Romantic Outlaws: The Extraordinary Lives of Mary Wollstonecraft and Her Daughter Mary Shelley by Charlotte Gordon

Author:Charlotte Gordon [Gordon, Charlotte]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8129-9651-7
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2015-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

Suicide had become more than an escape from suffering; it was a leap into eternal life. Feeling firm in her convictions and holding on to her vision of immortality, she took the night to organize her belongings and her papers. The next morning, October 10, she wrote a final letter to Gilbert, giving him instructions. Fanny should be sent back to France to be raised by Mary’s German friends, and Marguerite should be given Mary’s clothes. Gilbert must not punish the cook for betraying his location; Mary had compelled the poor woman to tell her the truth. After these details, Mary gave way to her feelings. “I would encounter a thousand deaths, rather than a night like the last.…I shall plunge myself into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.” In death she would find peace, she said, since she had behaved with virtue. He, on the other hand, would suffer torturous regret over how he had treated her. Her ghost would haunt him, reminding him of how far he had fallen: “in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you the victim of your deviation from rectitude.” Forever would he be the criminal. Forever would she be the victim. He had chosen money and worldly pursuits over sentiment and imagination. He had allowed himself to be dominated by selfish concerns, whereas she had been too finely wrought and too sensitive for a world ruled by “self interest.”

Dressed in her finest clothes, Mary kissed Fanny goodbye and left her with Marguerite. She walked to the Strand in the rain that had just begun to fall and hired a man to row her west to Putney, near where she had lived with Fanny Blood. As they went upriver, the weather worsened, the skies deepened, and by the time they reached their destination, the rain was coming down hard and the landing was deserted. Mary paid the boatman six shillings and climbed out, thanking him, as he remembered later. For the next half hour she walked back and forth along the river, stalling, perhaps, but also waiting for the boat to pull out of sight. By this time it was pouring and she was drenched, but soon she would be in the river and her wet skirts would help her sink.

She climbed the hill to the Putney Bridge, dropped her halfpenny in the tollbox, and headed across. Her hair dripped down the back of her neck. It was cold. But soon she would find comfort; she had to be patient, just as her mother had said on her deathbed. Halfway across the bridge, she climbed the railing and, without pausing, took the sickening plunge. As she went under, the river whirled her around, and Mary strained to stop breathing. She had not realized how difficult it would be to drown; she had pictured slipping into the embrace of death. But in reality it was hard work. Again and

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