Mary, A Fiction, Mary Wollstonecraft

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IN delineating the Heroine of this Fiction, the Author attempts to develop a character different from those generally portrayed.
In an artless tale, without episodes, the mind of a woman, who has thinking powers is displayed.

Chapter 1

Mary's mother Eliza,
MARY, the heroine of this fiction, was the daughter of Edward, who married Eliza, a gentle, fashionable girl, with a kind of indolence in her temper, which might be termed negative good-nature: her virtues, indeed, were all of that stamp.
Mary's father Edward,
He hunted in the morning, and after eating an immoderate dinner, generally fell asleep: this seasonable rest enabled him to digest the cumbrous load; he would then visit some of his pretty tenants; and when he compared their ruddy glow of health with his wife's countenance, which even rouge could not enliven, it is not necessary say which a gourmand would give preference to.
Mary's mother Eliza,
She wondered her husband did not stay at home. She was jealous -- why did he not love her, sit by her side, squeeze her hand, and look unutterable things?

Chapter 2

IN due time she brought forth a son, a feeble babe; and the following year a daughter.
Her children were left in the nursery; and when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the awkward thing away.
An old house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read.
Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her inspection, and learned to think.
Sublime ideas filled her young mind -- always connected with devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to the birds, or pursued the deer.
Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite pain -- produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious distress.
Other causes also contributed to disturb her repose: her mother's luke-warm manner of performing her religious duties, filled her with anguish; and when she observed her father's vices, the unbidden tears would flow.
In this manner was she left to reflect on her own feelings; and so strengthened were they by being meditated on, that her character early became singular and permanent.

Chapter 3

Mary's friend Ann,
This disappointment spread a sadness over her countenance, and made it interesting. She grew fond of solitude, and her character appeared similar to Mary's, though her natural disposition was much different.
Mary was often hurt by the involuntary indifference which these consequences produced.

Chapter 4

In this retreat she read Thomson's Seasons, Young's Night-Thoughts, and Paradise Lost.
In these little huts she rested, and denied herself every childish gratification, in order to relieve the necessities of the inhabitants. Her heart yearned for them, and would dance with joy when she had relieved their wants, or afforded them pleasure.
Often did she taste unmixed delight; her joys, her ecstasies arose from genius.
This habit of thinking, this kind of absorption, gave strength to the passions.

Chapter 5, p92

per footnote, Wollstonecraft's revenge fantasy,
A FEW months after Mary was turned of seventeen, her brother was attacked by a violent fever, and died before his father could reach the school. She was now an heiress, and her mother began to think her of consequence, and did not call her the child.
Engrossed by the scene of misery that she had been witness to, she walked silently by his side, when he roused her out of her reverie by telling her that in all likelihood had not many hours to live; and before she could return him any answer, informed her that they had both determined to marry her to Charles, his friend's son; he added, the ceremony was to be performed directly, that her mother might be witness of it; for such a desire she had expressed with childish eagerness.
As she drew near the house, her wonted presence of mind returned: after this suspension of thought, a thousand darted into her mind, -- her dying mother, -- her friend's miserable situation, -- and an extreme horror at taking -- at being forced to take, such a hasty step; but she did not feel the disgust, the reluctance, which arises from prior attachment.
Mary stood like a statute of Despair, and pronounced the awful vow without thinking of it; and then ran to support her mother, who expired the same night in her arms.

Chapter 6

MARY was allowed to pay the rent which gave her so much uneasiness, and she exerted every nerve to prevail on her father effectually to succour the family; but the utmost she could obtain was a small sum very inadequate to the purpose, to enable the poor woman to carry into execution a little scheme of industry near the metropolis.
An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the sound of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame.

Chapter 7

In a few days her father breathed his last. The horrid sensations his death occasioned were too poignant to be durable: and Ann's danger, and her own situation, made Mary deliberate what mode of conduct she would pursue. She feared this event might hasten the return of her husband, and prevent her putting into execution a plan she had determined on. It was to accompany Ann to a more salubrious climate.

Chapter 8

The society of men of genius delighted her, and improved her facilities. With beings of this class she did not often meet; it is a rare genus; her first favorites were men past the meridian of life, and of a philosophic turn.
"This dear friend," she exclaimed, "I love for her agreeable qualities, and substantial virtues. Continual attention to her health, and the tender office of a nurse, have created an affection very like a maternal one -- I am her only support, she leans on me -- could I forsake the forsaken, and break the bruised reed -- No -- I would die first! I must -- I will go."
She would have added, "you would very much oblige me by consenting;" but her heart revolted -- and irresolutely she wrote something about wishing him happy. -- "Do I not wish all the world well?" she cried, as she subscribed her name

Chapter 9

THERE was nothing now to retard their journey; and Mary chose Lisbon rather than France, on account of it being further removed from the only person she wished not to see.
Three fashionable females, and two gentlemen; the one a brother of the eldest of the young ladies, and the other an invalid, who came, like themselves, for the benefit of the air. They entered into conversation immediately.
The other, who had not said much, began to touch the violin, and played a little Scotch ballad; he brought such a thrilling sound out of the instrument, that Mary started, and looking at him with more attention than she had done before, and saw, in a face rather ugly, strong lines of genius. His manners were awkward, that kind of awkwardness which is often found in literary men: he seemed a thinker, and delivered his opinions in elegant expressions, and musical tones of voice.
They chatted about their new acquaintance in their own apartment, and, with respect to the gentlemen, differed in opinion.

Chapter 10

EVERY day almost they saw their new acquaintance; and civility produced intimacy.
She had a metaphysical turn, which inclined her to reflect on every object that passed by her; and her mind was not like a mirror, which receives every floating image, but does not retain them: she had not any prejudices, for every opinion was examined before it was adopted.
Mary thought of both the subjects, the Romish tenets, and the deistical doubts; and though not a sceptic, thought it right to examine the evidence on which her faith was built.

Chapter 11, p105

I forgot to mention they were all of one family, a mother, her daughter, and niece. The daughter was sent by her physician, to avoid a northerly winter; the mother, her niece, and nephew, accompanied her.
Their minds were shackled with a set of notions concerning propriety, the fitness of things for the world's eye, trammels which always hamper weak people.
The mother, if we accept her being near twenty years older, was just the same creature; and these additional years only served to make her more tenaciously adhere to her habits of folly, and decide with stupid gravity, some trivial points of ceremony, as a matter of last importance; of which she was a competent judge, from having lived in the fashionable world so long: that world to which the ignorant look up as we do the sun.
the mother, about Mary
"She is a foolish creature, and this friend that she pays as much attention to as if she was a lady of quality, is a beggar." "Well, how strange!" cried the girls.
"She is, however, a charming creature," said her nephew.
"I cannot live without her! -- I have no other friend; if I lose her, what a desart will the world be to me." "No other friend," re-echoed they, "have you not a husband?"

Chapter 12

He was frequently very thoughtful, or rather melancholy; this melancholy would of itself have attracted Mary's notice, if she had not found his conversation so infinitely superior to the rest of the group.

Chapter 13

She visited several convents, and found that solitude only eradicates some passions, to give strength to others; the most baneful ones.
In short, when they could be neither wives nor mothers, they aimed at being superiors, and became the most selfish creatures in the world: the passions that were cured gave strength to the appetites, or to those mean passions which only tend to provide for the gratification of them. Was this seclusion from the world? or did they conquer its vanities or avoid its vexations?
The exercise of her various virtues gave vigor to her genius, and dignity to her mind; she was sometimes inconsiderate, and violent; but never mean or cunning.

Chapter 14

Henry's illness was not alarming, it was rather pleasing, as it gave Mary an excuse to herself for shewing him how much she was interested about him; and giving little artless proofs of affection, which the purity of her heart made her never wish to restrain.
As reason is cultivated in man, they are supposed to grow weaker, and this may have given rise to the assertion, "That as judgment improves, genius evaporates."

Chapter 15

-- Ann! -- this dear friend was soon torn from her -- she died suddenly as Mary was assisting her to walk across the room. -- The first string was severed from her heart -- and this "slow, sudden death" disturbed her reasoning faculties; she seemed stunned by it; unable to reflect, or even to feel her misery.
She then sent to request the ladies to visit her; she wished to avoid a parade of grief -- her sorrows were her own, and appeared to her not to admit of increase or softening.

Chapter 16

Henry forgot his cautious reserve. "Would you allow me to call you friend?" said he in a hesitating voice.
"I have myself," said he, mournfully, "shaken hands with happiness, and am dead to the world; I wait patiently for my dissolution; but, for thee, Mary, there may be many bright days in store."
"I have told you already that I have been in love, and disappointed -- the object is now no more; let her faults sleep with her!
"My declining health prevented my taking orders, as I had intended; but I with warmth entered into literary pursuits; perhaps my heart, not having an object, made me embrace the substitute with more eagerness.
He then looked Mary full in the face; and, with the most insinuating accents, asked "if he might hope for her friendship? If she would rely on him as if he was her father; and that the tenderest father could not more anxiously interest himself in the fate of a darling child, than he did in her's."
Her heart longed to receive a new guest; there was a void in it: accustomed to have some one to love, she was alone, and comfortless, if not engrossed by a particular affection.
Could she set a seal to a hasty vow, and tell a deliberate lie; promise to love one man, when the image of another was ever present to her -- her soul revolted. "I might gain the applause of the world by such mock heroism; but should I not forfeit my own? forfeit thine, my father!"

Chapter 17

Once or twice she essayed to tell him that she was, in a few days, to depart; but she could not; she was irresolute; it will do to-morrow; should the wind change they could not sail in such a hurry; thus she thought, and insensibly grew more calm.

Chapter 18

She went on with eagerness. "My opinions on some subjects are not wavering; my pursuit through life has ever been the same: in solitude were my sentiments formed; they are indelible, and nothing can efface them but death -- No, death itself cannot efface them, or my soul must be created afresh, and not improved.
When passion enters the heart, it is only the return of affection that is sought after, and every other remembrance and wish is blotted out.

Chapter 19

She could not avoid spending the intermediate time with the ladies and Henry; and the trivial conversations she was obliged to bear a part in harassed her more than can be well conceived.
"Father of Mercies, compose this troubled spirit: do I indeed wish to be composed -- to forget my Henry!" the my, the pen was directly drawn across in agony.

Chapter 20

Every thing material must change; happiness and this fluctuating principle is not compatible. Eternity, immateriality, and happiness, -- what are ye? How shall I grasp the mighty and fleeting conceptions ye create?"
After writing, serenely she delivered her soul into the hands of the Father of Spirits; and slept in peace.

Chapter 21, p129

How short-lived was the calm! when the English coast was descried, her sorrows returned with redoubled vigor. -- She was the visit and comfort the mother of her lost friend -- And where then should she take up residence? These thoughts suspended the exertions of her understanding; abstracted reflections gave way to alarming apprehensions; and tenderness undermined fortitude.

Chapter 22

Not live with him! how will you live then? This was a question she could not answer; she had only about 80 pounds remaining, of the money she took with her to Lisbon; when it was exhausted where could she get more? I will work, she cried, do anything rather than be a slave.

Chapter 23

For some time she had observed, that she was not treated with the same respect as formerly; her favors were forgotten when no more were expected. This ingratitude hurt her, as did a similar instance in the woman who came out of the ship.
Mary, writing to herself,
"Surely life is a dream, a frightful one! and after those rude, disjointed images are fled, will light ever break in? Shall I ever feel joy? Do all suffer like me; or am I framed so as to be particularly susceptible to misery?

Chapter 24

She then returned home, and partook of the family meal, which was rendered more cheerful by the presence of a man, past the meridian of life, of polished manners, and dazzling wit.
He was humane, despised meanness; but was vain in his abilities, and by no means a useful member of society. He talked often of the beauty of virtue; but not having any solid foundation to build the practice on, he was only a shining, or rather a sparkling character: and though his fortune enabled him to hunt down pleasure, he was discontented.
Mary writing to herself,
"There are some subjects that are so enveloped in clouds, as you dissipate one, another overspreads it. Of this kind are our reasonings concerning happiness, till we are obliged to cry out with the Apostle, That it hath not entered the heart of man to conceive in what it could consist, or how satiety could be prevented.

Chapter 25

Henry arrives,
She caught his hand, and looking wistfully at him, exclaimed, "Indeed, you are not well!"
Mary receives a letter from her husband,
He informed her that he intended prolonging his tour, as he was now his own master, and wished to remain some time on the continent, and in particular to visit Italy without any restraint: but his reasons for it appeared childish; it was not to cultivate his taste, or tread on classic ground, where poets and philosophers caught their lore; but to join in the masquerades, and such burlesque amusements.
Some instances of Henry's affection, his worth and genius, were remembered: and the earth was only a vale of tears, because he was not to sojourn with her.

Chapter 26, p140

Mary drew still nearer to Henry; she wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him. -- She spoke not, but Henry saw the workings of her mind -- he felt them; threw his arm round her waist -- and they enjoyed the luxury of wretchedness.

Chapter 27

"Talk not of comfort," interrupted Mary, "it will be in heaven with thee and Ann -- while I shall remain on earth the veriest wretch!" -- She grasped his hand.
Where am I wondering, God of Mercy! she thought; she alluded to the wanderings of her mind. In what a labyrinth am I lost. What miseries have I already encountered -- and what a number lie still before me.

Chapter 28

Why should I conceal any thing from you? Last night my child made his mother his confident, and, in the anguish of his heart, requested me to be thy friend -- when I shall be childless.I will not attempt to describe what I felt when he talked thus to me. If I am to lose the support of my age, and be again a widow -- may I call her Child whom my Henry wishes me to adopt?"

Chapter 29

She knelt by the bedside; -- an enthusiastic devotion overcame the dictates of despair. -- She prayed most ardently to be supported, and dedicated herself to the service of that Being into whose hands, she had committed the spirit she almost adored -- again -- and again; -- she prayed wildly -- and fervently -- but attempting to touch the lifeless hand -- her head swum -- she sunk --

Chapter 30

But at last she conquered her disgust, and wrote her husband an account of what had passed since she had dropped his correspondence.
He came in person to answer the letter. Mary fainted when he approached her unexpectedly. Her disgust returned with additional force, in spite of previous reasonings, whenever he appeared; yet she was prevailed on to promise to live with him, if he would permit her to pass one year, travelling from place to place; he was not to accompany her.
She tried to appear calm; time mellowed her grief, and mitigated her torments; but when her husband would take her hand, or mention any thing like love, she would instantly feel a sickness, a faintness at her heart, and wish, involuntarily, that the earth would open up and swallow her.

Chapter 31

Her delicate state of health did not promise long life. In moments of solitary sadness, a gleam of joy would dart across her mind -- She thought she was hastening to that world where there is neither marrying, nor giving in marriage.