It is not to be wondered at, that her excursion did not originally seem to produce the effects she had expected from it. She was in a land of strangers; she had no acquaintance; she had even to acquire the power of receiving and communicating ideas with facility in the language of the country. Her first residence was in a spacious4 mansion5 to which she had been invited, but the master of which (monsieur Fillietaz) was absent at the time of her arrival. At first therefore she found herself surrounded only with servants. The gloominess of her mind communicated its own colour to the objects she saw; and in this temper she began a series of Letters on the Present Character of the French Nation, one of which she forwarded to her publisher, and which appears in the collection of her posthumous6 works. This performance she soon after discontinued; and it is, as she justly remarks, tinged7 with the saturnine8 temper which at that time pervaded9 her mind.
Mary carried with her introductions to several agreeable families in Paris. She renewed her acquaintance with Paine. There also subsisted10 a very sincere friendship between her and Helen Maria Williams, author of a collection of poems of uncommon11 merit, who at that time resided in Paris. Another person, whom Mary always spoke of in terms of ardent12 commendation, both for the excellence13 of his disposition14, and the force of his genius, was a count Slabrendorf, by birth, I believe, a Swede. It is almost unnecessary to mention, that she was personally acquainted with the majority of the leaders in the French revolution.
But the house that, I believe, she principally frequented at this time, was that of Mr. Thomas Christie, a person whose pursuits were mercantile, and who had written a volume on the French revolution. With Mrs. Christie her acquaintance was more intimate than with the husband.
It was about four months after her arrival at Paris in December 1792, that she entered into that species of connection, for which her heart secretly panted, and which had the effect of diffusing15 an immediate2 tranquillity16 and cheerfulness over her manners. The person with whom it was formed (for it would be an idle piece of delicacy17, to attempt to suppress a name, which is known to every one whom the reputation of Mary has reached), was Mr. Gilbert Imlay, native of the United States of North America.
The place at which she first saw Mr. Imlay was at the house of Mr. Christie; and it perhaps deserves to be noticed, that the emotions he then excited in her mind, were, I am told, those of dislike, and that, for some time, she shunned18 all occasions of meeting him. This sentiment however speedily gave place to one of greater kindness.
Previously19 to the partiality she conceived for him, she had determined20 upon a journey to Switzerland, induced chiefly by motives21 of economy. But she had some difficulty in procuring23 a passport; and it was probably the intercourse24 that now originated between her and Mr. Imlay, that changed her purpose, and led her to prefer a lodging at Neuilly, a village three miles from Paris. Her habitation here was a solitary25 house in the midst of a garden, with no other inhabitants than herself and the gardener, an old man, who performed for her many of the offices of a domestic, and would sometimes contend for the honour of making her bed. The gardener had a great veneration26 for his guest, and would set before her, when alone, some grapes of a particularly fine sort, which she could not without the greatest difficulty obtain, when she had any person with her as a visitor. Here it was that she conceived, and for the most part executed, her Historical and Moral View of the French Revolution1, into which, as she observes, are incorporated most of the observations she had collected for her Letters, and which was written with more sobriety and cheerfulness than the tone in which they had been commenced. In the evening she was accustomed to refresh herself by a walk in a neighbouring wood, from which her old host in vain endeavoured to dissuade27 her, by recounting divers28 horrible robberies and murders that had been committed there.
1 No part of the proposed continuation of this work, has been found among the papers of the author.
The commencement of the attachment29 Mary now formed, had neither confident nor adviser30. She always conceived it to be a gross breach31 of delicacy to have any confidant in a matter of this sacred nature, an affair of the heart. The origin of the connection was about the middle of April 1793, and it was carried on in a private manner for four months. At the expiration32 of that period a circumstance occurred that induced her to declare it. The French convention, exasperated33 at the conduct of the British government, particularly in the affair of Toulon, formed a decree against the citizens of this country, by one article of which the English, resident in France, were ordered into prison till the period of a general peace. Mary had objected to a marriage with Mr. Imlay, who, at the time their connection was formed, had no property whatever; because she would not involve him in certain family embarrassments34 to which she conceived herself exposed, or make him answerable for the pecuniary35 demands that existed against her. She however considered their engagement as of the most sacred nature; and they had mutually formed the plan of emigrating to America, as soon as they should have realized a sum, enabling them to do it in the mode they desired. The decree however that I have just mentioned, made it necessary, not that a marriage should actually take place, but that Mary should take the name of Imlay, which, from the nature of their connexion, she conceived herself entitled to do, and obtain a certificate from the American ambassador, as the wife of a native of that country.
Their engagement being thus avowed36, they thought proper to reside under the same roof, and for that purpose removed to Paris.
Mary was now arrived at the situation, which, for two or three preceding years, her reason had pointed37 out to her as affording the most substantial prospect38 of happiness. She had been tossed and agitated39 by the waves of misfortune. Her childhood, as she often said, had known few of the endearments40, which constitute the principal happiness of childhood. The temper of her father had early given to her mind a severe cast of thought, and substituted the inflexibility41 of resistance for the confidence of affection. The cheerfulness of her entrance upon womanhood, had been darkened, by an attendance upon the death-bed of her mother, and the still more afflicting42 calamity43 of her eldest44 sister. Her exertions45 to create a joint46 independence for her sisters and herself, had been attended, neither with the success, nor the pleasure, she had hoped from them. Her first youthful passion, her friendship for Fanny, had encountered many disappointments, and, in fine, a melancholy47 and premature48 catastrophe49. Soon after these accumulated mortifications, she was engaged in a contest with a near relation, whom she regarded as unprincipled, respecting the wreck50 of her father’s fortune. In this affair she suffered the double pain, which arises from moral indignation, and disappointed benevolence51. Her exertions to assist almost every member of her family, were great and unremitted. Finally, when she indulged a romantic affection for Mr. Fuseli, and fondly imagined that she should find in it the solace52 of her cares, she perceived too late, that, by continually impressing on her mind fruitless images of unreserved affection and domestic felicity, it only served to give new pungency53 to the sensibility that was destroying her.
Some persons may be inclined to observe, that the evils here enumerated54, are not among the heaviest in the catalogue of human calamities55. But evils take their rank, more from the temper of the mind that suffers them, than from their abstract nature. Upon a man of a hard and insensible disposition, the shafts56 of misfortune often fall pointless and impotent. There are persons, by no means hard and insensible, who, from an elastic57 and sanguine58 turn of mind, are continually prompted to look on the fair side of things, and, having suffered one fall, immediately rise again, to pursue their course, with the same eagerness, the same hope, and the same gaiety, as before. On the other hand, we not unfrequently meet with persons, endowed with the most exquisite59 and delicious sensibility, whose minds seem almost of too fine a texture60 to encounter the vicissitudes61 of human affairs, to whom pleasure is transport, and disappointment is agony indescribable. This character is finely pourtrayed by the author of the Sorrows of Werter. Mary was in this respect a female Werter.
She brought then, in the present instance, a wounded and sick heart, to take refuge in the bosom62 of a chosen friend. Let it not however be imagined, that she brought a heart, querulous, and ruined in its taste for pleasure. No; her whole character seemed to change with a change of fortune. Her sorrows, the depression of her spirits, were forgotten, and she assumed all the simplicity63 and the vivacity64 of a youthful mind. She was like a serpent upon a rock, that casts its slough65, and appears again with the brilliancy, the sleekness66, and the elastic activity of its happiest age. She was playful, full of confidence, kindness and sympathy. Her eyes assumed new lustre67, and her cheeks new colour and smoothness. Her voice became chearful; her temper overflowing68 with universal kindness; and that smile of bewitching tenderness from day to day illuminated69 her countenance70, which all who knew her will so well recollect71, and which won, both heart and soul, the affection of almost every one that beheld72 it.
Mary now reposed73 herself upon a person, of whose honour and principles she had the most exalted74 idea. She nourished an individual affection, which she saw no necessity of subjecting to restraint; and a heart like her’s was not formed to nourish affection by halves. Her conception of Mr. Imlay’s “tenderness and worth, had twisted him closely round her heart;” and she “indulged the thought, that she had thrown out some tendrils, to cling to the elm by which she wished to be supported.” This was “talking a new language to her;” but, “conscious that she was not a parasite-plant,” she was willing to encourage and foster the luxuriancies of affection. Her confidence was entire; her love was unbounded. Now, for the first time in her life she gave a loose to all the sensibilities of her nature.
Soon after the time I am now speaking of, her attachment to Mr. Imlay gained a new link, by finding reason to suppose herself with child.
Their establishment at Paris, was however broken up almost as soon as formed, by the circumstance of Mr. Imlay’s entering into business, urged, as he said, by the prospect of a family, and this being a favourable75 crisis in French affairs for commercial speculations76. The pursuits in which he was engaged, led him in the month of September to Havre de Grace, then called Havre Marat, probably to superintend the shipping77 of goods, in which he was jointly78 engaged with some other person or persons. Mary remained in the capital.
The solitude79 in which she was now left, proved an unexpected trial. Domestic affections constituted the object upon which her heart was fixed80; and she early felt, with an inward grief, that Mr. Imlay “did not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home,” which, every time they recurred81, dimmed her eyes with moisture. She had expected his return from week to week, and from month to month, but a succession of business still continued to detain him at Havre. At the same time the sanguinary character which the government of France began every day more decisively to assume, contributed to banish82 tranquillity from the first months of her pregnancy83. Before she left Neuilly, she happened one day to enter Paris on foot (I believe, by the Place de Louis Quinze), when an execution, attended with some peculiar84 aggravations, had just taken place, and the blood of the guillotine appeared fresh upon the pavement. The emotions of her soul burst forth85 in indignant exclamations86, while a prudent87 bystander warned her of her danger, and intreated her to hasten and hide her discontents. She described to me, more than once, the anguish88 she felt at hearing of the death of Brissot, Vergniaud, and the twenty deputies, as one of the most intolerable sensations she had ever experienced.
Finding the return of Mr. Imlay continually postponed89, she determined, in January 1794, to join him at Havre. One motive22 that influenced her, though, I believe, by no means the principal, was the growing cruelties of Robespierre, and the desire she felt to be in any other place, rather than the devoted90 city, in the midst of which they were perpetrated.
From January to September, Mr. Imlay and Mary lived together, with great harmony, at Havre, where the child, with which she was pregnant, was born, on the fourteenth of May, and named Frances, in remembrance of the dear friend of her youth, whose image could never be erased91 from her memory.
In September, Mr. Imlay took his departure from Havre for the port of London. As this step was said to be necessary in the way of business, he endeavoured to prevail upon Mary to quit Havre, and once more take up her abode92 at Paris. Robespierre was now no more, and, of consequence, the only objection she had to residing in the capital, was removed. Mr. Imlay was already in London, before she undertook her journey, and it proved the most fatiguing93 journey she ever made; the carriage, in which she travelled, being overturned no less than four times between Havre and Paris.
This absence, like that of the preceding year in which Mr. Imlay had removed to Havre, was represented as an absence that was to have a short duration. In two months he was once again to join her at Paris. It proved however the prelude94 to an eternal separation. The agonies of such a separation, or rather desertion, great as Mary would have found them upon every supposition, were vastly increased, by the lingering method in which it was effected, and the ambiguity95 that, for a long time, hung upon it. This circumstance produced the effect, of holding her mind, by force, as it were, to the most painful of all subjects, and not suffering her to derive96 the just advantage from the energy and elasticity97 of her character.
The procrastination98 of which I am speaking was however productive of one advantage. It put off the evil day. She did not suspect the calamities that awaited her, till the close of the year. She gained an additional three months of comparative happiness. But she purchased it at a very dear rate. Perhaps no human creature ever suffered greater misery99, than dyed the whole year 1795, in the life of this incomparable woman. It was wasted in that sort of despair, to the sense of which the mind is continually awakened100, by a glimmering101 of fondly cherished, expiring hope.
Why did she thus obstinately102 cling to an ill-starred, unhappy passion? Because it is of the very essence of affection, to seek to perpetuate103 itself. He does not love, who can resign this cherished sentiment, without suffering some of the sharpest struggles that our nature is capable of enduring. Add to this, Mary had fixed her heart upon this chosen friend; and one of the last impressions a worthy104 mind can submit to receive, is that of the worthlessness of the person upon whom it has fixed all its esteem105. Mary had struggled to entertain a favourable opinion of human nature; she had unweariedly fought for a kindred mind, in whose integrity and fidelity106 to take up her rest. Mr. Imlay undertook to prove, in his letters written immediately after their complete separation, that his conduct towards her was reconcilable to the strictest rectitude; but undoubtedly107 Mary was of a different opinion. Whatever the reader may decide in this respect, there is one sentiment that, I believe, he will unhesitatingly admit: that of pity for the mistake of the man, who, being in possession of such a friendship and attachment as those of Mary, could hold them at a trivial price, and, “like the base Indian, throw a pearl away, richer than all his tribe.”
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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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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diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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embarrassments
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| n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 )；难堪；局促不安；令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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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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pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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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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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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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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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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79
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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81
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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pregnancy
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| n.怀孕，怀孕期 | |
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84
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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85
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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86
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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87
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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88
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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90
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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94
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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96
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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98
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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99
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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101
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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102
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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103
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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104
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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105
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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106
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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107
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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