At this period a man, whose name, luckily for himself, is now forgotten, wished to make Mary his wife. Her treatment of him was characteristic. He could not have known her very well, or else he would not have been so foolish as to represent his financial prosperity as an argument in his favor. For a woman to sell herself for money, even when the bargain was sanctioned by the marriage ceremony, was, in her opinion, the unpardonable sin. Therefore, what he probably intended as an honor, she received as an insult. She declared that it must henceforward end her acquaintance not only with him, but with the third person through whom the offer was sent, and to whom Mary gave her answer. Her letters in connection with this subject are among the most interesting in her correspondence. They bear witness to the sanctity she attached to the union of man and wife. Her views in this relation cannot be too prominently brought forward, since, by manifesting the purity of her principles, light is thrown on her subsequent conduct. In her first burst of wrath she unbosomed herself to her ever-sympathetic confidant, Mr. Johnson:—
“Mr. —— called on me just now. Pray did you know his motive for calling? I think him impertinently officious. He had left the house before it had occurred to me in the strong light it does now, or I should have told him so. My poverty makes me proud. I will not be insulted by a superficial puppy. His intimacy with Miss —— gave him a privilege which he should not have assumed with me. A proposal might be made to his cousin, a milliner’s girl, which should not have been mentioned to me. Pray tell him that I am offended, and do not wish to see him again. When I meet him at your house, I shall leave the room, since I cannot pull him by the nose. I can force my spirit to leave my body, but it shall never bend to support that body. God of heaven, save thy child from this living death! I scarcely know what I write. My hand trembles; I am very sick,—sick at heart.”
Then she wrote to the man who had undertaken in an evil moment to deliver the would-be lover’s message:
Sir,—When you left me this morning, and I reflected a moment, your officious message, which at first appeared to me a joke, looked so very like an insult, I cannot forget it. To prevent, then, the necessity of forcing a smile when I chance to meet you, I take the earliest opportunity of informing you of my sentiments.
Mary Wollstonecraft.
This brief note seems to have called forth an answer, for Mary wrote again, and this time more fully and explicitly:—
Sir,—It is inexpressibly disagreeable to me to be obliged to enter again on a subject that has already raised a tumult of indignant emotions in my bosom, which I was laboring to suppress when I received your letter. I shall now condescend to answer your epistle; but let me first tell you that, in my unprotected situation, I make a point of never forgiving a deliberate insult,—and in that light I consider your late officious conduct. It is not according to my nature to mince matters. I will tell you in plain terms what I think. I have ever considered you in the light of a civil acquaintance,—on the word friend I lay a peculiar emphasis,—and, as a mere acquaintance, you were rude and cruel to step forward to insult a woman whose conduct and misfortunes demand respect. If my friend Mr. Johnson had made the proposal, I should have been severely hurt, have thought him unkind and unfeeling, but not impertinent. The privilege of intimacy you had no claim to, and should have referred the man to myself, if you had not sufficient discernment to quash it at once. I am, sir, poor and destitute; yet I have a spirit that will never bend, or take indirect methods to obtain the consequences I despise; nay, if to support life it was necessary to act contrary to my principles, the struggle would soon be over. I can bear anything but my own contempt.
In a few words, what I call an insult is the bare supposition that I could for a moment think of prostituting my person for a maintenance; for in that point of view does such a marriage appear to me, who consider right and wrong in the abstract, and never by words and local opinions shield myself from the reproaches of my own heart and understanding.
It is needless to say more; only you must excuse me when I add that I wish never to see, but as a perfect stranger, a person who could so grossly mistake my character. An apology is not necessary, if you were inclined to make one, nor any further expostulations. I again repeat, I cannot overlook an affront; few indeed have sufficient delicacy to respect poverty, even when it gives lustre to a character; and I tell you, sir, I am poor, yet can live without your benevolent exertions.
Mary Wollstonecraft.