It cannot be doubted that, while, for three years of literary employment, she “held the noiseless tenor5 of her way,” her mind was insensibly advancing towards a vigorous maturity6. The uninterrupted habit of composition gave a freedom and firmness to the expression of her sentiments. The society she frequented, nourished her understanding, and enlarged her mind. The French revolution, while it gave a fundamental shock to the human intellect through every region of the globe, did not fail to produce a conspicuous8 effect in the progress of Mary’s reflections. The prejudices of her early years suffered a vehement9 concussion10. Her respect for establishments was undermined. At this period occurred a misunderstanding upon public grounds, with one of her early friends, whose attachment11 to musty creeds12 and exploded absurdities13, had been increased, by the operation of those very circumstances, by which her mind had been rapidly advanced in the race of independence.
The event, immediately introductory to the rank which from this time she held in the lids of literature, was the publication of Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France. This book, after having been long promised to the world, finally made its appearance on the first of November 1790; and Mary, full of sentiments of liberty, and impressed with a warm interest in the struggle that was now going on, seized her pen in the first burst of indignation, an emotion of which she was strongly susceptible14. She was in the habit of composing with rapidity, and her answer, which was the first of the numerous ones that appeared, obtained extraordinary notice. Marked as it is with the vehemence15 and impetuousness of its eloquence16, it is certainly chargeable with a too contemptuous and intemperate17 treatment of the great man against whom its attack is directed. But this circumstance was not injurious to the success of the publication. Burke had been warmly loved by the most liberal and enlightened friends of freedom, and they were proportionably inflamed19 and disgusted by the fury of his assault, upon what they deemed to be its sacred cause.
Short as was the time in which Mary composed her Answer to Burke’s Reflections, there was one anecdote20 she told me concerning it, which seems worth recording21 in this place. It was sent to the press, as is the general practice when the early publication of a piece is deemed a matter of importance, before the composition was finished. When Mary had arrived at about the middle of her work, she was seized with a temporary fit of torpor22 and indolence, and began to repent23 of her undertaking24. In this state of mind, she called, one evening, as she was in the practice of doing, upon her publisher, for the purpose of relieving herself by an hour or two’s conversation. Here, the habitual25 ingenuousness27 of her nature, led her to describe what had just past in her thoughts. Mr. Johnson immediately, in a kind and friendly way, intreated her not to put any constraint28 upon her inclination29, and to give herself no uneasiness about the sheets already printed, which he would cheerfully throw aside, if it would contribute to her happiness. Mary had wanted stimulus31. She had not expected to be encouraged, in what she well knew to be an unreasonable32 access of idleness. Her friend’s so readily falling in with her ill-humour, and seeming to expect that she would lay aside her undertaking, piqued33 her pride. She immediately went home; and proceeded to the end of her work, with no other interruptions but what were absolutely indispensible.
It is probable that the applause which attended her Answer to Burke, elevated the tone of her mind. She had always felt much confidence in her own powers; but it cannot be doubted, that the actual perception of a similar feeling respecting us in a multitude of others, must increase the confidence, and stimulate34 the adventure of any human being. Mary accordingly proceeded, in a short time after, to the composition of her most celebrated35 production, the Vindication36 of the Rights of Woman.
Never did any author enter into a cause, with a more ardent37 desire to be found, not a flourishing and empty declaimer, but an effectual champion. She considered herself as standing7 forth38 in defence of one half of the human species, labouring under a yoke39 which, through all the records of time, had degraded them from the station of rational beings, and almost sunk them to the level of the brutes40. She saw indeed, that they were often attempted to be held in silken fetters41, and bribed42 into the love of slavery; but the disguise and the treachery served only the more fully30 to confirm her opposition43. She regarded her sex, in the language of Calista, as
“In every state of life the slaves of men:”
the rich as alternately under the despotism of a father, a brother, and a husband; and the middling and the poorer classes shut out from the acquisition of bread with independence, when they are not shut out from the very means of an industrious44 subsistence. Such were the views she entertained of the subject; and such the feelings with which she warmed her mind.
The work is certainly a very bold and original production. The strength and firmness with which the author repels45 the opinions of Rousseau, Dr. Gregory, and Dr. James Fordyce, respecting the condition of women, cannot but make a strong impression upon every ingenuous26 reader. The public at large formed very different opinions respecting the character of the performance. Many of the sentiments are undoubtedly46 of a rather masculine description. The spirited and decisive way in which the author explodes the system of gallantry, and the species of homage47 with which the sex is usually treated, shocked the majority. Novelty produced a sentiment in their mind, which they mistook for a sense of injustice48. The pretty, soft creatures that are so often to be found in the female sex, and that class of men who believe they could not exist without such pretty, soft creatures to resort to, were in arms against the author of so heretical and blasphemous49 a doctrine50. There are also, it must be confessed, occasional passages of a stern and rugged51 feature, incompatible52 with the true stamina53 of the writer’s character. But, if they did not belong to her fixed54 and permanent character, they belonged to her character pro1 tempore; and what she thought, she scorned to qualify.
Yet, along with this rigid55, and somewhat amazonian temper, which characterised some parts of the book, it is impossible not to remark a luxuriance of imagination, and a trembling delicacy56 of sentiment, which would have done honour to a poet, bursting with all the visions of an Armida and a Dido.
The contradiction, to the public apprehension57, was equally great, as to the person of the author, as it was when they considered the temper of the book. In the champion of her sex, who was described as endeavouring to invest them with all the rights of man, those whom curiosity prompted to seek the occasion of beholding58 her, expected to find a sturdy, muscular, raw-boned virago59; and they were not a little surprised, when, instead of all this, they found a woman, lovely in her person, and, in the best and most engaging sense, feminine in her manners.
The Vindication of the Rights of Woman is undoubtedly a very unequal performance, and eminently61 deficient62 in method and arrangement. When tried by the hoary63 and long-established laws of literary composition, it can scarcely maintain its claim to be placed in the first class of human productions. But when we consider the importance of its doctrines64, and the eminence65 of genius it displays, it seems not very improbable that it will be read as long as the English language endures. The publication of this book forms an epocha in the subject to which it belongs; and Mary Wollstonecraft will perhaps hereafter be found to have performed more substantial service for the cause of her sex, than all the other writers, male or female, that ever felt themselves animated66 in the behalf of oppressed and injured beauty.
The censure67 of the liberal critic as to the defects of this performance, will be changed into astonishment68, when I tell him, that a work of this inestimable moment, was begun, carried on, and finished in the state in which it now appears, in a period of no more than six weeks.
It is necessary here that I should resume the subject of the friendship that subsisted69 between Mary and Mr. Fuseli, which proved the source of the most memorable70 events in her subsequent history. He is a native of the republic of Switzerland, but has spent the principal part of his life in the island of Great–Britain. The eminence of his genius can scarcely be disputed; it has indeed received the testimony71 which is the least to be suspected, that of some of the most considerable of his contemporary artists. He has one of the most striking characteristics of genius, a daring, as well as persevering72, spirit of adventure. The work in which he is at present engaged, a series of pictures for the illustration of Milton, upon a very large scale, and produced solely73 upon the incitement74 of his own mind, is a proof of this, if indeed his whole life had not sufficiently75 proved it.
Mr. Fuseli is one of Mr. Johnson’s oldest friends, and was at this time in the habit of visiting him two or three times a week. Mary, one of whose strongest characteristics was the exquisite76 sensations of pleasure she felt from the associations of visible objects, had hitherto never been acquainted, or never intimately acquainted, with an eminent60 painter. The being thus introduced therefore to the society of Mr. Fuseli, was a high gratification to her; while he found in Mary, a person perhaps more susceptible of the emotions painting is calculated to excite, than any other with whom he ever conversed77. Painting, and subjects closely connected with painting, were their almost constant topics of conversation; and they found them inexhaustible. It cannot be doubted, but that this was a species of exercise very conducive78 to the improvement of Mary’s mind.
Nothing human however is unmixed. If Mary derived80 improvement from Mr. Fuseli, she may also be suspected of having caught the infection of some of his faults. In early life Mr. Fuseli was ardently81 attached to literature; but the demands of his profession have prevented him from keeping up that extensive and indiscriminate acquaintance with it, that belles-lettres scholars frequently possess. Of consequence, the favourites of his boyish years remain his only favourites. Homer is with Mr. Fuseli the abstract and deposit of every human perfection. Milton, Shakespear, and Richardson, have also engaged much of his attention. The nearest rival of Homer, I believe, if Homer can have a rival, is Jean Jacques Rousseau. A young man embraces entire the opinions of a favourite writer, and Mr. Fuseli has not had leisure to bring the opinions of his youth to a revision. Smitten82 with Rousseau’s conception of the perfectness of the savage83 state, and the essential abortiveness of all civilization, Mr. Fuseli looks at all our little attempts at improvement, with a spirit that borders perhaps too much upon contempt and indifference84. One of his favourite positions is the divinity of genius. This is a power that comes complete at once from the hands of the Creator of all things, and the first essays of a man of real genius are such, in all their grand and most important features, as no subsequent assiduity can amend85. Add to this, that Mr. Fuseli is somewhat of a caustic86 turn of mind, with much wit, and a disposition87 to search, in every thing new or modern, for occasions of censure. I believe Mary came something more a cynic out of the school of Mr. Fuseli, than she went into it.
But the principal circumstance that relates to the intercourse88 of Mary, and this celebrated artist, remains89 to be told. She saw Mr. Fuseli frequently; he amused, delighted and instructed her. As a painter, it was impossible she should not wish to see his works, and consequently to frequent his house. She visited him; her visits were returned. Notwithstanding the inequality of their years, Mary was not of a temper to live upon terms of so much intimacy90 with a man of merit and genius, without loving him. The delight she enjoyed in his society, she transferred by association to his person. What she experienced in this respect, was no doubt heightened, by the state of celibacy91 and restraint in which she had hitherto lived, and to which the rules of polished society condemn92 an unmarried woman. She conceived a personal and ardent affection for him. Mr. Fuseli was a married man, and his wife the acquaintance of Mary. She readily perceived the restrictions93 which this circumstance seemed to impose upon her; but she made light of any difficulty that might arise out of them. Not that she was insensible to the value of domestic endearments94 between persons of an opposite sex, but that she scorned to suppose, that she could feel a struggle, in conforming to the laws she should lay down to her conduct.
There cannot perhaps be a properer place than the present, to state her principles upon this subject, such at least as they were when I knew her best. She set a great value on a mutual95 affection between persons of an opposite sex. She regarded it as the principal solace96 of human life. It was her maxim97, “that the imagination should awaken98 the senses, and not the senses the imagination.” In other words, that whatever related to the gratification of the senses, ought to arise, in a human being of a pure mind, only as the consequence of an individual affection. She regarded the manners and habits of the majority of our sex in that respect, with strong disapprobation. She conceived that true virtue99 would prescribe the most entire celibacy, exclusively of affection, and the most perfect fidelity100 to that affection when it existed. — There is no reason to doubt that, if Mr. Fuseli had been disengaged at the period of their acquaintance, he would have been the man of her choice. As it was, she conceived it both practicable and eligible101, to cultivate a distinguishing affection for him, and to foster it by the endearments of personal intercourse and a reciprocation102 of kindness, without departing in the smallest degree from the rules she prescribed to herself.
In September 1791, she removed from the house she occupied in George-street, to a large and commodious103 apartment in Store street, Bedford-square. She began to think that she had been too rigid, in the laws of frugality104 and self-denial with which she set out in her literary career; and now added to the neatness and cleanliness which she had always scrupulously105 observed a certain degree of elegance106, and those temperate18 indulgences in furniture and accommodation, from which a sound and uncorrupted taste never fails to derive79 pleasure.
It was in the month of November in the same year (1791), that the writer of this narrative107 was first in company with the person to whom it relates. He dined with her at a friend’s, together with Mr. Thomas Paine and one or two other persons. The invitation was of his own seeking, his object being to see the author of the Rights of Man, with whom he had never before conversed.
The interview was not fortunate. Mary and myself parted, mutually displeased108 with each other. I had not read her Rights of Woman. I had barely looked into her Answer to Burke, and been displeased, as literary men are apt to be, with a few offences, against grammar and other minute points of composition. I had therefore little curiosity to see Mrs. Wollstonecraft, and a very great curiosity to see Thomas Paine. Paine, in his general habits, is no great talker; and, though he threw in occasionally some shrewd and striking remarks; the conversation lay principally between me and Mary. I, of consequence, heard her, very frequently when I wished to hear Paine.
We touched on a considerable variety of topics, and particularly on the characters and habits of certain eminent men. Mary, as has already been observed, had acquired, in a very blameable degree, the practice of seeing every thing on the gloomy side, and bestowing109 censure with a plentiful110 hand, where circumstances were in any respect doubtful. I, on the contrary, had a strong propensity111, to favourable112 construction, and particularly, where I found unequivocal marks of genius, strongly to incline to the supposition of generous and manly113 virtue. We ventilated in this way the characters of Voltaire and others, who have obtained from some individuals an ardent admiration114, while the greater number have treated them with extreme moral severity. Mary was at last provoked to tell me, that praise, lavished115 in the way that I lavished it, could do no credit either to the commended or the commender. We discussed some questions on the subject of religion, in which her opinions approached much nearer to the received ones, than mine. As the conversation proceeded, I became dissatisfied with the tone of my own share in it. We touched upon all topics, without treating forcibly and connectedly upon any. Meanwhile, I did her the justice, in giving an account of the conversation to a party in which I supped, though I was not sparing of my blame, to yield her the praise of a person of active and independent thinking. On her side, she did me no part of what perhaps I considered as justice.
We met two or three times in the course of the following year, but made a very small degree of progress towards a cordial acquaintance.
In the close of the year 1792, Mary went over to France, where she continued to reside for upwards116 of two years. One of her principal inducements to this step, related, I believe, to Mr. Fuseli. She had, at first, considered it as reasonable and judicious117, to cultivate what I may be permitted to call, a Platonic118 affection for him; but she did not, in the sequel, find all the satisfaction in this plan, which she had originally expected from it. It was in vain that she enjoyed much pleasure in his society, and that she enjoyed it frequently. Her ardent imagination was continually conjuring119 up pictures of the happiness she should have found, if fortune had favoured their more intimate union. She felt herself formed for domestic affection, and all those tender charities, which men of sensibility have constantly treated as the dearest band of human society. General conversation and society could not satisfy her. She felt herself alone, as it were, in the great mass of her species; and she repined when she reflected, that the best years of her life were spent in this comfortless solitude120. These ideas made the cordial intercourse of Mr. Fuseli, which had at first been one of her greatest pleasures, a source of perpetual torment121 to her. She conceived it necessary to snap the chain of this association in her mind; and, for that purpose, determined122 to seek a new climate, and mingle123 in different scenes.
It is singular, that during her residence in Store street, which lasted more than twelve months, she produced nothing, except a few articles in the Analytical124 Review. Her literary meditations125 were chiefly employed upon the Sequel to the Rights of Woman; but she has scarcely left behind her a single paper, that can, with any certainty, be assigned to have had this destination.
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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eloquence
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intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anecdote
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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inclination
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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stimulus
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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piqued
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stimulate
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celebrated
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vindication
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ardent
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forth
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yoke
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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fetters
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bribed
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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repels
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| v.击退( repel的第三人称单数 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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blasphemous
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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incitement
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| 激励； 刺激； 煽动； 激励物 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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101
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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102
reciprocation
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| n.互换 | |
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103
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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104
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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108
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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109
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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111
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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112
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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113
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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114
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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115
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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117
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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118
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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119
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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120
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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121
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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122
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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123
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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124
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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125
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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