I am very well, and my little girl not only un- commonly healthy, but already, as sagacious as a child of five or six months old, which I rather attribute to my good, that is natural, manner of nursing her, than to any extraordinary strength of faculties. She has not tasted anything but my milk, of which I have abundance, since her birth, yet, as I intend to begin to teach her to eat in a month or two, I must beg you to send me, if possible, some more of those fine biscuits, for the bread commonly made here is worse than ever, and I get no more of the good.
I am glad to find that you are pleasantly situated, and hope to hear that you are again become fat and well likened. Mrs. Shean popt on me about a fortnight ago, instead of surprising you, which was her intention.—She was delighted with the reception and pleasures of England, not forgetting the delight of travelling in a Coach and four on the Bristol road, &c.—Entre nous, I believe she was glad to get rid of Mrs. Blackden. She return[ed] to France in consequence of the information she received of the precarious state of her husband’s health.
Mr. Imlay has not been well for some weeks past, and during the last few days he has [been] seriously feverish. His mind has been harass[ed] by con- tinual disappointments.—Sh[ips] do not return, and the government is perpetually throwing impediments in the way of business. I cannot help sharing his disquietude, because the fulfilling of 262 262 ; : ; 1 4 4 } Me ei FANNYS INFANCY engagements appears to me of more importance than the making of a fortune. Of the state of things here, and the decree against the English I will not speak.—The French will carry all before them— but, my God, how many victims fall beneath the sword and the guillotine! My blood runs cold, and I sicken at thoughts of a Revolution which costs so much blood and bitter tears.
Remember me to Adieu!
your husband. Yours Sincerely Mary.
I will send you a new vial by the first opportunity.
Removing to another house the papers were disordered and I have not now time to regulate them.
Mr. I. has just desired me not to send the papers lest they should endanger. I will forward them by Clough.* Mary’s recollections of Fanny’s infancy she recorded in the fourteen ‘ Lessons’ which Godwin printed at the end of the second volume of Posthumous Works. His ‘ Advertisement’ which precedes them runs as follows: Tue following pages will, I believe, be judged by every reader of taste to have been worth preserving, among the other testimonies the author left behind her, of her genius and the soundness of her under- standing. To such readers I leave the task of comparing these lessons, with other works of the 4 This most interesting letter is here first printed. The original is in the Chamberlain Collection of the Public Library of the City of Boston. The first three pairs of brackets supply obvious omissions in the original; the last three, letters torn off. I can give no news of ‘ Mrs. Shean ’; Todd, Barlow’s biographer, does not mention her. ‘ Mrs. Blackden ’ was one of Ruth Barlow’s friends, and is men- tioned in Mary’s next letter.
263 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS same nature previously published. It is obvious ~ that the author has struck out a path of her own, © and by no means intrenched upon the plans of her predecessors.® The brief extracts which follow are plainly those that refer to little Fanny. The writer is speaking to her child about a young puppy, playing near at hand.
How did you do when you were a baby like him? You cannot tell. Do you want to know? Look — then at the dog, with her pretty puppy. Youcould © not help yourself as well as the puppy. You-could — only open your mouth, when you were lying on my; knee. So I put you to my breast, and you sucked, — as the puppy sucks now, for there was milk enough for you.
When you were hungry you began to cry, because you could not speak. You were seven months without teeth, always sucking. But after you got one, you began to gnaw a crust of bread. It was not long before another came pop. At ten months you had four pretty white teeth, and you used to bite me. Poor mamma! Still I did not cry, because I am not a child, but you hurt me very much. So I said to papa, it is time the little girl should eat. She is not naughty, yet she hurts me.
I have given her a crust of bread, and I must look for some other milk...You were then on the carpet, for you could not walk well. So when you were in a hurry, you used to run quick, quick, quick, on your hands and feet, ike thewlorync I am able to give here one more letter that Mary wrote to Ruth Barlow. It is not dated, but I believe i) Lhe ae verre, Per Pree? OF RULH. BARLOW it was written in the late fall or early winter of 1794, and since its contents show that the writer could not have been very far from Paris, I think it likely that Mary was then dwelling in the ‘small cottage near Paris,’ which Rowan mentions, and where he had his tea and conversations with her. The letter is ad- dressed ‘a la Citoyenne Barlow, Hotel de la Grands Bretagne, Rue Jacob, Faubourg St. Germain.’
My DEAR FRIEND, My DEAR FRIEND, A word or two which dropt from you, when I last saw you, for circumstances scarcely allowed me to speak to you, have run in my head ever since —Why cannot we meet and breakfast together, quite alone, as in days of yore? I will tell you how—will you meet me at the Bath about 8 o’clock either monday or tuesday?—I will come on monday unless it should rain, or you write to forbid me.— We may then breakfast in your favourite place and chat as long as we please before we part to return to our respective homes, for I do not wish to spend a whole day in Paris for a little time to come and when I do I must visit Madame Schweizer.
Yours affectionately, M. WoLLSTONECRAFT.
Friday afternoon Remember the pills | |! — and do not forget to ask Mrs. Stone what is become of Schlabberndorf— give my love to Mrs. Blackden.?
7 This letter is here printed for the first time. For the transcript and permission to use it, I am indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Simon Gratz of Philadelphia, the former owner of the original which now forms part of the Simon Gratz Collection in the Philadelphia home of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.
265 / SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS Some attention must here be given to the book — which, according to Godwin, Mary ‘commenced and ~ for the most part executed’ while dwelling in the house of Mme. Filliettaz in the winter and spring of 1793, and completed at Havre in 1794 during her stay _: there from January to September. It was published towards the end of the year, and bore the long title: An Historical and Moral View of the Origin and Progress of the French Revolution And the Effect it has Produced in Europe.
It is Kegan Paul’s opinion that Mary goes carefully into the whole state of society and politics, and into the causes of the Revolution, in a most masterly way; her remarks are throughout characterised by a singular moderation, and the work is, I think, the best balanced and most philo- sophical book on the revolution, as far as it had then gone.
The anonymous author of A Defence, etc., goes even further in his praise for this book. He declares that this History: in judiciousness of general remark as an analysis of politic events, and correctness of historical narrative, is not second to the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. It contains no affectation of style, no misstatements of facts, no sympathies that were not warmly felt in the heart of the author: A copy of this book was in the Library of John Adams (1735-1826), who succeeded Washington as President of the United States, and was its first minister to England, in 1785. In this copy, now, with the rest of his Library, in the Public Library of the City of Boston, Adams has inscribed, on the margins, 266 Bre PRENCH REVOLUTION” many of his dissenting opinions.* On the page facing. the Preface he wrote this comment: This is a Lady of a masculine masterly Under- standing. Her style is nervous and clear often elegant, though sometimes too verbose. With a little Experience in Public Affairs and the Reading and Reflection which would result from it, She would have produced a History without the Defects and Blemishes pointed out with too much Severity perhaps and too little Gallantry in the Notes.
The Improvement, the exaltation of the human Character, the perfectibility of Man, the Perfection of the human Faculties are the divine Objects which her Enthusiasm beholds in beatificism. Alas how airy and baseless a fabrick!
Yet she will not admit of the only means that can accomplish any Part of her ardent Prophecies, Forms of Government, so mixed, combined and ballanced as to restrain the Passions of all orders of Men.
Mary wrote this book under difficulties. She could have had no way of getting first hand information on the events described, unless possibly from Brissot or the Rolands, and her account of Marie Antoinette, as Kegan Paul admits ‘ could not but depend on Paris gossip.’ Since the book extends only to the forced removal of the royal family from Versailles to Paris, she had to write of events that had transpired nearly three years before her arrival.
For my own part I must admit that I cannot view this volume with the same admiration that I have for most of Mary’s books. It seems to me to contain 8 The complete notes may be consulted in The Bulletin of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Fourth Series, vol. i. No. 1, January, 1923.
267 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS more examples of the literary faults which sometimes appeared in Mary’s writing—I refer particularly to — prolixity and a lack of logical, orderly progression— than will be found in her other works.
In the way of extracts, I shall give only a few remarks on the queen and Mary’s own impression on visiting forsaken Versailles.
The unfortunate queen of France, beside the advantages of birth and station, possessed a very fine person; and her lovely face, sparkling with vivacity, hid the want of intelligence. Her com- plexion was dazzlingly clear; and, when she was pleased, her manners were bewitching; for she happily mingled the most insinuating voluptuous softness and affability, with an air of grandeur, bordering on pride, that rendered the contrast more striking. Independence also of whatever kind, always gives a degree of dignity to the mien; so that monarchs and nobles, with most ignoble souls, from believing themselves superior to others, have actually acquired a look of superiority.
But her opening faculties were poisoned in the bud; for before she came to Paris, she had already been prepared, by a corrupt, supple abbé, for the part she was to play; and young as she was, became so firmly attached to the aggrandisement of her house, that, though plunged deep in pleasure she never omitted sending immense sums to her brother on every occasion. The person of the king, in itself very disgusting, was rendered more so by gluttony, and a total disregard of delicacy, and even decency in his apartments; and, when jealous of the queen, for whom he had a kind of devouring passion, he treated her with great. brutality, till she acquired sufficient finesse to subjugate him. Is it then surprizing, that a very desirable woman, with a 268 i i. | Pie ORRENCH REVOLUTION” sanguine constitution, should shrink abhorrent from his embraces; or that an empty mind should be employed only to vary the pleasures which emasculated her circean court? And, added to this the histories of the Julias and Messalinas of antiquity convincingly prove that there is no end to the vagaries of the imagination, when power is unlimited, and reputation set at defiance.
Lost then in the most luxurious pleasures, or managing court intrigues, the queen became a profound dissembler; and her heart hardened by sensual enjoyments to such a degree, that when her family and favourites stood on the brink of ruin, her little portion of mind was employed only to preserve herself from danger. As a proof of the justness of this assertion, it is only necessary to observe, that, in the general wreck, not a scrap of her writing has been found to criminate her; neither has she suffered a word to escape her to exasperate the people, even when burning with rage and contempt. The effect that adversity may have on her choked understanding time will show; ® but during her prosperity, the moments of languor, that glide into the interstices of enjoyment, were passed in the most childish manner; without the appearance of any vigour of mind, to palliate the wanderings of the imagination.—Still she was a woman of uncommon address; and though her conversation was insipid, her compliments were so artfully adapted to flatter the person she wished to please or dupe, and so eloquent is the beauty of a queen, in the eyes of even superior men, that she seldom failed to carry her point when she en- deavoured to gain an ascendancy over the mind of an individual. Over that of the king she acquired unbounded sway, when, managing the disgust she ® This was written a few months before the death of the queen. 269 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS had for his person, she made him pay a kingly price for her favours (pp. 131 et seq.). = The following description is one of the few written — from first-hand knowledge:; How silent is now Versailles!—The solitary foot, — that mounts the sumptuous stair-case, rests on each landing-place whilst the eye traverses the void, almost expecting to see the strong images of fancy burst into life—The train of the Louises, like the posterity of the Banquoes, pass in solemn sadness, pointing at the nothingness of grandeur, fading away on the cold canvas, which covers the nakedness of the spacious walls—whilst the gloominess of the atmosphere gives a deeper shade to the gigantic figures, that seem to be sinking into the embraces of death.
Warily entering the endless apartments, half shut up, the fleeting shadow of the pensive wanderer, reflected in long glasses, that vainly gleam in every direction, slacken the nerves, without appalling the heart; though lascivious pictures, in which grace _ varnishes voluptuousness, no longer seductive, strike continually home to the bosom the melancholy moral that anticipates the frozen lesson of experience. The very air is chill, seeming to clog the breath; and the wasting dampness of destruction appears to be stealing into the vast pile from every side.
The oppressed heart seeks for relief in the garden; but even there the same images glide along the wide neglected walks—all is fearfully still and, if a little rill creeping through the gathering moss down the cascade, over which it used to rush, bring to mind the description of the grand water works, it is only to excite a languid smile at the futile attempt to equal nature.
Lo! this was the abode of the great king!—the abode of magnificence! Who has broken the 270 271 VII 1794-1795 MARY’S LETTERS TO IMLAY—HER JOURNEY TO SWEDEN.
Soon after Imlay’s departure to London, in September 1794, Mary, with Fanny and the French maid, returned to Paris after a most disastrous journey, which ‘proved’ as Godwin has informed us, ‘the most fatiguing she ever made; the carriage, in which she travelled, being overturned no less than four times between Havre and Paris.’
Until her departure in April 1795 to join Imlay in London, she wrote many passionate and sorrowful letters to her absent lover.
There are, perhaps, no other published letters in existence that touch the heart as do these of Mary’s. Godwin, in his preface to their first edition, says: The following Letters may possibly be found to contain the finest examples of the language of sentiment and passion ever presented to the world...They are the offspring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the passion it essays to describe.
No apology is needed for considerable quotation here, with such comment as it is now possible to supply. 272 ——< Pe ’ “ The Dog strove to attrac his attention’ From the original drawing by William Blake (cf. above, pp. 207-13) =e Ad Pee Ro ee Gt LAAT To the first letter which appears here! Godwin affixed this note: This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.
I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short, to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
Besides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud music— yesterday, at the fete, she enjoyed the two latter; but, to Honour J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.
Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap? There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window, regarding the waving corn!
Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the imagination—-I could prove to you 1 No. XXIII. in the series printed by Kegan Paul (Mary Wollstonecraft: Letters to Imlay. London. 1879.) M.W. 273 s SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS in a trice that it is the mother of sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of © our passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste, appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if you will, and the conclusions of reason, draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts, instead of leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which would be tantamount to non- sensical, 1 shall be apt to retort, that you are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back your barrier-face, or you shall have nothing to say to my barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you, to cherish the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for I am yours truly * * + * Evening, Sept. 23 [1794].
I have been playing and laughing with the little girl so long, that I cannot take up my pen to address you without emotion. Pressing her to my bosom, she looked so like you (entre nous, your best looks, 2 The first mention of this ‘ barrier ’—an object of general occurrence in Revolutionary Paris—is in Letter II. of this series, written from Paris in August 1793. In the post- script Mary makes a rendezvous with Imlay; she says: ‘I will be at the barrier a little after ten o’clock tomorrow, VOUTS ERE heewe To this letter Godwin appends a footnote: ‘ The child is in a subsequent letter called the “ barrier-girl,’’ probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.’ —EDITOR.
274 MipestinicsT= ic; r I do not admire your commercial face) every nerve seemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began 9 think that there was something in the assertion _ of man and wife being one—for you seemed to a? my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the sympathetic tears you sexcited..._ Public affairs I do not descant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and _ truth, and this liberty of the press will overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive. I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of restlessness at night, which arises, I believe, from activity of mind; for, whenI am alone, _ that is not near one to whom I can open my heart, I sink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.
This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? Ineed not tell you, I suppose, that 1 am now writing with somebody in the room with me, and is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——’s. I will then kiss the girl for you, and bid you adieu.
I desired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you should not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for she is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I should think, as you could wish for...Madame S—— is by me, reading a German translation of your letters 3—she desires me to give her love to you, on account of what you say of the negroes.
Yours most affectionately, ee 3° Madame S’ is of course Madeleine Schweizer, who was reading a German edition of Imlay’s Topographical Descrip- tion, which book was written in the form of letters.
275 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMO " one ‘a a Pe Li eee ~ x, ee MA ort aw > . ” Paris, Sept. 28 [1794...| cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I shall not harass you with accounts of in- -quietudes, or of cares that arise from peculiar circumstances.—I have had so many little plagues — here, that I have almost lamented that I left H[avre]. _ , who is at best a helpless creature, is now, on — account of her pregnancy, more trouble than use — to me, so that I still continue to be almost a slave — to the child—She indeed rewards me, for she is a sweet little creature; for, setting aside a mother’s ~ fondness (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her — little intelligent smiles sinking into my heart), she © has an astonishing degree of sensibility and observa- — tion. The other day by B——’s child, a fine one, she looked like a little sprite-——She is all life and © emotion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool— I will swear. <: I slept at St. Germain’s, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you pressed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with sensations that are almost — too sacred to be alluded to. a Adieu, my love! Take care of yourself, if you — wish to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother...Your own *E KX October 1 [1794]. It is_a heartless task to write letters, without — knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I have given two to, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week past; and three others, which were written in a low-spirited strain, a little querulous or so, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me...I have just now stumbled on one of the kind letters, 276 Pee Pe ks TO fMLALY which you wrote me during your last absence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the absence is so long, ought to bring only tears of tenderness, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.
After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be too immersed in business, as during the last three or four months past—for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impressions are left on the mind.—These impressions were much more lively, soon after you went away, than at present—for a thousand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind— and every emotion is on the same side as my reason, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almost impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will see it no where else.
My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and she often has a kiss, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart...: Yours most truly and affectionately, * kK OK October 26 [1794].
My dear love, I began to wish so earnestly to hear from you, that the sight of your letters occasioned such pleasurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aside till the little girl and I were alone together; and this said little girl, our darling, is become a most intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find so convenient. I once told you, that the sensations before she was born, and when she is 277 Ki 8 UP PLEMENT. ‘TO. rae MOIR sucking, were pleasant; but eo Fes dese! ~ to be compared to the emotions I feel, when she stops — to smile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting | me unexpectedly in the street, or after a short — absence. She has now the advantage of having — ‘two good nurses, and I am at present able to dis charge my duty to her, without being the slave of it.
I have therefore employed and amused myself since I got rid of, and am making a progress in the language amongst other things. I have also | made some new acquaintance. I have almost — charmed a judge of the tribunal, R who, though I should not have thought it possible, has humanity, — if not beaucoup d’esprit. But let me tell you, if — you do not make haste back, I shall be half in love | with the author of the Marseillaise, who is a hand- — some man, a little too broad-faced or, so, and plays — sweetly on the violin.
What do you say to this threat?—why, entre nous, I like to give way to a sprightly vein, when I am pleased with you. ‘The devil,’ you know, is proverbially said to be ‘in a good humour when he — is pleased.’ Will you not then be a good boy, and | come back quickly to play with your girls? but I shall not allow you to love the new-comer best...My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and seeks happiness with you; yet do not imagine that I childishly wish you to come back, before you have arranged things in such a manner that it will not be necessary for you to leave uS soon again, or to make exertions which injure your constitution.
Yours most truly and tenderly, * oe * P.S. You would oblige me by clive the inclosed to Mr., and pray call for an answer.— It is for a person uncomfortably situated.
278 ytd Miele koe TO eM AD Dec. 26 [1794].
I have been, my love, for some days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to assume a form— I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that many vessels had been driven on shore during the late gale—Well, I now see your letter—and feel that you are safe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been so unavailing...Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which has been crowding on you. I want to be sure that you are safe—and not separated from me by a sea that must be passed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my sometimes dreading that fate has not done persecuting me? Come to me, my dearest friend, husband, father of my child |!—All these fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is desirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence escapes us—without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to some of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted across my mind for some days past, and haunted my dreams.
My little darling is indeed a sweet child; and I am sorry that you are not here, to see her little mind unfold itself. You talk of ‘ dalliance’; but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his mistress, than she is to me. Her eyes follow me everywhere, and by affection I have the most despotic power over her. She is all vivacity or softness—yes; I love her more than I thought I should. When have been hurt at your stay, I have embraced her as my only comfort—when pleased with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be angry with you, whilst I am kissing her for resembling you. But there would 279 _~ SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS be no end to these details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately me ' Yours x eK * December 28 [1794]...1 do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your disappointments.— Yet, know- ing that you are well, and think of me with affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that you should thus exert yourself in vain, and that you are kept from me...
Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner as to avoid the in- quietudes, of which I have had my share since your departure? Is it now possible to enter into business, as an employment necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive sentiment and affection out of the heart?...Stay, my friend, whilst it is absolutely necessary. —TI will give no tenderer name, though it glows at — my heart, unless you come the moment the settling the present objects permit.—TI do not consent to your : taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reason (for this immoderate desire of wealth, which makes so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays. —Having suffered so much in life, do not be sur- prised if I sometimes, when left by myself, grow gloomy, and suppose that it was all a dream, and 280 LETTERS TO IMLAY that my happiness is not to last. I say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the picture.
My little one begins to show her teeth, and use her legs—She wants you to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with dancing . her, and yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.
Yours truly, * KK * December 29 [1794].
..How I hate this crooked business! This intercourse with the world, which obliges one to see the worst side of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had first in view, when you entered into this wearisome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, successful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not sufficient to avoid poverty? —I am contented to do my part; and even here, sufficient to escape from wretchedness is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project also—and, if you do not soon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourself; we will not accept any of your cold kindness—your distant civilities—no; not we...I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderness for my little girl, I grow sad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to observe with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached! These appear to me to be true pleasures—and still you suffer them to escape you, in search of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to ‘live in the present moment.’—J/f you do—stay, for God’s sake; but tell me the truth 281 SUPPLEMENT TO MEMOIRS —if not, tell me when I may expect to see you, and P let me not be always vainly looking for you, till — I grow sick at heart. Adieu! I am a little hurt—I must take my darling to my bosom to console me. ps * * * December 30 [1794]...I do not like this life of continual disquietude —and, entre nous, | am determined to try to earn some money here myself, in order to convince you that, if you chuse to run about the world and get a fortune, it is for yourself—for the little girl and I will live without your assistance unless you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it so—but I will never abandon certain principles of action...I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general, you know that I think them systematic tyrants, and that it is the rarest thing in the world, to meet with a man with sufficient delicacy of feeling to govern desire. When I am thus sad, [ lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.— I am sorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever sown with thorns.