“... So much for business! May I venture to talk a little longer about less weighty affairs? How are you? I have been following you all along the road this comfortless weather; for when I am absent from those I love, my imagination is as lively as if my senses had never been gratified by their presence—I was going to say caresses, and why should I not? I have found out that I have more mind than you in one respect; because I can, without any violent effort of reason, find food for love in the same object much longer than you can. The way to my senses is through my heart; but, forgive me! I think there is sometimes a shorter cut to yours.
“With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very sufficient dash of folly is necessary to render a woman piquante, a soft word for desirable; and, beyond these casual ebullitions of sympathy, few look for enjoyment by fostering a passion in their hearts. One reason, in short, why I wish my whole sex to become wiser, is, that the foolish ones may not, by their pretty folly, rob those whose sensibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roses that afford them some solace in the thorny road of life.
“I do not know how I fell into these reflections, excepting one thought produced it—that these continual separations were necessary to warm your affection. Of late we are always separating. Crack! crack! and away you go! This joke wears the sallow cast of thought; for, though I began to write cheerfully, some melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilst a glow of tenderness at my heart whispers that you are one of the best creatures in the world. Pardon then the vagaries of a mind that has been almost ‘crazed by care,’ as well as ‘crossed in hapless love,’ and bear with me a little longer. When we are settled in the country together, more duties will open before me; and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to rest on yours with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.”
The business at Havre apparently could not be easily settled. The date of Imlay’s return became more and more uncertain, and Mary grew restless at his prolonged stay. This she let him know soon enough. She was not a silent heroine willing to let concealment prey on her spirits. It was as impossible for her to smile at grief as it was to remain unconscious of her lover’s shortcomings. Her first complaints, however, are half playful, half serious. They were inspired by her desire to see him more than by any misgiving as to the cause of his detention. On the 29th of December she wrote:
“You seem to have taken up your abode at Havre. Pray, sir! when do you think of coming home? or, to write very considerately, when will business permit you? I shall expect (as the country people say in England) that you will make a power of money to indemnify me for your absence....
“Well! but, my love, to the old story,—am I to see you this week, or this month? I do not know what you are about, for as you did not tell me, I would not ask Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.”
But the playfulness quickly disappeared. Mary was ill, and her illness aggravated her normal sensitiveness, while the terrible death-drama of the Revolution was calculated to deepen rather than to relieve her gloom. A day or two later she broke out vehemently:—
“... I hate commerce. How differently must ——’s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me that exertions are necessary. I am weary of them! The face of things public and private vexes me. The ‘peace’ and clemency which seemed to be dawning a few days ago, disappear again. ‘I am fallen,’ as Milton said, ‘on evil days,’ for I really believe that Europe will be in a state of convulsion during half a century at least. Life is but a labor of patience; it is always rolling a great stone up a hill; for before a person can find a resting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!
“Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the strain. My head aches and my heart is heavy. The world appears an ‘unweeded garden’ where things ‘rank and vile’ flourish best.
“If you do not return soon,—or, which is no such weighty matter, talk of it,—I will throw my slippers out at window, and be off, nobody knows where.”