She had indeed reason to be grateful to Mr. Johnson, and she expressed her gratitude in a more practical way than by protestations. The German grammar was not wasted. Before long Mary undertook for practice to translate Salzmann’s “Elements of Morality,” and her exercise proved so masterly that she, with a few corrections and additions, published it. This gave rise to a correspondence between the author and herself; and after several years the former returned the compliment by translating the “Rights of Women” into German. Some idea will be given of her industry when it is stated that during the five years of her London life, she, in addition to the work already mentioned, rewrote a translation from the Dutch of “Young Grandison;” translated from the French “Young Robinson,” Necker on “Religious Opinions,” and Lavater’s “Physiognomy;” wrote a volume of “Original Stories from Real Life for Children,” and compiled a “Female Reader.” As these works were undertaken for money rather than for fame, she did not through them exert any personal influence on contemporary thought, or leave any impression on posterity.
She never degenerated, however, into a mere hack writer, nor did she accept the literary tasks which came in her way, unless she felt able to accomplish them. She was too conscientious to fall into a fault unfortunately common among men and women in a similar position. She did not shrink from any work, if she knew she was capable of doing it justice. When it was beyond her powers, she frankly admitted this to be the case. Thus, she once wrote to Mr. Johnson:—
“I return you the Italian manuscript, but do not hastily imagine that I am indolent. I would not spare any labor to do my duty; that single thought would solace me more than any pleasures the senses could enjoy. I find I could not translate the manuscript well. If it were not a manuscript I should not be so easily intimidated; but the hand, and errors in orthography or abbreviations, are a stumbling-block at the first setting out. I cannot bear to do anything I cannot do well; and I should lose time in the vain attempt.”
When she settled in London, she was in no humor for social pleasures. Her sole ambition was to be useful, and she worked incessantly. She at first hid herself from almost everybody. When she expected her sisters to stay with her, she begged them beforehand, “If you pay any visits, you will comply with my whim and not mention my place of abode or mode of life.” She lived in very simple fashion; her rooms were furnished with the merest necessities. Another warning she had to give Everina and Mrs. Bishop was, “I have a room, but not furniture. J. offered you both a bed in his house, but that would not be pleasant. I believe I must try to purchase a bed, which I shall reserve for my poor girls while I have a house.” It has been recorded that Talleyrand visited her in her lodgings on George Street, and that while the two discussed social and political problems, they drank their tea and then their wine from tea-cups, wine-glasses being an elegance beyond Mary’s means. Her dress was as plain as her furniture. Her gowns were mean in material and often shabby, and her hair hung loosely on her shoulders, instead of being twisted and looped as was then fashionable. Knowles, in his “Life of Fuseli,” finds fault with her on this account. She was not, however, a philosophical sloven, with romantic ideas of benevolence, as he intimates. Either he or Fuseli strangely misjudged her. The reason she paid so little heed to the luxuries and frivolities which custom then exacted, was because other more pressing demands were made upon her limited income. Then, as usual, she was troubled by the wretched complications and misfortunes of her family. The entire care and responsibility fell upon her shoulders. None of the other members seemed to consider that she was as destitute as they were,—that what she did was literally her one source of revenue. Assistance would have been as welcome to her as it was to them. But they accepted what she had to give, and were never deterred by reflecting upon the difficulty with which she responded to their needs. This is always the way. The strong are made to bear the burdens of the weak.
The amount of practical help she gave them is almost incredible. Eliza and Everina had, when the school at Newington Green failed, become governesses, but their education had been so sadly neglected that they were not competent for their work. Mary, knowing this, sent Everina to France, that she might study to be a good French teacher. The tide of emigration caused by the Revolution had only just begun, and French governesses and tutors were not the drug on the market they became later. Everina remained two years in France at her eldest sister’s expense. Mary found a place for Eliza, first as parlor boarder, and then as assistant, in an excellent school near London. For most of the time, however, both sisters were birds of passage. Everina was for a while at Putney, and then in Ireland, where she probably learned for herself the discomforts which Mary had once endured. Eliza was now at Market Harborough and Henley, and again at Putney, and finally she obtained a situation in Pembrokeshire, Wales, which she retained longer than any she had hitherto held. During these years there were occasional intermissions when both sisters were out of work, and there were holiday seasons to be provided for. To their father’s house it was still impossible for them to go. Its wretchedness was so great, it could no longer be called a home. Eliza, soon to see it, found it unbearable. Edward, it appears, was willing to give shelter to Everina; but this brother, of whom less mention is made in the sisters’ letters, was never a favorite, and residence with him was an evil to be avoided. The one place, therefore, where they were sure of a warm welcome was the humble lodging near Blackfriars’ Bridge. Mary fulfilled her promise of being a mother to them both. She stinted herself that she might make their lot more endurable.
When Eliza went to begin her Welsh engagement at Upton Castle, she spent a night on the way with her father. Her report of this visit opened a new channel for Mary’s benevolence. Mr. Wollstonecraft was then living at Laugharne, where he had taken his family many years before, and where his daughters had made several very good friends. But Eliza, as she lamented to Everina, went sadly from one old beloved haunt to another, without meeting an eye which glistened at seeing her. Old acquaintances were dead, or had sought a home elsewhere. The few who were left would not, probably because of the father’s disgrace, come to see her. The step-mother, the second Mrs. Wollstonecraft, was helpful and economical; but her thrift availed little against the drunken follies of her husband. The latter had but just recovered from an illness. He was worn to a skeleton, he coughed and groaned all night in a way to make the listener’s blood run cold, and he could not walk ten yards without pausing to pant for breath. His poverty was so abject that his clothes were barely decent, and his habits so low that he was indifferent to personal cleanliness. For days and weeks after she had seen him, Eliza was haunted by the memory of his unkempt hair and beard, his red face and his beggarly shabbiness. Poor unfortunate Charles, the last child left at home, was half-naked, and his time was spent in quarrelling with his father. Eliza, who knew how to be independent, was irritated by her brother’s idleness. “I am very cool to Charles, and have said all I can to rouse him,” she wrote to Everina; but then immediately she added, forced to do him justice, “But where can he go in his present plight?” It scarcely seems possible that such misery should have befallen a gentleman’s family. Mr. Wollstonecraft’s one cry, through it all, was for money. He threatened to go to London in his rags, and compel the obdurate Edward to comply with his demands. When Eliza told him of the sacrifices Mary made in order to help him, he only flew into a rage.
It was not long before Mary had brought Charles to London. The first thing to be done for him was much what Mr. Dick had advised in the case of ragged David Copperfield, and her initiatory act in his behalf was to clothe him. She took him to her house, where he lived, if not elegantly and extravagantly, at least decently, a new experience for the poor lad. She then had him articled to Edward, the attorney; but this experiment, as might have been expected, proved a failure. Mary next consulted with Mr. Barlow about the chances of settling him advantageously on a farm in America; and to prepare him for this life, which seemed full of promise, she sent him to serve a sort of apprenticeship with an English farmer. About this time James, the second son, who had been at sea, came home, and for him also Mary found room in her lodgings until, through her influence, he went to Woolwich, where for a few months he was under the instruction of Mr. Bonnycastle, the mathematician, as a preparation to enter the Royal Navy. He eventually went on Lord Hood’s fleet as a midshipman, and was then promoted to the rank of lieutenant, after which he appears to have been able to shift for himself.
Mary, as if this were not enough, also undertook the care of her father’s estate, or rather of the little left of it. Mr. Wollstonecraft had long since been incapable of managing his own affairs, and had intrusted them to some relations, with whose management Mary was not satisfied. She consequently took matters into her own hands, though she could ill afford to spare the time for this new duty. She did all that was possible to disembarrass the estate so that it might produce sufficient for her father’s maintenance. She was ably assisted by Mr. Johnson. “During a part of this period,” he wrote of her residence in George Street, “which certainly was the most active part of her life, she had the care of her father’s estate, which was attended with no little trouble to both of us. She could not,” he adds, “during this time, I think, expend less than £200 on her brothers and sisters.” Their combined efforts were in vain. Mr. Wollstonecraft had succeeded too well in ruining himself; and for the remainder of her life all Mary could do for him was to help him with her money. Godwin says that, in addition to these already burdensome duties, she took charge, in her own house, of a little girl of seven years of age, a relation of Mr. Skeys.
She struggled bravely, but there were times when it required superhuman efforts to persevere. She was subject to attacks of depression which usually resulted in physical illness. She gives a graphic description of the mental and bodily weakness against which she had to fight, in a note written at this period and addressed to Mr. Johnson:—
“I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the suggestions of reason. Your note, I can scarcely tell why, hurt me, and produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill; Heaven knows it was more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious. Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined —— was thrown into his great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of irritation I suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary, and might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blush when I recollect how often I have teased you with childish complaints and the reveries of a disordered imagination. I even imagined that I intruded on you, because you never called on me though you perceived that I was not well. I have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gave me as many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest, and often a frightful dream, yet catch myself every day searching for something serious, and feel real misery from the disappointment. I am a strange compound of weakness and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will endeavor to suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my mind; my wayward heart creates its own misery. Why I am made thus, I cannot tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence, I must be content to weep and dance like a child,—long for a toy, and be tired of it as soon as I get it.