Mary Wollstonecraft's Love Letters to Gilbert Imlay 55 – Wollstonecraft · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
Mary Wollstonecraft's Love Letters to Gilbert Imlay 55Letter 55
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Literature · Romance
Mary Wollstonecraft's Love Letters to Gilbert Imlay 55
Letter 55
WollstonecraftEnglish
[Sweden] July 3 [1795].
There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.
Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb your tranquillity.--If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.
I grow more and more attached to my little girl--and I cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul.--She is an interesting creature.--On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, "that the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and nothing but the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart--could have stopped me.
What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ----) that stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.
My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.--Love, in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c., alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described.
Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--Aiming at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul--almost rooted out what renders it estimable--Yes, I have damped that enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid--soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.
I am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.
I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark.
Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.--I will listen to delicacy, or pride.
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Literature · Romance
Mary Wollstonecraft's Love Letters to Gilbert Imlay 56
