to stream along the gloomy aisle, diffusing the light, by which I
contemplated their figures.
“We visited them in form; and I quickly selected the eldest daughter for my
friend. The second son, George, paid me particular attention, and finding his
attainments and manners superior to those of the young men of the village, I
began to imagine him superior to the rest of mankind. Had my home been more
comfortable, or my previous acquaintance more numerous, I should not probably
have been so eager to open my heart to new affections.
“Mr. Venables, the merchant, had acquired a large fortune by unremitting
attention to business; but his health declining rapidly, he was obliged to
retire, before his son, George, had acquired sufficient experience, to enable
him to conduct their affairs on the same prudential plan, his father had
invariably pursued. Indeed, he had laboured to throw off his authority, having
despised his narrow plans and cautious speculation. The eldest son could not be
prevailed on to enter the firm; and, to oblige his wife, and have peace in the
house, Mr. Venables had purchased a commission for him in the guards.
“I am now alluding to circumstances which came to my knowledge long after; but
it is necessary, my dearest child, that you should know the character of your
father, to prevent your despising your mother; the only parent inclined to
discharge a parent’s duty. In London, George had acquired habits of
libertinism, which he carefully concealed from his father and his commercial
connections. The mask he wore, was so complete a covering of his real visage,
that the praise his father lavished on his conduct, and, poor mistaken man! on
his principles, contrasted with his brother’s, rendered the notice he took of
me peculiarly flattering. Without any fixed design, as I am now convinced, he
continued to single me out at the dance, press my hand at parting, and utter
expressions of unmeaning passion, to which I gave a meaning naturally suggested
by the romantic turn of my thoughts. His stay in the country was short; his
manners did not entirely please me; but, when he left us, the colouring of my
picture became more vivid—Whither did not my imagination lead me? In short, I
fancied myself in love—in love with the disinterestedness, fortitude,
generosity, dignity, and humanity, with which I had invested the hero I dubbed.
A circumstance which soon after occurred, rendered all these virtues palpable.
[The incident is perhaps worth relating on other accounts, and therefore I
shall describe it distinctly.]
“I had a great affection for my nurse, old Mary, for whom I used often to work,
to spare her eyes. Mary had a younger sister, married to a sailor, while she
was suckling me; for my mother only suckled my eldest brother, which might be
the cause of her extraordinary partiality. Peggy, Mary’s sister, lived with
her, till her husband, becoming a mate in a West-Indian trader, got a little
before-hand in the world. He wrote to his wife from the first port in the
Channel, after his most successful voyage, to request her to come to London to
meet him; he even wished her to determine on living there for the future, to
save him the trouble of coming to her the moment he came on shore; and to turn
a penny by keeping a green-stall. It was too much to set out on a journey the
moment he had finished a voyage, and fifty miles by land, was worse than a
thousand leagues by sea.
“She packed up her alls, and came to London—but did not meet honest Daniel. A
common misfortune prevented her, and the poor are bound to suffer for the good
of their country—he was pressed in the river—and never came on shore.
“Peggy was miserable in London, not knowing, as she said, ‘the face of any
living soul.’ Besides, her imagination had been employed, anticipating a month
or six weeks’ happiness with her husband. Daniel was to have gone with her to
Sadler’s Wells, and Westminster Abbey, and to many sights, which he knew she
never heard of in the country. Peggy too was thrifty, and how could she manage
to put his plan in execution alone? He had acquaintance; but she did not know
the very name of their places of abode. His letters were made up of—How do you
does, and God bless yous,—information was reserved for the hour of meeting.
“She too had her portion of information, near at heart. Molly and Jacky were
grown such little darlings, she was almost angry that daddy did not see their
tricks. She had not half the pleasure she should have had from their prattle,
could she have recounted to him each night the pretty speeches of the day. Some
stories, however, were stored up—and Jacky could say papa with such a sweet
voice, it must delight his heart. Yet when she came, and found no Daniel to
greet her, when Jacky called papa, she wept, bidding ‘God bless his innocent
soul, that did not know what sorrow was.’—But more sorrow was in store for
Peggy, innocent as she was.—Daniel was killed in the first engagement, and then
the papa was agony, sounding to the heart.
“She had lived sparingly on his wages, while there was any hope of his return;
but, that gone, she returned with a breaking heart to the country, to a little
market town, nearly three miles from our village. She did not like to go to
service, to be snubbed about, after being her own mistress. To put her children
out to nurse was impossible: how far would her wages go? and to send them to
her husband’s parish, a distant one, was to lose her husband twice over.
“I had heard all from Mary, and made my uncle furnish a little cottage for her,
to enable her to sell—so sacred was poor Daniel’s advice, now he was dead and
gone a little fruit, toys and cakes. The minding of the shop did not require
her whole time, nor even the keeping her children clean, and she loved to see
them clean; so she took in washing, and altogether made a shift to earn bread
for her children, still weeping for Daniel, when Jacky’s arch looks made her
think of his father.—It was pleasant to work for her children.—‘Yes; from
morning till night, could she have had a kiss from their father, God rest his
soul! Yes; had it pleased Providence to have let him come back without a leg or
an arm, it would have been the same thing to her—for she did not love him
because he maintained them—no; she had hands of her own.’
“The country people were honest, and Peggy left her linen out to dry very late.
A recruiting party, as she supposed, passing through, made free with a large
wash; for it was all swept away, including her own and her children’s little
stock.
“This was a dreadful blow; two dozen of shirts, stocks and handkerchiefs. She
gave the money which she had laid by for half a year’s rent, and promised to
pay two shillings a week till all was cleared; so she did not lose her
employment. This two shillings a week, and the buying a few necessaries for the
children, drove her so hard, that she had not a penny to pay her rent with,
when a twelvemonth’s became due.
“She was now with Mary, and had just told her tale, which Mary instantly
repeated—it was intended for my ear. Many houses in this town, producing a
borough-interest, were included in the estate purchased by Mr. Venables, and
the attorney with whom my brother lived, was appointed his agent, to collect
and raise the rents.
“He demanded Peggy’s, and, in spite of her intreaties, her poor goods had been
seized and sold. So that she had not, and what was worse her children, ‘for she
had known sorrow enough,’ a bed to lie on. She knew that I was
good-natured—right charitable, yet not liking to ask for more than needs must,
she scorned to petition while people could any how be made to wait. But now,
should she be turned out of doors, she must expect nothing less than to lose
all her customers, and then she must beg or starve—and what would become of her
children?—‘had Daniel not been pressed—but God knows best—all this could not
have happened.’
“I had two mattresses on my bed; what did I want with two, when such a worthy
creature must lie on the ground? My mother would be angry, but I could conceal
it till my uncle came down; and then I would tell him all the whole truth, and
if he absolved me, heaven would.
“I begged the house-maid to come up stairs with me (servants always feel for
the distresses of poverty, and so would the rich if they knew what it was). She
assisted me to tie up the mattrass; I discovering, at the same time, that one
blanket would serve me till winter, could I persuade my sister, who slept with
me, to keep my secret. She entering in the midst of the package, I gave her
some new feathers, to silence her. We got the mattrass down the back stairs,
unperceived, and I helped to carry it, taking with me all the money I had, and
what I could borrow from my sister.
“When I got to the cottage, Peggy declared that she would not take what I had
brought secretly; but, when, with all the eager eloquence inspired by a decided
purpose, I grasped her hand with weeping eyes, assuring her that my uncle would
screen me from blame, when he was once more in the country, describing, at the
same time, what she would suffer in parting with her children, after keeping
them so long from being thrown on the parish, she reluctantly consented.
“My project of usefulness ended not here; I determined to speak to the
attorney; he frequently paid me compliments. His character did not intimidate
me; but, imagining that Peggy must be mistaken, and that no man could turn a
deaf ear to such a tale of complicated distress, I determined to walk to the
town with Mary the next morning, and request him to wait for the rent, and keep
my secret, till my uncle’s return.
“My repose was sweet; and, waking with the first dawn of day, I bounded to
Mary’s cottage. What charms do not a light heart spread over nature! Every bird
that twittered in a bush, every flower that enlivened the hedge, seemed placed
there to awaken me to rapture—yes; to rapture. The present moment was full
fraught with happiness; and on futurity I bestowed not a thought, excepting to
anticipate my success with the attorney.
“This man of the world, with rosy face and simpering features, received me
politely, nay kindly; listened with complacency to my remonstrances, though he
scarcely heeded Mary’s tears. I did not then suspect, that my eloquence was in
my complexion, the blush of seventeen, or that, in a world where humanity to
women is the characteristic of advancing civilization, the beauty of a young
girl was so much more interesting than the distress of an old one. Pressing my
hand, he promised to let Peggy remain in the house as long as I wished.—I more
than returned the pressure—I was so grateful and so happy. Emboldened by my
innocent warmth, he then kissed me—and I did not draw back—I took it for a kiss
of charity.
“Gay as a lark, I went to dine at Mr. Venables’. I had previously obtained five
shillings from my father, towards re-clothing the poor children of my care, and
prevailed on my mother to take one of the girls into the house, whom I
determined to teach to work and read.
“After dinner, when the younger part of the circle retired to the music room, I
recounted with energy my tale; that is, I mentioned Peggy’s distress, without
hinting at the steps I had taken to relieve her. Miss Venables gave me
half-a-crown; the heir five shillings; but George sat unmoved. I was cruelly
distressed by the disappointment—I scarcely could remain on my chair; and,
could I have got out of the room unperceived, I should have flown home, as if
to run away from myself. After several vain attempts to rise, I leaned my head
against the marble chimney-piece, and gazing on the evergreens that filled the
fire-place, moralized on the vanity of human expectations; regardless of the
company. I was roused by a gentle tap on my shoulder from behind Charlotte’s
chair. I turned my head, and George slid a guinea into my hand, putting his
finger to his mouth, to enjoin me silence.
“What a revolution took place, not only in my train of thoughts, but feelings!
I trembled with emotion—now, indeed, I was in love. Such delicacy too, to
enhance his benevolence! I felt in my pocket every five minutes, only to feel
the guinea; and its magic touch invested my hero with more than mortal beauty.
My fancy had found a basis to erect its model of perfection on; and quickly
went to work, with all the happy credulity of youth, to consider that heart as
devoted to virtue, which had only obeyed a virtuous impulse. The bitter
experience was yet to come, that has taught me how very distinct are the
principles of virtue, from the casual feelings from which they germinate.”
CHAPTER 8
“I have perhaps dwelt too long on a circumstance, which is only of importance
as it marks the progress of a deception that has been so fatal to my peace; and
introduces to your notice a poor girl, whom, intending to serve, I led to ruin.
Still it is probable that I was not entirely the victim of mistake; and that
your father, gradually fashioned by the world, did not quickly become what I
hesitate to call him—out of respect to my daughter.
“But, to hasten to the more busy scenes of my life. Mr. Venables and my mother
died the same summer; and, wholly engrossed by my attention to her, I thought
of little else. The neglect of her darling, my brother Robert, had a violent
effect on her weakened mind; for, though boys may be reckoned the pillars of
the house without doors, girls are often the only comfort within. They but too
frequently waste their health and spirits attending a dying parent, who leaves
them in comparative poverty. After closing, with filial piety, a father’s eyes,
they are chased from the paternal roof, to make room for the first-born, the
son, who is to carry the empty family-name down to posterity; though, occupied
with his own pleasures, he scarcely thought of discharging, in the decline of
his parent’s life, the debt contracted in his childhood. My mother’s conduct
led me to make these reflections. Great as was the fatigue I endured, and the
affection my unceasing solicitude evinced, of which my mother seemed perfectly
sensible, still, when my brother, whom I could hardly persuade to remain a
quarter of an hour in her chamber, was with her alone, a short time before her
death, she gave him a little hoard, which she had been some years accumulating.
“During my mother’s illness, I was obliged to manage my father’s temper, who,
from the lingering nature of her malady, began to imagine that it was merely
fancy. At this period, an artful kind of upper servant attracted my father’s
attention, and the neighbours made many remarks on the finery, not honestly
got, exhibited at evening service. But I was too much occupied with my mother
to observe any change in her dress or behaviour, or to listen to the whisper of
scandal.
“I shall not dwell on the death-bed scene, lively as is the remembrance, or on
the emotion produced by the last grasp of my mother’s cold hand; when blessing
me, she added, ‘A little patience, and all will be over!’ Ah! my child, how
often have those words rung mournfully in my ears—and I have exclaimed—‘A
little more patience, and I too shall be at rest!’
“My father was violently affected by her death, recollected instances of his
unkindness, and wept like a child.
“My mother had solemnly recommended my sisters to my care, and bid me be a
mother to them. They, indeed, became more dear to me as they became more
forlorn; for, during my mother’s illness, I discovered the ruined state of my
father’s circumstances, and that he had only been able to keep up appearances,
by the sums which he borrowed of my uncle.
“My father’s grief, and consequent tenderness to his children, quickly abated,
the house grew still more gloomy or riotous; and my refuge from care was again
at Mr. Venables’; the young ‘squire having taken his father’s place, and
allowing, for the present, his sister to preside at his table. George, though
dissatisfied with his portion of the fortune, which had till lately been all in
trade, visited the family as usual. He was now full of speculations in trade,
and his brow became clouded by care. He seemed to relax in his attention to me,
when the presence of my uncle gave a new turn to his behaviour. I was too
unsuspecting, too disinterested, to trace these changes to their source.
“My home every day became more and more disagreeable to me; my liberty was
unnecessarily abridged, and my books, on the pretext that they made me idle,
taken from me. My father’s mistress was with child, and he, doating on her,
allowed or overlooked her vulgar manner of tyrannizing over us. I was
indignant, especially when I saw her endeavouring to attract, shall I say
seduce? my younger brother. By allowing women but one way of rising in the
world, the fostering the libertinism of men, society makes monsters of them,
and then their ignoble vices are brought forward as a proof of inferiority of
intellect.
“The wearisomeness of my situation can scarcely be described. Though my life
had not passed in the most even tenour with my mother, it was paradise to that
I was destined to endure with my father’s mistress, jealous of her illegitimate
authority. My father’s former occasional tenderness, in spite of his violence
of temper, had been soothing to me; but now he only met me with reproofs or
portentous frowns. The house-keeper, as she was now termed, was the vulgar
despot of the family; and assuming the new character of a fine lady, she could
never forgive the contempt which was sometimes visible in my countenance, when
she uttered with pomposity her bad English, or affected to be well bred.
“To my uncle I ventured to open my heart; and he, with his wonted benevolence,
began to consider in what manner he could extricate me out of my present
irksome situation. In spite of his own disappointment, or, most probably,
actuated by the feelings that had been petrified, not cooled, in all their
sanguine fervour, like a boiling torrent of lava suddenly dash ing into the
sea, he thought a marriage of mutual inclination (would envious stars permit
it) the only chance for happiness in this disastrous world. George Venables had
the reputation of being attentive to business, and my father’s example gave
great weight to this circumstance; for habits of order in business would, he
conceived, extend to the regulation of the affections in domestic life. George
seldom spoke in my uncle’s company, except to utter a short, judicious
question, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due deference to his superior
judgment; so that my uncle seldom left his company without observing, that the
young man had more in him than people supposed.
“In this opinion he was not singular; yet, believe me, and I am not swayed by
resentment, these speeches so justly poized, this silent deference, when the
animal spirits of other young people were throwing off youthful ebullitions,
were not the effect of thought or humility, but sheer barrenness of mind, and
want of imagination. A colt of mettle will curvet and shew his paces. Yes; my
dear girl, these prudent young men want all the fire necessary to ferment their
faculties, and are characterized as wise, only because they are not foolish. It
is true, that George was by no means so great a favourite of mine as during the
first year of our acquaintance; still, as he often coincided in opinion with
me, and echoed my sentiments; and having myself no other attachment, I heard
with pleasure my uncle’s proposal; but thought more of obtaining my freedom,
than of my lover. But, when George, seemingly anxious for my happiness, pressed
me to quit my present painful situation, my heart swelled with gratitude—I knew
not that my uncle had promised him five thousand pounds.
“Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I should have
insisted on a thousand pounds being settled on each of my sisters; George would
have contested; I should have seen his selfish soul; and—gracious God! have
been spared the misery of discovering, when too late, that I was united to a
heartless, unprincipled wretch. All my schemes of usefulness would not then
have been blasted. The tenderness of my heart would not have heated my
imagination with visions of the ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the
sweet duty of a mother have been so cruelly interrupted.
“But I must not suffer the fortitude I have so hardly acquired, to be
undermined by unavailing regret. Let me hasten forward to describe the turbid
stream in which I had to wade—but let me exultingly declare that it is
passed—my soul holds fellowship with him no more. He cut the Gordian knot,
which my principles, mistaken ones, respected; he dissolved the tie, the
fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—and I should rejoice, conscious
that my mind is freed, though confined in hell itself, the only place that even
fancy can imagine more dreadful than my present abode.
“These varying emotions will not allow me to proceed. I heave sigh after sigh;
yet my heart is still oppressed. For what am I reserved? Why was I not born a
man, or why was I born at all?”
CHAPTER 9
“I resume my pen to fly from thought. I was married; and we hastened to London.
I had purposed taking one of my sisters with me; for a strong motive for
marrying, was the desire of having a home at which I could receive them, now
their own grew so uncomfortable, as not to deserve the cheering appellation. An
objection was made to her accompanying me, that appeared plausible; and I
reluctantly acquiesced. I was however willingly allowed to take with me Molly,
poor Peggy’s daughter. London and preferment, are ideas commonly associated in
the country; and, as blooming as May, she bade adieu to Peggy with weeping
eyes. I did not even feel hurt at the refusal in relation to my sister, till
hearing what my uncle had done for me, I had the simplicity to request,
speaking with warmth of their situation, that he would give them a thousand
pounds a-piece, which seemed to me but justice. He asked me, giving me a kiss,
‘If I had lost my senses?’ I started back, as if I had found a wasp in a
rose-bush. I expostulated. He sneered: and the demon of discord entered our
paradise, to poison with his pestiferous breath every opening joy.
“I had sometimes observed defects in my husband’s understanding; but, led
astray by a prevailing opinion, that goodness of disposition is of the first
importance in the relative situations of life, in proportion as I perceived the
narrowness of his understanding, fancy enlarged the boundary of his heart.
Fatal error! How quickly is the so much vaunted milkiness of nature turned into
gall, by an intercourse with the world, if more generous juices do not sustain
the vital source of virtue!
“One trait in my character was extreme credulity; but, when my eyes were once
opened, I saw but too clearly all I had before overlooked. My husband was sunk
in my esteem; still there are youthful emotions, which, for a while, fill up
the chasm of love and friendship. Besides, it required some time to enable me
to see his whole character in a just light, or rather to allow it to become
fixed. While circumstances were ripening my faculties, and cultivating my
taste, commerce and gross relaxations were shutting his against any possibility
of improvement, till, by stifling every spark of virtue in himself, he began to
imagine that it no where existed.
“Do not let me lead you astray, my child, I do not mean to assert, that any
human being is entirely incapable of feeling the generous emotions, which are
the foundation of every true principle of virtue; but they are frequently, I
fear, so feeble, that, like the inflammable quality which more or less lurks in
all bodies, they often lie for ever dormant; the circumstances never occurring,
necessary to call them into action.
“I discovered however by chance, that, in consequence of some losses in trade,
the natural effect of his gambling desire to start suddenly into riches, the
five thousand pounds given me by my uncle, had been paid very opportunely. This
discovery, strange as you may think the assertion, gave me pleasure; my
husband’s embarrassments endeared him to me. I was glad to find an excuse for
his conduct to my sisters, and my mind became calmer.
“My uncle introduced me to some literary society; and the theatres were a
never-failing source of amusement to me. My delighted eye followed Mrs.
Siddons, when, with dignified delicacy, she played Califta; and I involuntarily
repeated after her, in the same tone, and with a long-drawn sigh,
‘Hearts like our’s were pair’d—not match’d.’
“These were, at first, spontaneous emotions, though, becoming acquainted with
men of wit and polished manners, I could not sometimes help regretting my early
marriage; and that, in my haste to escape from a temporary dependence, and
expand my newly fledged wings, in an unknown sky, I had been caught in a trap,
and caged for life. Still the novelty of London, and the attentive fondness of
my husband, for he had some personal regard for me, made several months glide
away. Yet, not forgetting the situation of my sisters, who were still very
young, I prevailed on my uncle to settle a thousand pounds on each; and to
place them in a school near town, where I could frequently visit, as well as
have them at home with me.
“I now tried to improve my husband’s taste, but we had few subjects in common;
indeed he soon appeared to have little relish for my society, unless he was
hinting to me the use he could make of my uncle’s wealth. When we had company,
I was disgusted by an ostentatious display of riches, and I have often quitted
the room, to avoid listening to exaggerated tales of money obtained by lucky
hits.
“With all my attention and affectionate interest, I perceived that I could not
become the friend or confident of my husband. Every thing I learned relative to
his affairs I gathered up by accident; and I vainly endeavoured to establish,
at our fire-side, that social converse, which often renders people of different
characters dear to each other. Returning from the theatre, or any amusing
party, I frequently began to relate what I had seen and highly relished; but
with sullen taciturnity he soon silenced me. I seemed therefore gradually to
lose, in his society, the soul, the energies of which had just been in action.
To such a degree, in fact, did his cold, reserved manner affect me, that, after
spending some days with him alone, I have imagined myself the most stupid
creature in the world, till the abilities of some casual visitor convinced me
that I had some dormant animation, and sentiments above the dust in which I had
been groveling. The very countenance of my husband changed; his complexion
became sallow, and all the charms of youth were vanishing with its vivacity.
“I give you one view of the subject; but these experiments and alterations took
up the space of five years; during which period, I had most reluctantly
extorted several sums from my uncle, to save my husband, to use his own words,
from destruction. At first it was to prevent bills being noted, to the injury
of his credit; then to bail him; and afterwards to prevent an execution from
entering the house. I began at last to conclude, that he would have made more
exertions of his own to extricate himself, had he not relied on mine, cruel as
was the task he imposed on me; and I firmly determined that I would make use of
no more pretexts.
“From the moment I pronounced this determination, indifference on his part was
changed into rudeness, or something worse.
“He now seldom dined at home, and continually returned at a late hour, drunk,
to bed. I retired to another apartment; I was glad, I own, to escape from his;
for personal intimacy without affection, seemed, to me the most degrading, as
well as the most painful state in which a woman of any taste, not to speak of
the peculiar delicacy of fostered sensibility, could be placed. But my
husband’s fondness for women was of the grossest kind, and imagination was so
wholly out of the question, as to render his indulgences of this sort entirely
promiscuous, and of the most brutal nature. My health suffered, before my heart
was entirely estranged by the loathsome information; could I then have returned
to his sullied arms, but as a victim to the prejudices of mankind, who have
made women the property of their husbands? I discovered even, by his
conversation, when intoxicated that his favourites were wantons of the lowest
class, who could by their vulgar, indecent mirth, which he called nature, rouse
his sluggish spirits. Meretricious ornaments and manners were necessary to
attract his attention. He seldom looked twice at a modest woman, and sat silent
in their company; and the charms of youth and beauty had not the slightest
effect on his senses, unless the possessors were initiated in vice. His
intimacy with profligate women, and his habits of thinking, gave him a contempt
for female endowments; and he would repeat, when wine had loosed his tongue,
most of the common-place sarcasms levelled at them, by men who do not allow
them to have minds, because mind would be an impediment to gross enjoyment. Men
who are inferior to their fellow men, are always most anxious to establish
their superiority over women. But where are these reflections leading me?
“Women who have lost their husband’s affection, are justly reproved for
neglecting their persons, and not taking the same pains to keep, as to gain a
heart; but who thinks of giving the same advice to men, though women are
continually stigmatized for being attached to fops; and from the nature of
their education, are more susceptible of disgust? Yet why a woman should be
expected to endure a sloven, with more patience than a man, and magnanimously
to govern herself, I cannot conceive; unless it be supposed arrogant in her to
look for respect as well as a maintenance. It is not easy to be pleased,
because, after promising to love, in different circumstances, we are told that
it is our duty. I cannot, I am sure (though, when attending the sick, I never
felt disgust) forget my own sensations, when rising with health and spirit, and
after scenting the sweet morning, I have met my husband at the breakfast table.
The active attention I had been giving to domestic regulations, which were
generally settled before he rose, or a walk, gave a glow to my countenance,
that contrasted with his squallid appearance. The squeamishness of stomach
alone, produced by the last night’s intemperance, which he took no pains to
conceal, destroyed my appetite. I think I now see him lolling in an arm-chair,
in a dirty powdering gown, soiled linen, ungartered stockings, and tangled
hair, yawning and stretching himself. The newspaper was immediately called for,
if not brought in on the tea-board, from which he would scarcely lift his eyes
while I poured out the tea, excepting to ask for some brandy to put into it, or
to declare that he could not eat. In answer to any question, in his best
humour, it was a drawling ‘What do you say, child?’ But if I demanded money for
the house expences, which I put off till the last moment, his customary reply,
often prefaced with an oath, was, ‘Do you think me, madam, made of money?’—The
butcher, the baker, must wait; and, what was worse, I was often obliged to
witness his surly dismission of tradesmen, who were in want of their money, and
whom I sometimes paid with the presents my uncle gave me for my own use.
“At this juncture my father’s mistress, by terrifying his conscience, prevailed
on him to marry her; he was already become a methodist; and my brother, who now
practised for himself, had discovered a flaw in the settlement made on my
mother’s children, which set it aside, and he allowed my father, whose distress
made him submit to any thing, a tithe of his own, or rather our fortune.
“My sisters had left school, but were unable to endure home, which my father’s
wife rendered as disagreeable as possible, to get rid of girls whom she
regarded as spies on her conduct. They were accomplished, yet you can (may you
never be reduced to the same destitute state!) scarcely conceive the trouble I
had to place them in the situation of governesses, the only one in which even a
well-educated woman, with more than ordinary talents, can struggle for a
subsistence; and even this is a dependence next to menial. Is it then
surprising, that so many forlorn women, with human passions and feelings, take
refuge in infamy? Alone in large mansions, I say alone, because they had no
companions with whom they could converse on equal terms, or from whom they
could expect the endearments of affection, they grew melancholy, and the sound
of joy made them sad; and the youngest, having a more delicate frame, fell into
a decline. It was with great difficulty that I, who now almost supported the
house by loans from my uncle, could prevail on the master of it, to
allow her a room to die in. I watched her sick bed for some months, and then
closed her eyes, gentle spirit! for ever. She was pretty, with very engaging
manners; yet had never an opportunity to marry, excepting to a very old man.
She had abilities sufficient to have shone in any profession, had there been
any professions for women, though she shrunk at the name of milliner or
mantua-maker as degrading to a gentlewoman. I would not term this feeling false
pride to any one but you, my child, whom I fondly hope to see (yes; I will
indulge the hope for a moment!) possessed of that energy of character which
gives dignity to any station; and with that clear, firm spirit that will enable
you to choose a situation for yourself, or submit to be classed in the lowest,
if it be the only one in which you can be the mistress of your own actions.
“Soon after the death of my sister, an incident occurred, to prove to me that
the heart of a libertine is dead to natural affection; and to convince me, that
the being who has appeared all tenderness, to gratify a selfish passion, is as
regardless of the innocent fruit of it, as of the object, when the fit is over.
I had casually observed an old, meanlooking woman, who called on my husband
every two or three months to receive some money. One day entering the passage
of his little counting-house, as she was going out, I heard her say, ‘The child
is very weak; she cannot live long, she will soon die out of your way, so you
need not grudge her a little physic.’
“‘So much the better,’ he replied,’ and pray mind your own business, good
woman.’
“I was struck by his unfeeling, inhuman tone of voice, and drew back,
determined when the woman came again, to try to speak to her, not out of
curiosity, I had heard enough, but with the hope of being useful to a poor,
outcast girl.
“A month or two elapsed before I saw this woman again; and then she had a child
in her hand that tottered along, scarcely able to sustain her own weight. They
were going away, to return at the hour Mr. Venables was expected; he was now
from home. I desired the woman to walk into the parlour. She hesitated, yet
obeyed. I assured her that I should not mention to my husband (the word seemed
to weigh on my respiration), that I had seen her, or his child. The woman
stared at me with astonishment; and I turned my eyes on the squalid object
[that accompanied her.] She could hardly support herself, her complexion was
sallow, and her eyes inflamed, with an indescribable look of cunning, mixed
with the wrinkles produced by the peevishness of pain.
“Poor child!’ I exclaimed. ‘Ah! you may well say poor child,’ replied the
woman. ‘I brought her here to see whether he would have the heart to look at
her, and not get some advice. I do not know what they deserve who nursed her.
Why, her legs bent under her like a bow when she came to me, and she has never
been well since; but, if they were no better paid than I am, it is not to be
wondered at, sure enough.’
“On further enquiry I was informed, that this miserable spectacle was the
daughter of a servant, a country girl, who caught Mr. Venables’ eye, and whom
he seduced. On his marriage he sent her away, her situation being too visible.
After her delivery, she was thrown on the town; and died in an hospital within
the year. The babe was sent to a parish-nurse, and afterwards to this woman,
who did not seem much better; but what was to be expected from such a close
bargain? She was only paid three shillings a week for board and washing.
“The woman begged me to give her some old clothes for the child, assuring me,
that she was almost afraid to ask master for money to buy even a pair of shoes.
“I grew sick at heart. And, fearing Mr. Venables might enter, and oblige me to
express my abhorrence, I hastily enquired where she lived, promised to pay her
two shillings a week more, and to call on her in a day or two; putting a trifle
into her hand as a proof of my good intention.
“If the state of this child affected me, what were my feelings at a discovery I
made respecting Peggy—?”[7]
[7]
The manuscript is imperfect here. An episode seems to have been intended,
which was never committed to paper. EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]
CHAPTER 10
“My father’s situation was now so distressing, that I prevailed on my uncle to
accompany me to visit him; and to lend me his assistance, to prevent the whole
property of the family from becoming the prey of my brother’s rapacity; for, to
extricate himself out of present difficulties, my father was totally regardless
of futurity. I took down with me some presents for my step-mother; it did not
require an effort for me to treat her with civility, or to forget the past.
“This was the first time I had visited my native village, since my marriage.
But with what different emotions did I return from the busy world, with a heavy
weight of experience benumbing my imagination, to scenes, that whispered
recollections of joy and hope most eloquently to my heart! The first scent of
the wild flowers from the heath, thrilled through my veins, awakening every
sense to pleasure. The icy hand of despair seemed to be removed from my bosom;
and—forgetting my husband—the nurtured visions of a romantic mind, bursting on
me with all their original wildness and gay exuberance, were again hailed as
sweet realities. I forgot, with equal facility, that I ever felt sorrow, or
knew care in the country; while a transient rainbow stole athwart the cloudy
sky of despondency. The picturesque form of several favourite trees, and the
porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were recognized with the
gladsome playfulness of childish vivacity. I could have kissed the chickens
that pecked on the common; and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs
that sported on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky
that it should be in motion, at the moment I passed by; and entering the dear
green lane, which led directly to the village, the sound of the well-known
rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying sensations of my active
soul, which only served to heighten the lustre of the luxuriant scenery. But,
spying, as I advanced, the spire, peeping over the withered tops of the aged
elms that composed the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the churchyard,
and tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed my
mother’s grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings. I wandered through
the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to do on a Saturday evening. I
recollected with what fervour I addressed the God of my youth: and once more
with rapturous love looked above my sorrows to the Father of nature. I
pause—feeling forcibly all the emotions I am describing; and (reminded, as I
register my sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremendous
solitude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe) I
insensibly breathe soft, hushing every wayward emotion, as if fearing to sully
with a sigh, a contentment so extatic.
“Having settled my father’s affairs, and, by my exertions in his favour, made
my brother my sworn foe, I returned to London. My husband’s conduct was now
changed; I had during my absence, received several affectionate, penitential
letters from him; and he seemed on my arrival, to wish by his behaviour to
prove his sincerity. I could not then conceive why he acted thus; and, when the
suspicion darted into my head, that it might arise from observing my increasing
influence with my uncle, I almost despised myself for imagining that such a
degree of debasing selfishness could exist.
“He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and attentive; and,
attacking my weak side, made a confession of his follies, and lamented the
embarrassments in which I, who merited a far different fate, might be involved.
He besought me to aid him with my counsel, praised my understanding, and
appealed to the tenderness of my heart.
“This conduct only inspired me with compassion. I wished to be his friend; but
love had spread his rosy pinions and fled far, far away; and had not (like some
exquisite perfumes, the fine spirit of which is continually mingling with the
air) left a fragrance behind, to mark where he had shook his wings. My
husband’s renewed caresses then became hateful to me; his brutality was
tolerable, compared to his distasteful fondness. Still, compassion, and the
fear of insulting his supposed feelings, by a want of sympathy, made me
dissemble, and do violence to my delicacy. What a task!
“Those who support a system of what I term false refinement, and will not allow
great part of love in the female, as well as male breast, to spring in some
respects involuntarily, may not admit that charms are as necessary to feed the
passion, as virtues to convert the mellowing spirit into friendship. To such
observers I have nothing to say, any more than to the moralists, who insist
that women ought to, and can love their husbands, because it is their duty. To
you, my child, I may add, with a heart tremblingly alive to your future
conduct, some observations, dictated by my present feelings, on calmly
reviewing this period of my life. When novelists or moralists praise as a
virtue, a woman’s coldness of constitution, and want of passion; and make her
yield to the ardour of her lover out of sheer compassion, or to promote a
frigid plan of future comfort, I am disgusted. They may be good women, in the
ordinary acceptation of the phrase, and do no harm; but they appear to me not
to have those ‘finely fashioned nerves,’ which render the senses exquisite.
They may possess tenderness; but they want that fire of the imagination, which
produces active sensibility, and positive virtue. How does the
woman deserve to be characterized, who marries one man, with a heart and
imagination devoted to another? Is she not an object of pity or contempt, when
thus sacrilegiously violating the purity of her own feelings? Nay, it is as
indelicate, when she is indifferent, unless she be constitutionally insensible;
then indeed it is a mere affair of barter; and I have nothing to do with the
secrets of trade. Yes; eagerly as I wish you to possess true rectitude of mind,
and purity of affection, I must insist that a heartless conduct is the contrary
of virtuous. Truth is the only basis of virtue; and we cannot, without
depraving our minds, endeavour to please a lover or husband, but in proportion
as he pleases us. Men, more effectually to enslave us, may inculcate this
partial morality, and lose sight of virtue in subdividing it into the duties of
particular stations; but let us not blush for nature without a cause!
“After these remarks, I am ashamed to own, that I was pregnant. The greatest
sacrifice of my principles in my whole life, was the allowing my husband again
to be familiar with my person, though to this cruel act of self-denial, when I
wished the earth to open and swallow me, you owe your birth; and I the
unutterable pleasure of being a mother. There was something of delicacy in my
husband’s bridal attentions; but now his tainted breath, pimpled face, and
blood-shot eyes, were not more repugnant to my senses, than his gross manners,
and loveless familiarity to my taste.
“A man would only be expected to maintain; yes, barely grant a subsistence, to
a woman rendered odious by habitual intoxication; but who would expect him, or
think it possible to love her? And unless ‘youth, and genial years were flown,’
it would be thought equally unreasonable to insist, [under penalty of]
forfeiting almost every thing reckoned valuable in life, that he should not
love another: whilst woman, weak in reason, impotent in will, is required to
moralize, sentimentalize herself to stone, and pine her life away, labouring to
reform her embruted mate. He may even spend in dissipation, and intemperance,
the very intemperance which renders him so hateful, her property, and by
stinting her expences, not permit her to beguile in society, a wearisome,
joyless life; for over their mutual fortune she has no power, it must all pass
through his hand. And if she be a mother, and in the present state of women, it
is a great misfortune to be prevented from discharging the duties, and
cultivating the affections of one, what has she not to endure?—But I have
suffered the tenderness of one to lead me into reflections that I did not think
of making, to interrupt my narrative—yet the full heart will overflow.
“Mr. Venables’ embarrassments did not now endear him to me; still, anxious to
befriend him, I endeavoured to prevail on him to retrench his expences; but he
had always some plausible excuse to give, to justify his not following my
advice. Humanity, compassion, and the interest produced by a habit of living
together, made me try to relieve, and sympathize with him; but, when I
recollected that I was bound to live with such a being for ever—my heart died
within me; my desire of improvement became languid, and baleful, corroding
melancholy took possession of my soul. Marriage had bastilled me for life. I
discovered in myself a capacity for the enjoyment of the various pleasures
existence affords; yet, fettered by the partial laws of society, this fair
globe was to me an universal blank.
“When I exhorted my husband to economy, I referred to himself. I was obliged to
practise the most rigid, or contract debts, which I had too much reason to fear
would never be paid. I despised this paltry privilege of a wife, which can only
be of use to the vicious or inconsiderate, and determined not to increase the
torrent that was bearing him down. I was then ignorant of the extent of his
fraudulent speculations, whom I was bound to honour and obey.
“A woman neglected by her husband, or whose manners form a striking contrast
with his, will always have men on the watch to soothe and flatter her. Besides,
the forlorn state of a neglected woman, not destitute of personal charms, is
particularly interesting, and rouses that species of pity, which is so near
akin, it easily slides into love. A man of feeling thinks not of seducing, he
is himself seduced by all the noblest emotions of his soul. He figures to
himself all the sacrifices a woman of sensibility must make, and every
situation in which his imagination places her, touches his heart, and fires his
passions. Longing to take to his bosom the shorn lamb, and bid the drooping
buds of hope revive, benevolence changes into passion: and should he then
discover that he is beloved, honour binds him fast, though foreseeing that he
may afterwards be obliged to pay severe damages to the man, who never appeared
to value his wife’s society, till he found that there was a chance of his being
indemnified for the loss of it.
“Such are the partial laws enacted by men; for, only to lay a stress on the
dependent state of a woman in the grand question of the comforts arising from
the possession of property, she is [even in this article] much more injured by
the loss of the husband’s affection, than he by that of his wife; yet where is
she, condemned to the solitude of a deserted home, to look for a compensation
from the woman, who seduces him from her? She cannot drive an unfaithful
husband from his house, nor separate, or tear, his children from him, however
culpable he may be; and he, still the master of his own fate, enjoys the smiles
of a world, that would brand her with infamy, did she, seeking consolation,
venture to retaliate.
“These remarks are not dictated by experience; but merely by the compassion I
feel for many amiable women, the outlaws of the world. For myself, never
encouraging any of the advances that were made to me, my lovers dropped off
like the untimely shoots of spring. I did not even coquet with them; because I
found, on examining myself, I could not coquet with a man without loving him a
little; and I perceived that I should not be able to stop at the line of what
are termed innocent freedoms, did I suffer any. My reserve was then the
consequence of delicacy. Freedom of conduct has emancipated many women’s minds;
but my conduct has most rigidly been governed by my principles, till the
improvement of my understanding has enabled me to discern the fallacy of
prejudices at war with nature and reason.
“Shortly after the change I have mentioned in my husband’s conduct, my uncle
was compelled by his declining health, to seek the succour of a milder climate,
and embark for Lisbon. He left his will in the hands of a friend, an eminent
solicitor; he had previously questioned me relative to my situation and state
of mind, and declared very freely, that he could place no reliance on the
stability of my husband’s professions. He had been deceived in the unfolding of
his character; he now thought it fixed in a train of actions that would
inevitably lead to ruin and disgrace.
“The evening before his departure, which we spent alone together, he folded me
to his heart, uttering the endearing appellation of ‘child.’—My more than
father! why was I not permitted to perform the last duties of one, and smooth
the pillow of death? He seemed by his manner to be convinced that he should
never see me more; yet requested me, most earnestly, to come to him, should I
be obliged to leave my husband. He had before expressed his sorrow at hearing
of my pregnancy, having determined to prevail on me to accompany him, till I
informed him of that circumstance. He expressed himself unfeignedly sorry that
any new tie should bind me to a man whom he thought so incapable of estimating
my value; such was the kind language of affection.
“I must repeat his own words; they made an indelible impression on my mind:
“‘The marriage state is certainly that in which women, generally speaking, can
be most useful; but I am far from thinking that a woman, once married, ought to
consider the engagement as indissoluble (especially if there be no children to
reward her for sacrificing her feelings) in case her husband merits neither her
love, nor esteem. Esteem will often supply the place of love; and prevent a
woman from being wretched, though it may not make her happy. The magnitude of a
sacrifice ought always to bear some proportion to the utility in view; and for
a woman to live with a man, for whom she can cherish neither affection nor
esteem, or even be of any use to him, excepting in the light of a house-keeper,
is an abjectness of condition, the enduring of which no concurrence of
circumstances can ever make a duty in the sight of God or just men. If indeed
she submits to it merely to be maintained in idleness, she has no right to
complain bitterly of her fate; or to act, as a person of independent character
might, as if she had a title to disregard general rules.
“But the misfortune is, that many women only submit in appearance, and forfeit
their own respect to secure their reputation in the world. The situation of a
woman separated from her husband, is undoubtedly very different from that of a
man who has left his wife. He, with lordly dignity, has shaken of a clog; and
the allowing her food and raiment, is thought sufficient to secure his
reputation from taint. And, should she have been inconsiderate, he will be
celebrated for his generosity and forbearance. Such is the respect paid to the
master-key of property! A woman, on the contrary, resigning what is termed her
natural protector (though he never was so, but in name) is despised and
shunned, for asserting the independence of mind distinctive of a rational
being, and spurning at slavery.’
“During the remainder of the evening, my uncle’s tenderness led him frequently
to revert to the subject, and utter, with increasing warmth, sentiments to the
same purport. At length it was necessary to say ‘Farewell!’—and we
parted—gracious God! to meet no more.”
CHAPTER 11
“A gentleman of large fortune and of polished manners, had lately visited very
frequently at our house, and treated me, if possible, with more respect than
Mr. Venables paid him; my pregnancy was not yet visible, his society was a
great relief to me, as I had for some time past, to avoid expence, confined
myself very much at home. I ever disdained unnecessary, perhaps even prudent
concealments; and my husband, with great ease, discovered the amount of my
uncle’s parting present. A copy of a writ was the stale pretext to extort it
from me; and I had soon reason to believe that it was fabricated for the
purpose. I acknowledge my folly in thus suffering myself to be continually
imposed on. I had adhered to my resolution not to apply to my uncle, on the
part of my husband, any more; yet, when I had received a sum sufficient to
supply my own wants, and to enable me to pursue a plan I had in view, to settle
my younger brother in a respectable employment, I allowed myself to be duped by
Mr. Venables’ shallow pretences, and hypocritical professions.
“Thus did he pillage me and my family, thus frustrate all my plans of
usefulness. Yet this was the man I was bound to respect and esteem: as if
respect and esteem depended on an arbitrary will of our own! But a wife being
as much a man’s property as his horse, or his ass, she has nothing she can call
her own. He may use any means to get at what the law considers as his, the
moment his wife is in possession of it, even to the forcing of a lock, as Mr.
Venables did, to search for notes in my writing-desk—and all this is done with
a show of equity, because, forsooth, he is responsible for her maintenance.
“The tender mother cannot lawfully snatch from the gripe of the gambling
spendthrift, or beastly drunkard, unmindful of his offspring, the fortune which
falls to her by chance; or (so flagrant is the injustice) what she earns by her
own exertions. No; he can rob her with impunity, even to waste publicly on a
courtezan; and the laws of her country—if women have a country—afford her no
protection or redress from the oppressor, unless she have the plea of bodily
fear; yet how many ways are there of goading the soul almost to madness,
equally unmanly, though not so mean? When such laws were framed, should not
impartial lawgivers have first decreed, in the style of a great assembly, who
recognized the existence of an être suprême, to fix the national belief,
that the husband should always be wiser and more virtuous than his wife, in
order to entitle him, with a show of justice, to keep this idiot, or perpetual
minor, for ever in bondage. But I must have done—on this subject, my
indignation continually runs away with me.
“The company of the gentleman I have already mentioned, who had a general
acquaintance with literature and subjects of taste, was grateful to me; my
countenance brightened up as he approached, and I unaffectedly expressed the
pleasure I felt. The amusement his conversation afforded me, made it easy to
comply with my husband’s request, to endeavour to render our house agreeable to
him.
“His attentions became more pointed; but, as I was not of the number of women,
whose virtue, as it is termed, immediately takes alarm, I endeavoured, rather
by raillery than serious expostulation, to give a different turn to his
conversation. He assumed a new mode of attack, and I was, for a while, the dupe
of his pretended friendship.
“I had, merely in the style of badinage, boasted of my conquest, and
repeated his lover-like compliments to my husband. But he begged me, for God’s
sake, not to affront his friend, or I should destroy all his projects, and be
his ruin. Had I had more affection for my husband, I should have expressed my
contempt of this time-serving politeness: now I imagined that I only felt pity;
yet it would have puzzled a casuist to point out in what the exact difference
consisted.
“This friend began now, in confidence, to discover to me the real state of my
husband’s affairs. ‘Necessity,’ said Mr. S——; why should I reveal his name? for
he affected to palliate the conduct he could not excuse, ‘had led him to take
such steps, by accommodation bills, buying goods on credit, to sell them for
ready money, and similar transactions, that his character in the commercial
world was gone. He was considered,’ he added, lowering his voice, ‘on ‘Change
as a swindler.’
“I felt at that moment the first maternal pang. Aware of the evils my sex have
to struggle with, I still wished, for my own consolation, to be the mother of a
daughter; and I could not bear to think, that the sins of her father’s
entailed disgrace, should be added to the ills to which woman is heir.
“So completely was I deceived by these shows of friendship (nay, I believe,
according to his interpretation, Mr. S—— really was my friend) that I began to
consult him respecting the best mode of retrieving my husband’s character: it
is the good name of a woman only that sets to rise no more. I knew not that he
had been drawn into a whirlpool, out of which he had not the energy to attempt
to escape. He seemed indeed destitute of the power of employing his faculties
in any regular pursuit. His principles of action were so loose, and his mind so
uncultivated, that every thing like order appeared to him in the shape of
restraint; and, like men in the savage state, he required the strong stimulus
of hope or fear, produced by wild speculations, in which the interests of
others went for nothing, to keep his spirits awake. He one time professed
patriotism, but he knew not what it was to feel honest indignation; and
pretended to be an advocate for liberty, when, with as little affection for the
human race as for individuals, he thought of nothing but his own gratification.
He was just such a citizen, as a father. The sums he adroitly obtained by a
violation of the laws of his country, as well as those of humanity, he would
allow a mistress to squander; though she was, with the same sang froid,
consigned, as were his children, to poverty, when another proved more
attractive.
“On various pretences, his friend continued to visit me; and, observing my want
of money, he tried to induce me to accept of pecuniary aid; but this offer I
absolutely rejected, though it was made with such delicacy, I could not be
displeased.
“One day he came, as I thought accidentally, to dinner. My husband was very
much engaged in business, and quitted the room soon after the cloth was
removed. We conversed as usual, till confidential advice led again to love. I
was extremely mortified. I had a sincere regard for him, and hoped that he had
an equal friendship for me. I therefore began mildly to expostulate with him.
This gentleness he mistook for coy encouragement; and he would not be diverted
from the subject. Perceiving his mistake, I seriously asked him how, using such
language to me, he could profess to be my husband’s friend? A significant sneer
excited my curiosity, and he, supposing this to be my only scruple, took a
letter deliberately out of his pocket, saying, ‘Your husband’s honour is not
inflexible. How could you, with your discernment, think it so? Why, he left the
room this very day on purpose to give me an opportunity to explain myself;
he thought me too timid—too tardy.
“I snatched the letter with indescribable emotion. The purport of it was to
invite him to dinner, and to ridicule his chivalrous respect for me. He assured
him, ‘that every woman had her price, and, with gross indecency, hinted, that
he should be glad to have the duty of a husband taken off his hands. These he
termed liberal sentiments. He advised him not to shock my romantic
notions, but to attack my credulous generosity, and weak pity; and concluded
with requesting him to lend him five hundred pounds for a month or six weeks.’
I read this letter twice over; and the firm purpose it inspired, calmed the
rising tumult of my soul. I rose deliberately, requested Mr. S—— to wait a
moment, and instantly going into the counting-house, desired Mr. Venables to
return with me to the dining-parlour.
“He laid down his pen, and entered with me, without observing any change in my
countenance. I shut the door, and, giving him the letter, simply asked,
‘whether he wrote it, or was it a forgery?’
“Nothing could equal his confusion. His friend’s eye met his, and he muttered
something about a joke—But I interrupted him—‘It is sufficient—We part for
ever.’
“I continued, with solemnity, ‘I have borne with your tyranny and infidelities.
I disdain to utter what I have borne with. I thought you unprincipled, but not
so decidedly vicious. I formed a tie, in the sight of heaven—I have held it
sacred; even when men, more conformable to my taste, have made me feel—I
despise all subterfuge!—that I was not dead to love. Neglected by you, I have
resolutely stifled the enticing emotions, and respected the plighted faith you
outraged. And you dare now to insult me, by selling me to
prostitution!—Yes—equally lost to delicacy and principle—you dared
sacrilegiously to barter the honour of the mother of your child.’
“Then, turning to Mr. S——, I added, ‘I call on you, Sir, to witness,’ and I
lifted my hands and eyes to heaven, ‘that, as solemnly as I took his name, I
now abjure it,’ I pulled off my ring, and put it on the table; ‘and that I mean
immediately to quit his house, never to enter it more. I will provide for
myself and child. I leave him as free as I am determined to be myself—he shall
be answerable for no debts of mine.’
“Astonishment closed their lips, till Mr. Venables, gently pushing his friend,
with a forced smile, out of the room, nature for a moment prevailed, and,
appearing like himself, he turned round, burning with rage, to me: but there
was no terror in the frown, excepting when contrasted with the malignant smile
which preceded it. He bade me ‘leave the house at my peril; told me he despised
my threats; I had no resource; I could not swear the peace against him!—I was
not afraid of my life!—he had never struck me!’
“He threw the letter in the fire, which I had incautiously left in his hands;
and, quitting the room, locked the door on me.
“When left alone, I was a moment or two before I could recollect myself—One
scene had succeeded another with such rapidity, I almost doubted whether I was
reflecting on a real event. ‘Was it possible? Was I, indeed, free?’—Yes; free I
termed myself, when I decidedly perceived the conduct I ought to adopt. How had
I panted for liberty—liberty, that I would have purchased at any price, but
that of my own esteem! I rose, and shook myself; opened the window, and
methought the air never smelled so sweet. The face of heaven grew fairer as I
viewed it, and the clouds seemed to flit away obedient to my wishes, to give my
soul room to expand. I was all soul, and (wild as it may appear) felt as if I
could have dissolved in the soft balmy gale that kissed my cheek, or have
glided below the horizon on the glowing, descending beams. A seraphic
satisfaction animated, without agitating my spirits; and my imagination
collected, in visions sublimely terrible, or soothingly beautiful, an immense
variety of the endless images, which nature affords, and fancy combines, of the
grand and fair. The lustre of these bright picturesque sketches faded with the
setting sun; but I was still alive to the calm delight they had diffused
through my heart.
“There may be advocates for matrimonial obedience, who, making a distinction
between the duty of a wife and of a human being, may blame my conduct.—To them
I write not—my feelings are not for them to analyze; and may you, my child,
never be able to ascertain, by heart-rending experience, what your mother felt
before the present emancipation of her mind!
“I began to write a letter to my father, after closing one to my uncle; not to
ask advice, but to signify my determination; when I was interrupted by the
entrance of Mr. Venables. His manner was changed. His views on my uncle’s
fortune made him averse to my quitting his house, or he would, I am convinced,
have been glad to have shaken off even the slight restraint my presence imposed
on him; the restraint of showing me some respect. So far from having an
affection for me, he really hated me, because he was convinced that I must
despise him.
“He told me, that ‘As I now had had time to cool and reflect, he did not doubt
but that my prudence, and nice sense of propriety, would lead me to overlook
what was passed.’
“‘Reflection,’ I replied, ‘had only confirmed my purpose, and no power on earth
could divert me from it.’
“Endeavouring to assume a soothing voice and look, when he would willingly have
tortured me, to force me to feel his power, his countenance had an infernal
expression, when he desired me, ‘Not to expose myself to the servants, by
obliging him to confine me in my apartment; if then I would give my promise not
to quit the house precipitately, I should be free—and—.’ I declared,
interrupting him, ‘that I would promise nothing. I had no measures to keep with
him—I was resolved, and would not condescend to subterfuge.’
“He muttered, ‘that I should soon repent of these preposterous airs;’ and,
ordering tea to be carried into my little study, which had a communication with
my bed-chamber, he once more locked the door upon me, and left me to my own
meditations. I had passively followed him up stairs, not wishing to fatigue
myself with unavailing exertion.
“Nothing calms the mind like a fixed purpose. I felt as if I had heaved a
thousand weight from my heart; the atmosphere seemed lightened; and, if I
execrated the institutions of society, which thus enable men to tyrannize over
women, it was almost a disinterested sentiment. I disregarded present
inconveniences, when my mind had done struggling with itself,—when reason and
inclination had shaken hands and were at peace. I had no longer the cruel task
before me, in endless perspective, aye, during the tedious for ever of life, of
labouring to overcome my repugnance—of labouring to extinguish the hopes, the
maybes of a lively imagination. Death I had hailed as my only chance for
deliverance; but, while existence had still so many charms, and life promised
happiness, I shrunk from the icy arms of an unknown tyrant, though far more
inviting than those of the man, to whom I supposed myself bound without any
other alternative; and was content to linger a little longer, waiting for I
knew not what, rather than leave ‘the warm precincts of the cheerful day,’ and
all the unenjoyed affection of my nature.
“My present situation gave a new turn to my reflection; and I wondered (now the
film seemed to be withdrawn, that obscured the piercing sight of reason) how I
could, previously to the deciding outrage, have considered myself as
everlastingly united to vice and folly! ‘Had an evil genius cast a spell at my
birth; or a demon stalked out of chaos, to perplex my understanding, and
enchain my will, with delusive prejudices?’
“I pursued this train of thinking; it led me out of myself, to expatiate on the
misery peculiar to my sex. ‘Are not,’ I thought, ‘the despots for ever
stigmatized, who, in the wantonness of power, commanded even the most atrocious
criminals to be chained to dead bodies? though surely those laws are much more
inhuman, which forge adamantine fetters to bind minds together, that never can
mingle in social communion! What indeed can equal the wretchedness of that
state, in which there is no alternative, but to extinguish the affections, or
encounter infamy?’”
CHAPTER 12
“Towards midnight Mr. Venables entered my chamber; and, with calm audacity
preparing to go to bed, he bade me make haste, ‘for that was the best place for
husbands and wives to end their differences. He had been drinking plentifully
to aid his courage.
“I did not at first deign to reply. But perceiving that he affected to take my
silence for consent, I told him that, ‘If he would not go to another bed, or
allow me, I should sit up in my study all night.’ He attempted to pull me into
the chamber, half joking. But I resisted; and, as he had determined not to give
me any reason for saying that he used violence, after a few more efforts, he
retired, cursing my obstinacy, to bed.
“I sat musing some time longer; then, throwing my cloak around me, prepared for
sleep on a sopha. And, so fortunate seemed my deliverance, so sacred the
pleasure of being thus wrapped up in myself, that I slept profoundly, and woke
with a mind composed to encounter the struggles of the day. Mr. Venables did
not wake till some hours after; and then he came to me half-dressed, yawning
and stretching, with haggard eyes, as if he scarcely recollected what had
passed the preceding evening. He fixed his eyes on me for a moment, then,
calling me a fool, asked ‘How long I intended to continue this pretty farce?
For his part, he was devilish sick of it; but this was the plague of marrying
women who pretended to know something.’
“I made no other reply to this harangue, than to say, ‘That he ought to be glad
to get rid of a woman so unfit to be his companion—and that any change in my
conduct would be mean dissimulation; for maturer reflection only gave the
sacred seal of reason to my first resolution.’
“He looked as if he could have stamped with impatience, at being obliged to
stifle his rage; but, conquering his anger (for weak people, whose passions
seem the most ungovernable, restrain them with the greatest ease, when they
have a sufficient motive), he exclaimed, ‘Very pretty, upon my soul! very
pretty, theatrical flourishes! Pray, fair Roxana, stoop from your altitudes,
and remember that you are acting a part in real life.’
“He uttered this speech with a self-satisfied air, and went down stairs to
dress.
“In about an hour he came to me again; and in the same tone said, ‘That he came
as my gentleman-usher to hand me down to breakfast.
“‘Of the black rod?’ asked I.
“This question, and the tone in which I asked it, a little disconcerted him. To
say the truth, I now felt no resentment; my firm resolution to free myself from
my ignoble thraldom, had absorbed the various emotions which, during six years,
had racked my soul. The duty pointed out by my principles seemed clear; and not
one tender feeling intruded to make me swerve: The dislike which my husband had
inspired was strong; but it only led me to wish to avoid, to wish to let him
drop out of my memory; there was no misery, no torture that I would not
deliberately have chosen, rather than renew my lease of servitude.
“During the breakfast, he attempted to reason with me on the folly of romantic
sentiments; for this was the indiscriminate epithet he gave to every mode of
conduct or thinking superior to his own. He asserted, ‘that all the world were
governed by their own interest; those who pretended to be actuated by different
motives, were only deeper knaves, or fools crazed by books, who took for gospel
all the rodomantade nonsense written by men who knew nothing of the world. For
his part, he thanked God, he was no hypocrite; and, if he stretched a point
sometimes, it was always with an intention of paying every man his own.’
“He then artfully insinuated, ‘that he daily expected a vessel to arrive, a
successful speculation, that would make him easy for the present, and that he
had several other schemes actually depending, that could not fail. He had no
doubt of becoming rich in a few years, though he had been thrown back by some
unlucky adventures at the setting out.’
“I mildly replied, ‘That I wished he might not involve himself still deeper.’
“He had no notion that I was governed by a decision of judgment, not to be
compared with a mere spurt of resentment. He knew not what it was to feel
indignation against vice, and often boasted of his placable temper, and
readiness to forgive injuries. True; for he only considered the being deceived,
as an effort of skill he had not guarded against; and then, with a cant of
candour, would observe, ‘that he did not know how he might himself have been
tempted to act in the same circumstances.’ And, as his heart never opened to
friendship, it never was wounded by disappointment. Every new acquaintance he
protested, it is true, was ‘the cleverest fellow in the world; and he really
thought so; till the novelty of his conversation or manners ceased to have any
effect on his sluggish spirits. His respect for rank or fortune was more
permanent, though he chanced to have no design of availing himself of the
influence of either to promote his own views.
“After a prefatory conversation,—my blood (I thought it had been cooler)
flushed over my whole countenance as he spoke—he alluded to my situation. He
desired me to reflect—‘and act like a prudent woman, as the best proof of my
superior understanding; for he must own I had sense, did I know how to use it.
I was not,’ he laid a stress on his words, ‘without my passions; and a husband
was a convenient cloke.—He was liberal in his way of thinking; and why might
not we, like many other married people, who were above vulgar prejudices,
tacitly consent to let each other follow their own inclination?—He meant
nothing more, in the letter I made the ground of complaint; and the pleasure
which I seemed to take in Mr. S.‘s company, led him to conclude, that he was
not disagreeable to me.’
“A clerk brought in the letters of the day, and I, as I often did, while he was
discussing subjects of business, went to the piano forte, and began to
play a favourite air to restore myself, as it were, to nature, and drive the
sophisticated sentiments I had just been obliged to listen to, out of my soul.
“They had excited sensations similar to those I have felt, in viewing the
squalid inhabitants of some of the lanes and back streets of the metropolis,
mortified at being compelled to consider them as my fellow-creatures, as if an
ape had claimed kindred with me. Or, as when surrounded by a mephitical fog, I
have wished to have a volley of cannon fired, to clear the incumbered
atmosphere, and give me room to breathe and move.
“My spirits were all in arms, and I played a kind of extemporary prelude. The
cadence was probably wild and impassioned, while, lost in thought, I made the
sounds a kind of echo to my train of thinking.
“Pausing for a moment, I met Mr. Venables’ eyes. He was observing me with an
air of conceited satisfaction, as much as to say—‘My last insinuation has done
the business—she begins to know her own interest.’ Then gathering up his
letters, he said, ‘That he hoped he should hear no more romantic stuff, well
enough in a miss just come from boarding school;’ and went, as was his custom,
to the counting-house. I still continued playing; and, turning to a sprightly
lesson, I executed it with uncommon vivacity. I heard footsteps approach the
door, and was soon convinced that Mr. Venables was listening; the consciousness
only gave more animation to my fingers. He went down into the kitchen, and the
cook, probably by his desire, came to me, to know what I would please to order
for dinner. Mr. Venables came into the parlour again, with apparent
carelessness. I perceived that the cunning man was overreaching himself; and I
gave my directions as usual, and left the room.
“While I was making some alteration in my dress, Mr. Venables peeped in, and,
begging my pardon for interrupting me, disappeared. I took up some work (I
could not read), and two or three messages were sent to me, probably for no
other purpose, but to enable Mr. Venables to ascertain what I was about.
“I listened whenever I heard the street-door open; at last I imagined I could
distinguish Mr. Venables’ step, going out. I laid aside my work; my heart
palpitated; still I was afraid hastily to enquire; and I waited a long half
hour, before I ventured to ask the boy whether his master was in the
counting-house?
“Being answered in the negative, I bade him call me a coach, and collecting a
few necessaries hastily together, with a little parcel of letters and papers
which I had collected the preceding evening, I hurried into it, desiring the
coachman to drive to a distant part of the town.
“I almost feared that the coach would break down before I got out of the
street; and, when I turned the corner, I seemed to breathe a freer air. I was
ready to imagine that I was rising above the thick atmosphere of earth; or I
felt, as wearied souls might be supposed to feel on entering another state of
existence.
“I stopped at one or two stands of coaches to elude pursuit, and then drove
round the skirts of the town to seek for an obscure lodging, where I wished to
remain concealed, till I could avail myself of my uncle’s protection. I had
resolved to assume my own name immediately, and openly to avow my
determination, without any formal vindication, the moment I had found a home,
in which I could rest free from the daily alarm of expecting to see Mr.
Venables enter.
“I looked at several lodgings; but finding that I could not, without a
reference to some acquaintance, who might inform my tyrant, get admittance into
a decent apartment—men have not all this trouble—I thought of a woman whom I
had assisted to furnish a little haberdasher’s shop, and who I knew had a first
floor to let.
“I went to her, and though I could not persuade her, that the quarrel between
me and Mr. Venables would never be made up, still she agreed to conceal me for
the present; yet assuring me at the same time, shaking her head, that, when a
woman was once married, she must bear every thing. Her pale face, on which
appeared a thousand haggard lines and delving wrinkles, produced by what is
emphatically termed fretting, inforced her remark; and I had afterwards an
opportunity of observing the treatment she had to endure, which grizzled her
into patience. She toiled from morning till night; yet her husband would rob
the till, and take away the money reserved for paying bills; and, returning
home drunk, he would beat her if she chanced to offend him, though she had a
child at the breast.
“These scenes awoke me at night; and, in the morning, I heard her, as usual,
talk to her dear Johnny—he, forsooth, was her master; no slave in the West
Indies had one more despotic; but fortunately she was of the true Russian breed
of wives.
“My mind, during the few past days, seemed, as it were, disengaged from my
body; but, now the struggle was over, I felt very forcibly the effect which
perturbation of spirits produces on a woman in my situation.
“The apprehension of a miscarriage, obliged me to confine myself to my
apartment near a fortnight; but I wrote to my uncle’s friend for money,
promising ‘to call on him, and explain my situation, when I was well enough to
go out; mean time I earnestly intreated him, not to mention my place of abode
to any one, lest my husband—such the law considered him—should disturb the mind
he could not conquer. I mentioned my intention of setting out for Lisbon, to
claim my uncle’s protection, the moment my health would permit.’
“The tranquillity however, which I was recovering, was soon interrupted. My
landlady came up to me one day, with eyes swollen with weeping, unable to utter
what she was commanded to say. She declared, ‘That she was never so miserable
in her life; that she must appear an ungrateful monster; and that she would
readily go down on her knees to me, to intreat me to forgive her, as she had
done to her husband to spare her the cruel task.’ Sobs prevented her from
proceeding, or answering my impatient enquiries, to know what she meant.
“When she became a little more composed, she took a newspaper out of her
pocket, declaring, ‘that her heart smote her, but what could she do?—she must
obey her husband.’ I snatched the paper from her. An advertisement quickly met
my eye, purporting, that ‘Maria Venables had, without any assignable cause,
absconded from her husband; and any person harbouring her, was menaced with the
utmost severity of the law.’
“Perfectly acquainted with Mr. Venables’ meanness of soul, this step did not
excite my surprise, and scarcely my contempt. Resentment in my breast, never
survived love. I bade the poor woman, in a kind tone, wipe her eyes, and
request her husband to come up, and speak to me himself.
“My manner awed him. He respected a lady, though not a woman; and began to
mutter out an apology.
“‘Mr. Venables was a rich gentleman; he wished to oblige me, but he had
suffered enough by the law already, to tremble at the thought; besides, for
certain, we should come together again, and then even I should not thank him
for being accessary to keeping us asunder.—A husband and wife were, God knows,
just as one,—and all would come round at last.’ He uttered a drawling ‘Hem!’
and then with an arch look, added—‘Master might have had his little
frolics—but—Lord bless your heart!—men would be men while the world stands.’
“To argue with this privileged first-born of reason, I perceived, would be
vain. I therefore only requested him to let me remain another day at his house,
while I sought for a lodging; and not to inform Mr. Venables that I had ever
been sheltered there.
“He consented, because he had not the courage to refuse a person for whom he
had an habitual respect; but I heard the pent-up choler burst forth in curses,
when he met his wife, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs, to
know what effect my expostulations would have on him.
“Without wasting any time in the fruitless indulgence of vexation, I once more
set out in search of an abode in which I could hide myself for a few weeks.
“Agreeing to pay an exorbitant price, I hired an apartment, without any
reference being required relative to my character: indeed, a glance at my shape
seemed to say, that my motive for concealment was sufficiently obvious. Thus
was I obliged to shroud my head in infamy.
“To avoid all danger of detection—I use the appropriate word, my child, for I
was hunted out like a felon—I determined to take possession of my new lodgings
that very evening.
“I did not inform my landlady where I was going. I knew that she had a sincere
affection for me, and would willingly have run any risk to show her gratitude;
yet I was fully convinced, that a few kind words from Johnny would have found
the woman in her, and her dear benefactress, as she termed me in an agony of
tears, would have been sacrificed, to recompense her tyrant for condescending
to treat her like an equal. He could be kind-hearted, as she expressed it, when
he pleased. And this thawed sternness, contrasted with his habitual brutality,
was the more acceptable, and could not be purchased at too dear a rate.
“The sight of the advertisement made me desirous of taking refuge with my
uncle, let what would be the consequence; and I repaired in a hackney coach
(afraid of meeting some person who might chance to know me, had I walked) to
the chambers of my uncle’s friend.
“He received me with great politeness (my uncle had already prepossessed him in
my favour), and listened, with interest, to my explanation of the motives which
had induced me to fly from home, and skulk in obscurity, with all the timidity
of fear that ought only to be the companion of guilt. He lamented, with rather
more gallantry than, in my situation, I thought delicate, that such a woman
should be thrown away on a man insensible to the charms of beauty or grace. He
seemed at a loss what to advise me to do, to evade my husband’s search, without
hastening to my uncle, whom, he hesitating said, I might not find alive. He
uttered this intelligence with visible regret; requested me, at least, to wait
for the arrival of the next packet; offered me what money I wanted, and
promised to visit me.
“He kept his word; still no letter arrived to put an end to my painful state of
suspense. I procured some books and music, to beguile the tedious solitary
days.
‘Come, ever smiling Liberty,
‘And with thee bring thy jocund train:’
I sung—and sung till, saddened by the strain of joy, I bitterly lamented the
fate that deprived me of all social pleasure. Comparative liberty indeed I had
possessed myself of; but the jocund train lagged far behind!”
CHAPTER 13
“By watching my only visitor, my uncle’s friend, or by some other means, Mr.
Venables discovered my residence, and came to enquire for me. The maid-servant
assured him there was no such person in the house. A bustle ensued—I caught the
alarm—listened—distinguished his voice, and immediately locked the door. They
suddenly grew still; and I waited near a quarter of an hour, before I heard him
open the parlour door, and mount the stairs with the mistress of the house, who
obsequiously declared that she knew nothing of me.
“Finding my door locked, she requested me to open it, and prepare to go home
with my husband, poor gentleman! to whom I had already occasioned sufficient
vexation.’ I made no reply. Mr. Venables then, in an assumed tone of softness,
intreated me, ‘to consider what he suffered, and my own reputation, and get the
better of childish resentment.’ He ran on in the same strain, pretending to
address me, but evidently adapting his discourse to the capacity of the
landlady; who, at every pause, uttered an exclamation of pity; or ‘Yes, to be
sure—Very true, sir.’
“Sick of the farce, and perceiving that I could not avoid the hated interview,
I opened the door, and he entered. Advancing with easy assurance to take my
hand, I shrunk from his touch, with an involuntary start, as I should have done
from a noisome reptile, with more disgust than terror. His conductress was
retiring, to give us, as she said, an opportunity to accommodate matters. But I
bade her come in, or I would go out; and curiosity impelled her to obey me.
“Mr. Venables began to expostulate; and this woman, proud of his confidence, to
second him. But I calmly silenced her, in the midst of a vulgar harangue, and
turning to him, asked, ‘Why he vainly tormented me? declaring that no power on
earth should force me back to his house.’
“After a long altercation, the particulars of which, it would be to no purpose
to repeat, he left the room. Some time was spent in loud conversation in the
parlour below, and I discovered that he had brought his friend, an attorney,
with him.[8]
[8]
In the original edition the paragraph following is preceded by three lines of
asterisks [Publisher’s note].
“The tumult on the landing place, brought out a gentleman, who had recently
taken apartments in the house; he enquired why I was thus assailed?[9] The voluble attorney instantly
repeated the trite tale. The stranger turned to me, observing, with the most
soothing politeness and manly interest, that ‘my countenance told a very
different story.’ He added, ‘that I should not be insulted, or forced out of
the house, by any body.’
[9]
The introduction of Darnford as the deliverer of Maria, in an early stage of
the history, is already stated (Chap. III.) to have been an after-thought of
the author. This has probably caused the imperfectness of the manuscript in the
above passage; though, at the same time, it must be acknowledged to be somewhat
uncertain, whether Darnford is the stranger intended in this place. It appears
from Chap. XVII, that an interference of a more decisive nature was designed to
be attributed to him. EDITOR. [Godwin’s note]
“‘Not by her husband?’ asked the attorney.
“‘No, sir, not by her husband.’ Mr. Venables advanced towards him—But there was
a decision in his attitude, that so well seconded that of his voice,[10] They left the house: at the
same time protesting, that any one that should dare to protect me, should be
prosecuted with the utmost rigour.
[10]
Two and a half lines of asterisks appear here in the original [Publisher’s
note].
“They were scarcely out of the house, when my landlady came up to me again, and
begged my pardon, in a very different tone. For, though Mr. Venables had bid
her, at her peril, harbour me, he had not attended, I found, to her broad
hints, to discharge the lodging. I instantly promised to pay her, and make her
a present to compensate for my abrupt departure, if she would procure me
another lodging, at a sufficient distance; and she, in return, repeating Mr.
Venables’ plausible tale, I raised her indignation, and excited her sympathy,
by telling her briefly the truth.
“She expressed her commiseration with such honest warmth, that I felt soothed;
for I have none of that fastidious sensitiveness, which a vulgar accent or
gesture can alarm to the disregard of real kindness. I was ever glad to
perceive in others the humane feelings I delighted to exercise; and the
recollection of some ridiculous characteristic circumstances, which have
occurred in a moment of emotion, has convulsed me with laughter, though at the
instant I should have thought it sacrilegious to have smiled. Your improvement,
my dearest girl, being ever present to me while I write, I note these feelings,
because women, more accustomed to observe manners than actions, are too much
alive to ridicule. So much so, that their boasted sensibility is often stifled
by false delicacy. True sensibility, the sensibility which is the auxiliary of
virtue, and the soul of genius, is in society so occupied with the feelings of
others, as scarcely to regard its own sensations. With what reverence have I
looked up at my uncle, the dear parent of my mind! when I have seen the sense
of his own sufferings, of mind and body, absorbed in a desire to comfort those,
whose misfortunes were comparatively trivial. He would have been ashamed of
being as indulgent to himself, as he was to others. ‘Genuine fortitude,’ he
would assert, ‘consisted in governing our own emotions, and making allowance
for the weaknesses in our friends, that we would not tolerate in ourselves.’
But where is my fond regret leading me!
“‘Women must be submissive,’ said my landlady. ‘Indeed what could most women
do? Who had they to maintain them, but their husbands? Every woman, and
especially a lady, could not go through rough and smooth, as she had done, to
earn a little bread.’
“She was in a talking mood, and proceeded to inform me how she had been used in
the world. ‘She knew what it was to have a bad husband, or she did not know who
should.’ I perceived that she would be very much mortified, were I not to
attend to her tale, and I did not attempt to interrupt her, though I wished
her, as soon as possible, to go out in search of a new abode for me, where I
could once more hide my head.
“She began by telling me, ‘That she had saved a little money in service; and
was over-persuaded (we must all be in love once in our lives) to marry a likely
man, a footman in the family, not worth a groat. My plan,’ she continued, ‘was
to take a house, and let out lodgings; and all went on well, till my husband
got acquainted with an impudent slut, who chose to live on other people’s
means—and then all went to rack and ruin. He ran in debt to buy her fine
clothes, such clothes as I never thought of wearing myself, and—would you
believe it?—he signed an execution on my very goods, bought with the money I
worked so hard to get; and they came and took my bed from under me, before I
heard a word of the matter. Aye, madam, these are misfortunes that you
gentlefolks know nothing of,—but sorrow is sorrow, let it come which way it
will.
“‘I sought for a service again—very hard, after having a house of my own!—but
he used to follow me, and kick up such a riot when he was drunk, that I could
not keep a place; nay, he even stole my clothes, and pawned them; and when I
went to the pawnbroker’s, and offered to take my oath that they were not bought
with a farthing of his money, they said, ‘It was all as one, my husband had a
right to whatever I had.’
“‘At last he listed for a soldier, and I took a house, making an agreement to
pay for the furniture by degrees; and I almost starved myself, till I once more
got before-hand in the world.
“‘After an absence of six years (God forgive me! I thought he was dead) my
husband returned; found me out, and came with such a penitent face, I forgave
him, and clothed him from head to foot. But he had not been a week in the
house, before some of his creditors arrested him; and, he selling my goods, I
found myself once more reduced to beggary; for I was not as well able to work,
go to bed late, and rise early, as when I quitted service; and then I thought
it hard enough. He was soon tired of me, when there was nothing more to be had,
and left me again.
“I will not tell you how I was buffeted about, till, hearing for certain that
he had died in an hospital abroad, I once more returned to my old occupation;
but have not yet been able to get my head above water: so, madam, you must not
be angry if I am afraid to run any risk, when I know so well, that women have
always the worst of it, when law is to decide.’
“After uttering a few more complaints, I prevailed on my landlady to go out in
quest of a lodging; and, to be more secure, I condescended to the mean shift of
changing my name.
“But why should I dwell on similar incidents!—I was hunted, like an infected
beast, from three different apartments, and should not have been allowed to
rest in any, had not Mr. Venables, informed of my uncle’s dangerous state of
health, been inspired with the fear of hurrying me out of the world as I
advanced in my pregnancy, by thus tormenting and obliging me to take sudden
journeys to avoid him; and then his speculations on my uncle’s fortune must
prove abortive.
“One day, when he had pursued me to an inn, I fainted, hurrying from him; and,
falling down, the sight of my blood alarmed him, and obtained a respite for me.
It is strange that he should have retained any hope, after observing my
unwavering determination; but, from the mildness of my behaviour, when I found
all my endeavours to change his disposition unavailing, he formed an erroneous
opinion of my character, imagining that, were we once more together, I should
part with the money he could not legally force from me, with the same facility
as formerly. My forbearance and occasional sympathy he had mistaken for
weakness of character; and, because he perceived that I disliked resistance, he
thought my indulgence and compassion mere selfishness, and never discovered
that the fear of being unjust, or of unnecessarily wounding the feelings of
another, was much more painful to me, than any thing I could have to endure
myself. Perhaps it was pride which made me imagine, that I could bear what I
dreaded to inflict; and that it was often easier to suffer, than to see the
sufferings of others.
“I forgot to mention that, during this persecution, I received a letter from my
uncle, informing me, ‘that he only found relief from continual change of air;
and that he intended to return when the spring was a little more advanced (it
was now the middle of February), and then we would plan a journey to Italy,
leaving the fogs and cares of England far behind.’ He approved of my conduct,
promised to adopt my child, and seemed to have no doubt of obliging Mr.
Venables to hear reason. He wrote to his friend, by the same post, desiring him
to call on Mr. Venables in his name; and, in consequence of the remonstrances
he dictated, I was permitted to lie-in tranquilly.
“The two or three weeks previous, I had been allowed to rest in peace; but, so
accustomed was I to pursuit and alarm, that I seldom closed my eyes without
being haunted by Mr. Venables’ image, who seemed to assume terrific or hateful
forms to torment me, wherever I turned.—Sometimes a wild cat, a roaring bull,
or hideous assassin, whom I vainly attempted to fly; at others he was a demon,
hurrying me to the brink of a precipice, plunging me into dark waves, or horrid
gulfs; and I woke, in violent fits of trembling anxiety, to assure myself that
it was all a dream, and to endeavour to lure my waking thoughts to wander to
the delightful Italian vales, I hoped soon to visit; or to picture some august
ruins, where I reclined in fancy on a mouldering column, and escaped, in the
contemplation of the heart-enlarging virtues of antiquity, from the turmoil of
cares that had depressed all the daring purposes of my soul. But I was not long
allowed to calm my mind by the exercise of my imagination; for the third day
after your birth, my child, I was surprised by a visit from my elder brother;
who came in the most abrupt manner, to inform me of the death of my uncle. He
had left the greater part of his fortune to my child, appointing me its
guardian; in short, every step was taken to enable me to be mistress of his
fortune, without putting any part of it in Mr. Venables’ power. My brother came
to vent his rage on me, for having, as he expressed himself, ‘deprived him, my
uncle’s eldest nephew, of his inheritance;’ though my uncle’s property, the
fruit of his own exertion, being all in the funds, or on landed securities,
there was not a shadow of justice in the charge.
“As I sincerely loved my uncle, this intelligence brought on a fever, which I
struggled to conquer with all the energy of my mind; for, in my desolate state,
I had it very much at heart to suckle you, my poor babe. You seemed my only tie
to life, a cherub, to whom I wished to be a father, as well as a mother; and
the double duty appeared to me to produce a proportionate increase of
affection. But the pleasure I felt, while sustaining you, snatched from the
wreck of hope, was cruelly damped by melancholy reflections on my widowed
state—widowed by the death of my uncle. Of Mr. Venables I thought not, even
when I thought of the felicity of loving your father, and how a mother’s
pleasure might be exalted, and her care softened by a husband’s
tenderness.—‘Ought to be!’ I exclaimed; and I endeavoured to drive away the
tenderness that suffocated me; but my spirits were weak, and the unbidden tears
would flow. ‘Why was I,’ I would ask thee, but thou didst not heed me,—‘cut off
from the participation of the sweetest pleasure of life?’ I imagined with what
extacy, after the pains of child-bed, I should have presented my little
stranger, whom I had so long wished to view, to a respectable father, and with
what maternal fondness I should have pressed them both to my heart!—Now I
kissed her with less delight, though with the most endearing compassion, poor
helpless one! when I perceived a slight resemblance of him, to whom she owed
her existence; or, if any gesture reminded me of him, even in his best days, my
heart heaved, and I pressed the innocent to my bosom, as if to purify it—yes, I
blushed to think that its purity had been sullied, by allowing such a man to be
its father.
“After my recovery, I began to think of taking a house in the country, or of
making an excursion on the continent, to avoid Mr. Venables; and to open my
heart to new pleasures and affection. The spring was melting into summer, and
you, my little companion, began to smile—that smile made hope bud out afresh,
assuring me the world was not a desert. Your gestures were ever present to my
fancy; and I dwelt on the joy I should feel when you would begin to walk and
lisp. Watching your wakening mind, and shielding from every rude blast my
tender blossom, I recovered my spirits—I dreamed not of the frost—‘the killing
frost,’ to which you were destined to be exposed.—But I lose all patience—and
execrate the injustice of the world—folly! ignorance!—I should rather call it;
but, shut up from a free circulation of thought, and always pondering on the
same griefs, I writhe under the torturing apprehensions, which ought to excite
only honest indignation, or active compassion; and would, could I view them as
the natural consequence of things. But, born a woman—and born to suffer, in
endeavouring to repress my own emotions, I feel more acutely the various ills
my sex are fated to bear—I feel that the evils they are subject to endure,
degrade them so far below their oppressors, as almost to justify their tyranny;
leading at the same time superficial reasoners to term that weakness the cause,
which is only the consequence of short-sighted despotism.”
CHAPTER 14
“As my mind grew calmer, the visions of Italy again returned with their former
glow of colouring; and I resolved on quitting the kingdom for a time, in search
of the cheerfulness, that naturally results from a change of scene, unless we
carry the barbed arrow with us, and only see what we feel.
“During the period necessary to prepare for a long absence, I sent a supply to
pay my father’s debts, and settled my brothers in eligible situations; but my
attention was not wholly engrossed by my family, though I do not think it
necessary to enumerate the common exertions of humanity. The manner in which my
uncle’s property was settled, prevented me from making the addition to the
fortune of my surviving sister, that I could have wished; but I had prevailed
on him to bequeath her two thousand pounds, and she determined to marry a
lover, to whom she had been some time attached. Had it not been for this
engagement, I should have invited her to accompany me in my tour; and I might
have escaped the pit, so artfully dug in my path, when I was the least aware of
danger.
“I had thought of remaining in England, till I weaned my child; but this state
of freedom was too peaceful to last, and I had soon reason to wish to hasten my
departure. A friend of Mr. Venables, the same attorney who had accompanied him
in several excursions to hunt me from my hiding places, waited on me to propose
a reconciliation. On my refusal, he indirectly advised me to make over to my
husband—for husband he would term him—the greater part of the property I had at
command, menacing me with continual persecution unless I complied, and that, as
a last resort, he would claim the child. I did not, though intimidated by the
last insinuation, scruple to declare, that I would not allow him to squander
the money left to me for far different purposes, but offered him five hundred
pounds, if he would sign a bond not to torment me any more. My maternal anxiety
made me thus appear to waver from my first determination, and probably
suggested to him, or his diabolical agent, the infernal plot, which has
succeeded but too well.
“The bond was executed; still I was impatient to leave England. Mischief hung
in the air when we breathed the same; I wanted seas to divide us, and waters to
roll between, till he had forgotten that I had the means of helping him through
a new scheme. Disturbed by the late occurrences, I instantly prepared for my
departure. My only delay was waiting for a maid-servant, who spoke French
fluently, and had been warmly recommended to me. A valet I was advised to hire,
when I fixed on my place of residence for any time.
“My God, with what a light heart did I set out for Dover!—It was not my
country, but my cares, that I was leaving behind. My heart seemed to bound with
the wheels, or rather appeared the centre on which they twirled. I clasped you
to my bosom, exclaiming ‘And you will be safe—quite safe—when—we are once on
board the packet.—Would we were there!’ I smiled at my idle fears, as the
natural effect of continual alarm; and I scarcely owned to myself that I
dreaded Mr. Venables’s cunning, or was conscious of the horrid delight he would
feel, at forming stratagem after stratagem to circumvent me. I was already in
the snare—I never reached the packet—I never saw thee more.—I grow breathless.
I have scarcely patience to write down the details. The maid—the plausible
woman I had hired—put, doubtless, some stupefying potion in what I ate or
drank, the morning I left town. All I know is, that she must have quitted the
chaise, shameless wretch! and taken (from my breast) my babe with her. How
could a creature in a female form see me caress thee, and steal thee from my
arms! I must stop, stop to repress a mother’s anguish; lest, in bitterness of
soul, I imprecate the wrath of heaven on this tiger, who tore my only comfort
from me.
“How long I slept I know not; certainly many hours, for I woke at the close of
day, in a strange confusion of thought. I was probably roused to recollection
by some one thundering at a huge, unwieldy gate. Attempting to ask where I was,
my voice died away, and I tried to raise it in vain, as I have done in a dream.
I looked for my babe with affright; feared that it had fallen out of my lap,
while I had so strangely forgotten her; and, such was the vague intoxication, I
can give it no other name, in which I was plunged, I could not recollect when
or where I last saw you; but I sighed, as if my heart wanted room to clear my
head.
“The gates opened heavily, and the sullen sound of many locks and bolts drawn
back, grated on my very soul, before I was appalled by the creeking of the
dismal hinges, as they closed after me. The gloomy pile was before me, half in
ruins; some of the aged trees of the avenue were cut down, and left to rot
where they fell; and as we approached some mouldering steps, a monstrous dog
darted forwards to the length of his chain, and barked and growled infernally.
“The door was opened slowly, and a murderous visage peeped out, with a lantern.
‘Hush!’ he uttered, in a threatning tone, and the affrighted animal stole back
to his kennel. The door of the chaise flew back, the stranger put down the
lantern, and clasped his dreadful arms around me. It was certainly the effect
of the soporific draught, for, instead of exerting my strength, I sunk without
motion, though not without sense, on his shoulder, my limbs refusing to obey my
will. I was carried up the steps into a close-shut hall. A candle flaring in
the socket, scarcely dispersed the darkness, though it displayed to me the
ferocious countenance of the wretch who held me.
“He mounted a wide staircase. Large figures painted on the walls seemed to
start on me, and glaring eyes to meet me at every turn. Entering a long
gallery, a dismal shriek made me spring out of my conductor’s arms, with I know
not what mysterious emotion of terror; but I fell on the floor, unable to
sustain myself.
“A strange-looking female started out of one of the recesses, and observed me
with more curiosity than interest; till, sternly bid retire, she flitted back
like a shadow. Other faces, strongly marked, or distorted, peeped through the
half-opened doors, and I heard some incoherent sounds. I had no distinct idea
where I could be—I looked on all sides, and almost doubted whether I was alive
or dead.
“Thrown on a bed, I immediately sunk into insensibility again; and next day,
gradually recovering the use of reason, I began, starting affrighted from the
conviction, to discover where I was confined—I insisted on seeing the master of
the mansion—I saw him—and perceived that I was buried alive.—
“Such, my child, are the events of thy mother’s life to this dreadful
moment—Should she ever escape from the fangs of her enemies, she will add the
secrets of her prison-house—and—”
Some lines were here crossed out, and the memoirs broke off abruptly with the
names of Jemima and Darnford.
APPENDIX
ADVERTISEMENT[11]
The performance, with a fragment of which the reader has now been presented,
was designed to consist of three parts. The preceding sheets were considered as
constituting one of those parts. Those persons who in the perusal of the
chapters, already written and in some degree finished by the author, have felt
their hearts awakened, and their curiosity excited as to the sequel of the
story, will, of course, gladly accept even of the broken paragraphs and
half-finished sentences, which have been found committed to paper, as materials
for the remainder. The fastidious and cold-hearted critic may perhaps feel
himself repelled by the incoherent form in which they are presented. But an
inquisitive temper willingly accepts the most imperfect and mutilated
information, where better is not to be had: and readers, who in any degree
resemble the author in her quick apprehension of sentiment, and of the
pleasures and pains of imagination, will, I believe, find gratification, in
contemplating sketches, which were designed in a short time to have received
the finishing touches of her genius; but which must now for ever remain a mark
to record the triumphs of mortality, over schemes of usefulness, and projects
of public interest.
[11]
Presumed to have been written by Godwin [Publisher’s note].
CHAPTER 15
Darnford returned the memoirs to Maria, with a most affectionate letter, in
which he reasoned on “the absurdity of the laws respecting matrimony, which,
till divorces could be more easily obtained, was,” he declared, “the most
insufferable bondage.” Ties of this nature could not bind minds governed by
superior principles; and such beings were privileged to act above the dictates
of laws they had no voice in framing, if they had sufficient strength of mind
to endure the natural consequence. In her case, to talk of duty, was a farce,
excepting what was due to herself. Delicacy, as well as reason, forbade her
ever to think of returning to her husband: was she then to restrain her
charming sensibility through mere prejudice? These arguments were not
absolutely impartial, for he disdained to conceal, that, when he appealed to
her reason, he felt that he had some interest in her heart.—The conviction was
not more transporting, than sacred—a thousand times a day, he asked himself how
he had merited such happiness?—and as often he determined to purify the heart
she deigned to inhabit—He intreated to be again admitted to her presence.
He was; and the tear which glistened in his eye, when he respectfully pressed
her to his bosom, rendered him peculiarly dear to the unfortunate mother. Grief
had stilled the transports of love, only to render their mutual tenderness more
touching. In former interviews, Darnford had contrived, by a hundred little
pretexts, to sit near her, to take her hand, or to meet her eyes—now it was all
soothing affection, and esteem seemed to have rivalled love. He adverted to her
narrative, and spoke with warmth of the oppression she had endured.—His eyes,
glowing with a lambent flame, told her how much he wished to restore her to
liberty and love; but he kissed her hand, as if it had been that of a saint;
and spoke of the loss of her child, as if it had been his own.—What could have
been more flattering to Maria?—Every instance of self-denial was registered in
her heart, and she loved him, for loving her too well to give way to the
transports of passion.
They met again and again; and Darnford declared, while passion suffused his
cheeks, that he never before knew what it was to love.—
One morning Jemima informed Maria, that her master intended to wait on her, and
speak to her without witnesses. He came, and brought a letter with him,
pretending that he was ignorant of its contents, though he insisted on having
it returned to him. It was from the attorney already mentioned, who informed
her of the death of her child, and hinted, “that she could not now have a
legitimate heir, and that, would she make over the half of her fortune during
life, she should be conveyed to Dover, and permitted to pursue her plan of
travelling.”
Maria answered with warmth, “That she had no terms to make with the murderer of
her babe, nor would she purchase liberty at the price of her own respect.”
She began to expostulate with her jailor; but he sternly bade her “Be silent—he
had not gone so far, not to go further.”
Darnford came in the evening. Jemima was obliged to be absent, and she, as
usual, locked the door on them, to prevent interruption or discovery.—The
lovers were, at first, embarrassed; but fell insensibly into confidential
discourse. Darnford represented, “that they might soon be parted,” and wished
her “to put it out of the power of fate to separate them.”
As her husband she now received him, and he solemnly pledged himself as her
protector—and eternal friend.—
There was one peculiarity in Maria’s mind: she was more anxious not to deceive,
than to guard against deception; and had rather trust without sufficient
reason, than be for ever the prey of doubt. Besides, what are we, when the mind
has, from reflection, a certain kind of elevation, which exalts the
contemplation above the little concerns of prudence! We see what we wish, and
make a world of our own—and, though reality may sometimes open a door to
misery, yet the moments of happiness procured by the imagination, may, without
a paradox, be reckoned among the solid comforts of life. Maria now, imagining
that she had found a being of celestial mould—was happy,—nor was she
deceived.—He was then plastic in her impassioned hand—and reflected all the
sentiments which animated and warmed her.[12]
[12]
Two and a half lines of dashes follow here in the original [Publisher’s note].
CHAPTER 16
One morning confusion seemed to reign in the house, and Jemima came in terror,
to inform Maria, “that her master had left it, with a determination, she was
assured (and too many circumstances corroborated the opinion, to leave a doubt
of its truth) of never returning. I am prepared then,” said Jemima, “to
accompany you in your flight.”
Maria started up, her eyes darting towards the door, as if afraid that some one
should fasten it on her for ever.
Jemima continued, “I have perhaps no right now to expect the performance of
your promise; but on you it depends to reconcile me with the human race.”
“But Darnford!”—exclaimed Maria, mournfully—sitting down again, and crossing
her arms—“I have no child to go to, and liberty has lost its sweets.”
“I am much mistaken, if Darnford is not the cause of my master’s flight—his
keepers assure me, that they have promised to confine him two days longer, and
then he will be free—you cannot see him; but they will give a letter to him the
moment he is free.—In that inform him where he may find you in London; fix on
some hotel. Give me your clothes; I will send them out of the house with mine,
and we will slip out at the garden-gate. Write your letter while I make these
arrangements, but lose no time!”
In an agitation of spirit, not to be calmed, Maria began to write to Darnford.
She called him by the sacred name of “husband,” and bade him “hasten to her, to
share her fortune, or she would return to him.”—An hotel in the Adelphi was the
place of rendezvous.
The letter was sealed and given in charge; and with light footsteps, yet
terrified at the sound of them, she descended, scarcely breathing, and with an
indistinct fear that she should never get out at the garden gate. Jemima went
first.
A being, with a visage that would have suited one possessed by a devil, crossed
the path, and seized Maria by the arm. Maria had no fear but of being
detained—“Who are you? what are you?” for the form was scarcely human. “If you
are made of flesh and blood,” his ghastly eyes glared on her, “do not stop me!”
“Woman,” interrupted a sepulchral voice, “what have I to do with thee?”—Still
he grasped her hand, muttering a curse.
“No, no; you have nothing to do with me,” she exclaimed, “this is a moment of
life and death!”—
With supernatural force she broke from him, and, throwing her arms round
Jemima, cried, “Save me!” The being, from whose grasp she had loosed herself,
took up a stone as they opened the door, and with a kind of hellish sport threw
it after them. They were out of his reach.
When Maria arrived in town, she drove to the hotel already fixed on. But she
could not sit still—her child was ever before her; and all that had passed
during her confinement, appeared to be a dream. She went to the house in the
suburbs, where, as she now discovered, her babe had been sent. The moment she
entered, her heart grew sick; but she wondered not that it had proved its
grave. She made the necessary enquiries, and the church-yard was pointed out,
in which it rested under a turf. A little frock which the nurse’s child wore
(Maria had made it herself) caught her eye. The nurse was glad to sell it for
half-a-guinea, and Maria hastened away with the relic, and, reentering the
hackney-coach which waited for her, gazed on it, till she reached her hotel.
She then waited on the attorney who had made her uncle’s will, and explained to
him her situation. He readily advanced her some of the money which still
remained in his hands, and promised to take the whole of the case into
consideration. Maria only wished to be permitted to remain in quiet—She found
that several bills, apparently with her signature, had been presented to her
agent, nor was she for a moment at a loss to guess by whom they had been
forged; yet, equally averse to threaten or intreat, she requested her friend
[the solicitor] to call on Mr. Venables. He was not to be found at home; but at
length his agent, the attorney, offered a conditional promise to Maria, to
leave her in peace, as long as she behaved with propriety, if she would give up
the notes. Maria inconsiderately consented—Darnford was arrived, and she wished
to be only alive to love; she wished to forget the anguish she felt whenever
she thought of her child.
They took a ready furnished lodging together, for she was above disguise;
Jemima insisting on being considered as her house-keeper, and to receive the
customary stipend. On no other terms would she remain with her friend.
Darnford was indefatigable in tracing the mysterious circumstances of his
confinement. The cause was simply, that a relation, a very distant one, to whom
he was heir, had died intestate, leaving a considerable fortune. On the news of
Darnford’s arrival [in England, a person, intrusted with the management of the
property, and who had the writings in his possession, determining, by one bold
stroke, to strip Darnford of the succession,] had planned his confinement; and
[as soon as he had taken the measures he judged most conducive to his object,
this ruffian, together with his instrument,] the keeper of the private
mad-house, left the kingdom. Darnford, who still pursued his enquiries, at last
discovered that they had fixed their place of refuge at Paris.
Maria and he determined therefore, with the faithful Jemima, to visit that
metropolis, and accordingly were preparing for the journey, when they were
informed that Mr. Venables had commenced an action against Darnford for
seduction and adultery. The indignation Maria felt cannot be explained; she
repented of the forbearance she had exercised in giving up the notes. Darnford
could not put off his journey, without risking the loss of his property: Maria
therefore furnished him with money for his expedition; and determined to remain
in London till the termination of this affair.
She visited some ladies with whom she had formerly been intimate, but was
refused admittance; and at the opera, or Ranelagh, they could not recollect
her. Among these ladies there were some, not her most intimate acquaintance,
who were generally supposed to avail themselves of the cloke of marriage, to
conceal a mode of conduct, that would for ever have damned their fame, had they
been innocent, seduced girls. These particularly stood aloof.—Had she remained
with her husband, practicing insincerity, and neglecting her child to manage an
intrigue, she would still have been visited and respected. If, instead of
openly living with her lover, she could have condescended to call into play a
thousand arts, which, degrading her own mind, might have allowed the people who
were not deceived, to pretend to be so, she would have been caressed and
treated like an honourable woman. “And Brutus[13] is an honourable man!” said Mark-Antony with
equal sincerity.
[13]
The name in the manuscript is by mistake written Caesar. EDITOR. [Godwin’s
note]
With Darnford she did not taste uninterrupted felicity; there was a volatility
in his manner which often distressed her; but love gladdened the scene;
besides, he was the most tender, sympathizing creature in the world. A fondness
for the sex often gives an appearance of humanity to the behaviour of men, who
have small pretensions to the reality; and they seem to love others, when they
are only pursuing their own gratification. Darnford appeared ever willing to
avail himself of her taste and acquirements, while she endeavoured to profit by
his decision of character, and to eradicate some of the romantic notions, which
had taken root in her mind, while in adversity she had brooded over visions of
unattainable bliss.
The real affections of life, when they are allowed to burst forth, are buds
pregnant with joy and all the sweet emotions of the soul; yet they branch out
with wild ease, unlike the artificial forms of felicity, sketched by an
imagination painful alive. The substantial happiness, which enlarges and
civilizes the mind, may be compared to the pleasure experienced in roving
through nature at large, inhaling the sweet gale natural to the clime; while
the reveries of a feverish imagination continually sport themselves in gardens
full of aromatic shrubs, which cloy while they delight, and weaken the sense of
pleasure they gratify. The heaven of fancy, below or beyond the stars, in this
life, or in those ever-smiling regions surrounded by the unmarked ocean of
futurity, have an insipid uniformity which palls. Poets have imagined scenes of
bliss; but, sencing out sorrow, all the extatic emotions of the Soul, and even
its grandeur, seem to be equally excluded. We dose over the unruffled lake, and
long to scale the rocks which fence the happy valley of contentment, though
serpents hiss in the pathless desert, and danger lurks in the unexplored wiles.
Maria found herself more indulgent as she was happier, and discovered virtues,
in characters she had before disregarded, while chasing the phantoms of
elegance and excellence, which sported in the meteors that exhale in the
marshes of misfortune. The heart is often shut by romance against social
pleasure; and, fostering a sickly sensibility, grows callous to the soft
touches of humanity.
To part with Darnford was indeed cruel.—It was to feel most painfully alone;
but she rejoiced to think, that she should spare him the care and perplexity of
the suit, and meet him again, all his own. Marriage, as at present constituted,
she considered as leading to immorality—yet, as the odium of society impedes
usefulness, she wished to avow her affection to Darnford, by becoming his wife
according to established rules; not to be confounded with women who act from
very different motives, though her conduct would be just the same without the
ceremony as with it, and her expectations from him not less firm. The being
summoned to defend herself from a charge which she was determined to plead
guilty to, was still galling, as it roused bitter reflections on the situation
of women in society.
CHAPTER 17
Such was her state of mind when the dogs of law were let loose on her. Maria
took the task of conducting Darnford’s defence upon herself. She instructed his
counsel to plead guilty to the charge of adultery; but to deny that of
seduction.
The counsel for the plaintiff opened the cause, by observing, “that his client
had ever been an indulgent husband, and had borne with several defects of
temper, while he had nothing criminal to lay to the charge of his wife. But
that she left his house without assigning any cause. He could not assert that
she was then acquainted with the defendant; yet, when he was once endeavouring
to bring her back to her home, this man put the peace-officers to flight, and
took her he knew not whither. After the birth of her child, her conduct was so
strange, and a melancholy malady having afflicted one of the family, which
delicacy forbade the dwelling on, it was necessary to confine her. By some
means the defendant enabled her to make her escape, and they had lived
together, in despite of all sense of order and decorum. The adultery was
allowed, it was not necessary to bring any witnesses to prove it; but the
seduction, though highly probable from the circumstances which he had the
honour to state, could not be so clearly proved.—It was of the most atrocious
kind, as decency was set at defiance, and respect for reputation, which shows
internal compunction, utterly disregarded.”
A strong sense of injustice had silenced every motion, which a mixture of true
and false delicacy might otherwise have excited in Maria’s bosom. She only felt
in earnest to insist on the privilege of her nature. The sarcasms of society,
and the condemnations of a mistaken world, were nothing to her, compared with
acting contrary to those feelings which were the foundation of her principles.
[She therefore eagerly put herself forward, instead of desiring to be absent,
on this memorable occasion.]
Convinced that the subterfuges of the law were disgraceful, she wrote a paper,
which she expressly desired might be read in court:
“Married when scarcely able to distinguish the nature of the engagement, I yet
submitted to the rigid laws which enslave women, and obeyed the man whom I
could no longer love. Whether the duties of the state are reciprocal, I mean
not to discuss; but I can prove repeated infidelities which I overlooked or
pardoned. Witnesses are not wanting to establish these facts. I at present
maintain the child of a maid servant, sworn to him, and born after our
marriage. I am ready to allow, that education and circumstances lead men to
think and act with less delicacy, than the preservation of order in society
demands from women; but surely I may without assumption declare, that, though I
could excuse the birth, I could not the desertion of this unfortunate
babe:—and, while I despised the man, it was not easy to venerate the husband.
With proper restrictions however, I revere the institution which fraternizes
the world. I exclaim against the laws which throw the whole weight of the yoke
on the weaker shoulders, and force women, when they claim protectorship as
mothers, to sign a contract, which renders them dependent on the caprice of the
tyrant, whom choice or necessity has appointed to reign over them. Various are
the cases, in which a woman ought to separate herself from her husband; and
mine, I may be allowed emphatically to insist, comes under the description of
the most aggravated.
“I will not enlarge on those provocations which only the individual can
estimate; but will bring forward such charges only, the truth of which is an
insult upon humanity. In order to promote certain destructive speculations, Mr.
Venables prevailed on me to borrow certain sums of a wealthy relation; and,
when I refused further compliance, he thought of bartering my person; and not
only allowed opportunities to, but urged, a friend from whom he borrowed money,
to seduce me. On the discovery of this act of atrocity, I determined to leave
him, and in the most decided manner, for ever. I consider all obligations as
made void by his conduct; and hold, that schisms which proceed from want of
principles, can never be healed.
“He received a fortune with me to the amount of five thousand pounds. On the
death of my uncle, convinced that I could provide for my child, I destroyed the
settlement of that fortune. I required none of my property to be returned to
me, nor shall enumerate the sums extorted from me during six years that we
lived together.
“After leaving, what the law considers as my home, I was hunted like a criminal
from place to place, though I contracted no debts, and demanded no
maintenance—yet, as the laws sanction such proceeding, and make women the
property of their husbands, I forbear to animadvert. After the birth of my
daughter, and the death of my uncle, who left a very considerable property to
myself and child, I was exposed to new persecution; and, because I had, before
arriving at what is termed years of discretion, pledged my faith, I was treated
by the world, as bound for ever to a man whose vices were notorious. Yet what
are the vices generally known, to the various miseries that a woman may be
subject to, which, though deeply felt, eating into the soul, elude description,
and may be glossed over! A false morality is even established, which makes all
the virtue of women consist in chastity, submission, and the forgiveness of
injuries.
“I pardon my oppressor—bitterly as I lament the loss of my child, torn from me
in the most violent manner. But nature revolts, and my soul sickens at the bare
supposition, that it could ever be a duty to pretend affection, when a
separation is necessary to prevent my feeling hourly aversion.
“To force me to give my fortune, I was imprisoned—yes; in a private
mad-house.—There, in the heart of misery, I met the man charged with seducing
me. We became attached—I deemed, and ever shall deem, myself free. The death of
my babe dissolved the only tie which subsisted between me and my, what is
termed, lawful husband.
“To this person, thus encountered, I voluntarily gave myself, never considering
myself as any more bound to transgress the laws of moral purity, because the
will of my husband might be pleaded in my excuse, than to transgress those laws
to which [the policy of artificial society has] annexed [positive]
punishments.—While no command of a husband can prevent a woman from suffering
for certain crimes, she must be allowed to consult her conscience, and regulate
her conduct, in some degree, by her own sense of right. The respect I owe to
myself, demanded my strict adherence to my determination of never viewing Mr.
Venables in the light of a husband, nor could it forbid me from encouraging
another. If I am unfortunately united to an unprincipled man, am I for ever to
be shut out from fulfilling the duties of a wife and mother?—I wish my country
to approve of my conduct; but, if laws exist, made by the strong to oppress the
weak, I appeal to my own sense of justice, and declare that I will not live
with the individual, who has violated every moral obligation which binds man to
man.
“I protest equally against any charge being brought to criminate the man, whom
I consider as my husband. I was six-and-twenty when I left Mr. Venables’ roof;
if ever I am to be supposed to arrive at an age to direct my own actions, I
must by that time have arrived at it.—I acted with deliberation.—Mr. Darnford
found me a forlorn and oppressed woman, and promised the protection women in
the present state of society want.—But the man who now claims me—was he
deprived of my society by this conduct? The question is an insult to common
sense, considering where Mr. Darnford met me.—Mr. Venables’ door was indeed
open to me—nay, threats and intreaties were used to induce me to return; but
why? Was affection or honour the motive?—I cannot, it is true, dive into the
recesses of the human heart—yet I presume to assert, [borne out as I am by a
variety of circumstances,] that he was merely influenced by the most rapacious
avarice.
“I claim then a divorce, and the liberty of enjoying, free from molestation,
the fortune left to me by a relation, who was well aware of the character of
the man with whom I had to contend.—I appeal to the justice and humanity of the
jury—a body of men, whose private judgment must be allowed to modify laws, that
must be unjust, because definite rules can never apply to indefinite
circumstances—and I deprecate punishment upon the man of my choice, freeing
him, as I solemnly do, from the charge of seduction.
“I did not put myself into a situation to justify a charge of adultery, till I
had, from conviction, shaken off the fetters which bound me to Mr.
Venables.—While I lived with him, I defy the voice of calumny to sully what is
termed the fair fame of woman.—Neglected by my husband, I never encouraged a
lover; and preserved with scrupulous care, what is termed my honour, at the
expence of my peace, till he, who should have been its guardian, laid traps to
ensnare me. From that moment I believed myself, in the sight of heaven,
free—and no power on earth shall force me to renounce my resolution.”
The judge, in summing up the evidence, alluded to “the fallacy of letting women
plead their feelings, as an excuse for the violation of the marriage-vow. For
his part, he had always determined to oppose all innovation, and the newfangled
notions which incroached on the good old rules of conduct. We did not want
French principles in public or private life—and, if women were allowed to plead
their feelings, as an excuse or palliation of infidelity, it was opening a
flood-gate for immorality. What virtuous woman thought of her feelings?—It was
her duty to love and obey the man chosen by her parents and relations, who were
qualified by their experience to judge better for her, than she could for
herself. As to the charges brought against the husband, they were vague,
supported by no witnesses, excepting that of imprisonment in a private
madhouse. The proofs of an insanity in the family, might render that however a
prudent measure; and indeed the conduct of the lady did not appear that of a
person of sane mind. Still such a mode of proceeding could not be justified,
and might perhaps entitle the lady [in another court] to a sentence of
separation from bed and board, during the joint lives of the parties; but he
hoped that no Englishman would legalize adultery, by enabling the adulteress to
enrich her seducer. Too many restrictions could not be thrown in the way of
divorces, if we wished to maintain the sanctity of marriage; and, though they
might bear a little hard on a few, very few individuals, it was evidently for
the good of the whole.”
CONCLUSION
BY THE EDITOR[14]
[14]
i.e., Godwin [Publisher’s note].
Very few hints exist respecting the plan of the remainder of the work. I find
only two detached sentences, and some scattered heads for the continuation of
the story. I transcribe the whole.
I. “Darnford’s letters were affectionate; but circumstances occasioned delays,
and the miscarriage of some letters rendered the reception of wished-for
answers doubtful: his return was necessary to calm Maria’s mind.”
II. “As Darnford had informed her that his business was settled, his delaying
to return seemed extraordinary; but love to excess, excludes fear or
suspicion.”
The scattered heads for the continuation of the story, are as follow.[15]
[15]
To understand these minutes, it is necessary the reader should consider each of
them as setting out from the same point in the story, viz. the point to which
it is brought down in the preceding chapter. [Godwin’s note]
I. “Trial for adultery—Maria defends herself—A separation from bed and board is
the consequence—Her fortune is thrown into chancery—Darnford obtains a part of
his property—Maria goes into the country.”
II. “A prosecution for adultery commenced—Trial—Darnford sets out for
France—Letters—Once more pregnant—He returns—Mysterious
behaviour—Visit—Expectation—Discovery—Interview—Consequence.”
III. “Sued by her husband—Damages awarded to him—Separation from bed and
board—Darnford goes abroad—Maria into the country—Provides for her father—Is
shunned—Returns to London—Expects to see her lover—The rack of
expectation—Finds herself again with child—Delighted—A discovery—A visit—A
miscarriage—Conclusion.”
IV. “Divorced by her husband—Her lover
unfaithful—Pregnancy—Miscarriage—Suicide.”
[The following passage appears in some respects to deviate from the preceding
hints. It is superscribed] “THE END.
“She swallowed the laudanum; her soul was calm—the tempest had subsided—and
nothing remained but an eager longing to forget herself—to fly from the anguish
she endured to escape from thought—from this hell of disappointment.
“Still her eyes closed not—one remembrance with frightful velocity followed
another—All the incidents of her life were in arms, embodied to assail her, and
prevent her sinking into the sleep of death.—Her murdered child again appeared
to her, mourning for the babe of which she was the tomb.—‘And could it have a
nobler?—Surely it is better to die with me, than to enter on life without a
mother’s care!—I cannot live!—but could I have deserted my child the moment it
was born?—thrown it on the troubled wave of life, without a hand to support
it?’—She looked up: ‘What have I not suffered!—may I find a father where I am
going!—Her head turned; a stupor ensued; a faintness—‘Have a little patience,’
said Maria, holding her swimming head (she thought of her mother), ‘this cannot
last long; and what is a little bodily pain to the pangs I have endured?’
“A new vision swam before her. Jemima seemed to enter—leading a little
creature, that, with tottering footsteps, approached the bed. The voice of
Jemima sounding as at a distance, called her—she tried to listen, to speak, to
look!
“‘Behold your child!’ exclaimed Jemima. Maria started off the bed, and
fainted.—Violent vomiting followed.
“When she was restored to life, Jemima addressed her with great solemnity: ‘——
led me to suspect, that your husband and brother had deceived you, and secreted
the child. I would not torment you with doubtful hopes, and I left you (at a
fatal moment) to search for the child!—I snatched her from misery—and (now she
is alive again) would you leave her alone in the world, to endure what I have
endured?’
“Maria gazed wildly at her, her whole frame was convulsed with emotion; when
the child, whom Jemima had been tutoring all the journey, uttered the word
‘Mamma!’ She caught her to her bosom, and burst into a passion of tears—then,
resting the child gently on the bed, as if afraid of killing it,—she put her
hand to her eyes, to conceal as it were the agonizing struggle of her soul. She
remained silent for five minutes, crossing her arms over her bosom, and
reclining her head,—then exclaimed: ‘The conflict is over!—I will live for my
child!’”
A few readers perhaps, in looking over these hints, will wonder how it could
have been practicable, without tediousness, or remitting in any degree the
interest of the story, to have filled, from these slight sketches, a number of
pages, more considerable than those which have been already presented. But, in
reality, these hints, simple as they are, are pregnant with passion and
distress. It is the refuge of barren authors only, to crowd their fictions with
so great a number of events, as to suffer no one of them to sink into the
reader’s mind. It is the province of true genius to develop events, to discover
their capabilities, to ascertain the different passions and sentiments with
which they are fraught, and to diversify them with incidents, that give reality
to the picture, and take a hold upon the mind of a reader of taste, from which
they can never be loosened. It was particularly the design of the author, in
the present instance, to make her story subordinate to a great moral purpose,
that “of exhibiting the misery and oppression, peculiar to women, that arise
out of the partial laws and customs of society.—This view restrained her
fancy.”[16] It was necessary for
her, to place in a striking point of view, evils that are too frequently
overlooked, and to drag into light those details of oppression, of which the
grosser and more insensible part of mankind make little account.
[16]
See author’s preface. [Godwin’s note]
THE END.
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARIA ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:
• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.