Читать книгу Posthumous Works of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman - Mary Wollstonecraft - Страница 11

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Pity, and the forlorn ſeriouſneſs of adverſity, have both been conſidered as diſpoſitions favourable to love, while ſatirical writers have attributed the propenſity to the relaxing effect of idleneſs, what chance then had Maria of eſcaping, when pity, ſorrow, and ſolitude all conſpired to ſoften her mind, and nouriſh romantic wiſhes, and, from a natural progreſs, romantic expectations?

Maria was ſix-and-twenty. But, ſuch was the native ſoundneſs of her conſtitution, that time had only given to her countenance the character of her mind. Revolving thought, and exerciſed affections had baniſhed ſome of the playful graces of innocence, producing inſenſibly that irregularity of features which the ſtruggles of the underſtanding to trace or govern the ſtrong emotions of the heart, are wont to imprint on the yielding maſs. Grief and care had mellowed, without obſcuring, the bright tints of youth, and the thoughtfulneſs which reſided on her brow did not take from the feminine ſoftneſs of her features; nay, ſuch was the ſenſibility which often mantled over it, that ſhe frequently appeared, like a large proportion of her ſex, only born to feel; and the activity of her well-proportioned, and even almoſt voluptuous figure, inſpired the idea of ſtrength of mind, rather than of body. There was a ſimplicity ſometimes indeed in her manner, which bordered on infantine ingenuouſneſs, that led people of common diſcernment to underrate her talents, and ſmile at the flights of her imagination. But thoſe who could not comprehend the delicacy of her ſentiments, were attached by her unfailing ſympathy, ſo that ſhe was very generally beloved by characters of very different deſcriptions; ſtill, ſhe was too much under the influence of an ardent imagination to adhere to common rules.

There are miſtakes of conduct which at five-and-twenty prove the ſtrength of the mind, that, ten or fifteen years after, would demonſtrate its weakneſs, its incapacity to acquire a ſane judgment. The youths who are ſatiſfied with the ordinary pleaſures of life, and do not ſigh after ideal phantoms of love and friendſhip, will never arrive at great maturity of underſtanding; but if theſe reveries are cheriſhed, as is too frequently the caſe with women, when experience ought to have taught them in what human happineſs conſiſts, they become as uſeleſs as they are wretched. Beſides, their pains and pleaſures are ſo dependent on outward circumſtances, on the objects of their affections, that they ſeldom act from the impulſe of a nerved mind, able to chooſe its own purſuit.

Having had to ſtruggle inceſſantly with the vices of mankind, Maria's imagination found repoſe in pourtraying the poſſible virtues the world might contain. Pygmalion formed an ivory maid, and longed for an informing ſoul. She, on the contrary, combined all the qualities of a hero's mind, and fate preſented a ſtatue in which ſhe might enſhrine them.

We mean not to trace the progreſs of this paſſion, or recount how often Darnford and Maria were obliged to part in the midſt of an intereſting converſation. Jemima ever watched on the tip-toe of fear, and frequently ſeparated them on a falſe alarm, when they would have given worlds to remain a little longer together.

A magic lamp now ſeemed to be ſuſpended in Maria's priſon, and fairy landſcapes flitted round the gloomy walls, late ſo blank. Ruſhing from the depth of deſpair, on the ſeraph wing of hope, ſhe found herſelf happy.—She was beloved, and every emotion was rapturous.

To Darnford ſhe had not ſhown a decided affection; the fear of outrunning his, a ſure proof of love, made her often aſſume a coldneſs and indifference foreign from her character; and, even when giving way to the playful emotions of a heart juſt looſened from the frozen bond of grief, there was a delicacy in her manner of expreſſing her ſenſibility, which made him doubt whether it was the effect of love.

One evening, when Jemima left them, to liſten to the ſound of a diſtant footſtep, which ſeemed cautiouſly to approach, he ſeized Maria's hand—it was not withdrawn. They converſed with earneſtneſs of their ſituation; and, during the converſation, he once or twice gently drew her towards him. He felt the fragrance of her breath, and longed, yet feared, to touch the lips from which it iſſued; ſpirits of purity ſeemed to guard them, while all the enchanting graces of love ſported on her cheeks, and languiſhed in her eyes.

Jemima entering, he reflected on his diffidence with poignant regret, and, ſhe once more taking alarm, he ventured, as Maria ſtood near his chair, to approach her lips with a declaration of love. She drew back with ſolemnity, he hung down his head abaſhed; but lifting his eyes timidly, they met her's; ſhe had determined, during that inſtant, and ſuffered their rays to mingle. He took, with more ardour, reaſſured, a half-conſenting, half-reluctant kiſs, reluctant only from modeſty; and there was a ſacredneſs in her dignified manner of reclining her glowing face on his ſhoulder, that powerfully impreſſed him. Deſire was loſt in more ineffable emotions, and to protect her from inſult and ſorrow—to make her happy, ſeemed not only the firſt wiſh of his heart, but the moſt noble duty of his life. Such angelic confidence demanded the fidelity of honour; but could he, feeling her in every pulſation, could he ever change, could he be a villain? The emotion with which ſhe, for a moment, allowed herſelf to be preſſed to his boſom, the tear of rapturous ſympathy, mingled with a ſoft melancholy ſentiment of recollected diſappointment, ſaid—more of truth and faithfulneſs, than the tongue could have given utterance to in hours! They were ſilent—yet diſcourſed, how eloquently? till, after a moment's reflection, Maria drew her chair by the ſide of his, and, with a compoſed ſweetneſs of voice, and ſupernatural benignity of countenance, ſaid, "I muſt open my whole heart to you; you muſt be told who I am, why I am here, and why, telling you I am a wife, I bluſh not to"—the bluſh ſpoke the reſt.

Jemima was again at her elbow, and the reſtraint of her preſence did not prevent an animated converſation, in which love, ſly urchin, was ever at bo-peep.

So much of heaven did they enjoy, that paradiſe bloomed around them; or they, by a powerful ſpell, had been tranſported into Armida's garden. Love, the grand enchanter, "lapt them in Elyſium," and every ſenſe was harmonized to joy and ſocial extacy. So animated, indeed, were their accents of tenderneſs, in diſcuſſing what, in other circumſtances, would have been common-place ſubjects, that Jemima felt, with ſurpriſe, a tear of pleaſure trickling down her rugged cheeks. She wiped it away, half aſhamed; and when Maria kindly enquired the cauſe, with all the eager ſolicitude of a happy being wiſhing to impart to all nature its overflowing felicity, Jemima owned that it was the firſt tear that ſocial enjoyment had ever drawn from her. She ſeemed indeed to breathe more freely; the cloud of ſuſpicion cleared away from her brow; ſhe felt herſelf, for once in her life, treated like a fellow-creature.

Imagination! who can paint thy power; or reflect the evaneſcent tints of hope foſtered by thee? A deſpondent gloom had long obſcured Maria's horizon—now the ſun broke forth, the rainbow appeared, and every proſpect was fair. Horror ſtill reigned in the darkened cells, ſuſpicion lurked in the paſſages, and whiſpered along the walls. The yells of men poſſeſſed, ſometimes made them pauſe, and wonder that they felt ſo happy, in a tomb of living death. They even chid themſelves for ſuch apparent inſenſibility; ſtill the world contained not three happier beings. And Jemima, after again patrolling the paſſage, was ſo ſoftened by the air of confidence which breathed around her, that ſhe voluntarily began an account of herſelf.