Thepublic 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 havegiven 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 inmy mind[x-A]." 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[x-B].
In reviſing theſe ſheets for the preſs, it was neceſſary for the editor, in ſome places, to connect the more finiſhedparts 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.
TheWrongs 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 tobecome 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 awoman 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 termedſtage-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.
FOOTNOTES:[x-A]A more copious extract of this letter is ſubjoined to the author's preface.[x-B]The part communicated conſiſted of the firſt fourteen chapters.
[x-A]A more copious extract of this letter is ſubjoined to the author's preface.
[x-A]A more copious extract of this letter is ſubjoined to the author's preface.
[x-B]The part communicated conſiſted of the firſt fourteen chapters.
[x-B]The part communicated conſiſted of the firſt fourteen chapters.
Page 3, line 2,delehalf.P. 81 and 118,forbrackets [—],readinverted commas " thus "
Page 3, line 2,delehalf.
P. 81 and 118,forbrackets [—],readinverted commas " thus "
VOL. I.andII.
The Wrongs of Woman, or Maria; a Fragment: to which is added, the Firſt Book of a Series of Leſſons for Children.
VOL. III.andIV.
Letters and Miſcellaneous Pieces.
Abodesof 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 recal 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 halfſpeakingcooing, 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 thinkthat 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. Shehad 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, deliberateſtep, 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 doesthat 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, ſhefelt 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, ſheopened 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 mether 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 thegloom 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 muchmore 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 romanticthan 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.
Earneſtlyas 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 toſteel 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, wereſoon 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 amuch 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 forceand 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 re-peruſed 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 ofſentiment, oracuteneſsof 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 wasfeeling, 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 ſupper. "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 andthink 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 perſonof a lovely maniac, juſt brought into an adjoining chamber. She was ſinging the pathetic ballad of old Rob 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!"
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'sHeloïſe; 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 ſtartledbird, 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 minutiæ 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.
Whenperuſing 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 andvexation, which ſhe had not time to ſubdue, before Jemima, returning, delivered the paper.