Yet this apparent passion is tempered with doubt and reversal. She cannot make him happy, nor he her. “I can esteem, I can be a friend, but I don’t know whether I can love.” “You would be soon tired with seeing every day the same thing.” No, it is all folly. Cancel it, break it up, throw it over. Begin again, a new life, a new world. She will write to him no more. “I resolve against all correspondence of the kind; my resolutions are seldom made, and never broken.”
This one is broken in a few days. Again she loves, again she hopes. Everything shall be right, so far as it lies with her. “If my opinion could sway, nothing should displease you. Nobody ever was so disinterested as I am.” And yet once more cold analysis twitches her sleeve, murmurs in her ear. “You are the first I ever had a correspondence with, and I thank God I have done with it for all my life.” “When I have no more to say to you, you will like me no longer.”
Then she blows the doubts away, makes her stolen marriage, gives all to love, and in the very doing of it, lets fall one word that shows the doubter more than ever (italics mine): “I foresee all that will happen on this occasion. I shall incense my family in the highest degree. The generality of the world will blame my conduct ...; yet, ’tis possible, you may recompence everything to me.” How two little words will show a heart!
And afterwards? She fared pretty much as she expected. Love hardened into marriage with some, not unusual, hours of agony. “I cannot forbear any longer telling you, I think you use me very unkindly.” When he fails to write to her, she cries for two hours. Then all becomes domestic, and decorous, and as it should be; and her matured opinion of marriage agrees very well with the previsions of her youth. “Where are people matched? I suppose we shall all come right in Heaven; as in a country dance, the hands are strangely given and taken, while they are in motion, at last all meet their partners when the jig is done.”
Perhaps because she showed no great conjugal affection, there was plenty of gossip about affection less legitimate. Pope lavished rhetorical devotion on her. She laughed at it and, I fear, at him. In consequence he lampooned her with the savage spite of an eighteenth-century poet. She said unkind things about Sir Robert Walpole and Sir Robert’s son said unkind things about her, mentioned some lovers by name, and implied many others. Lady Mary’s careful editors have dealt with these slanders most painstakingly; and though in one case, that of an Italian adventure, they have overlooked a passage in Sir Horace Mann’s letters oddly confirmatory of Walpole, I think they have cleared their heroine with entire success.
After all, Lady Mary’s best defense against scandal is her own temperament and her own words. It is true, those who have lived a wild life are often the first to exclaim against it. But in this case the language bears every mark of being prompted by observation rather than experience. She says of the notorious Lady Vane: “I think there is no rational creature that would not prefer the life of the strictest Carmelite to the round of hurry and misfortune she has gone through.”
Lady Mary’s long sojourn in Italy towards the close of her life did much to increase suspicion in regard to her relations with her husband. Her greatest admirers have not been able to explain clearly why she wished to exile herself in such a fashion. But the tone in which, during the whole period, she writes both to Mr. Wortley Montagu and of him, is absolutely incompatible with any serious coldness between them. “My most fervent wishes are for your health and happiness.” And again: “I have never heard from her since, nor from any other person in England, which gives me the greatest uneasiness; but the most sensible part of it is in regard of your health, which is truly and sincerely the dearest concern I have in this world.”
Lady Mary had two children, and as a mother she is very much what she is as a wife, reasonable, prudent, devoted, but neither clinging nor adoring. She had, indeed, a happy art of expressing maternal tenderness, as of expressing everything, by which I do not imply that her feelings were not sincere, but simply that they were not very vital or very overwhelming. When she sets out on her travels, she is heartbroken over the perils and exposures for her son: “I have long learnt to hold myself at nothing; but when I think of the fatigue my poor infant must suffer, I have all a mother’s fondness in my eyes, and all her tender passions in my heart.” But her language about this same son, when grown to manhood, is somewhat astounding. He was a most extraordinary black sheep, wasted money, contracted debts, gambled, liked evil occupations and worse company, varied a multiplicity of wives with a multiplicity of religions, was once in jail, and never respectable. All this Lady Mary deplores, but she is not driven to despair by it; on the contrary, she analyzes his character to his father with singular cold soberness. “It is very disagreeable to me to converse with one from whom I do not expect to hear a word of truth, and, who, I am very sure, will repeat many things that never passed in our conversation.” Or, more generally, “I suppose you are now convinced I have never been mistaken in his character; which remains unchanged, and what is yet worse, I think is unchangeable. I never saw such a complication of folly and falsity as in his letter to Mr. G.”
Her daughter, Lady Bute, she was fond of. “Your happiness,” she writes to her, “was my first wish, and the pursuit of all my actions, divested of all self-interest.” Nevertheless, she lived contentedly without seeing her for twenty years.