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Maria, or the Wrongs of Woman-Part13_Mary Wollstonecraft(1759-1797)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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the porches of rude cottages, with their smiling hedges, were

recognized with the gladsome playfulness of childish vivacity.



I could have kissed the chickens that pecked on the common;

and longed to pat the cows, and frolic with the dogs that sported



on it. I gazed with delight on the windmill, and thought it lucky

that it should be in motion, at the moment I passed by; and entering



the dear green lane, which led directly to the village, the sound of

the well-known rookery gave that sentimental tinge to the varying



sensations of my active soul, which only served to heighten the

lustre of the luxuriantscenery. But, spying, as I advanced, the



spire, peeping over the withered tops of the aged elms that composed

the rookery, my thoughts flew immediately to the churchyard, and



tears of affection, such was the effect of my imagination, bedewed

my mother's grave! Sorrow gave place to devotional feelings.



I wandered through the church in fancy, as I used sometimes to do on

a Saturday evening. I recollected with what fervour I addressed



the God of my youth: and once more with rapturous love looked above

my sorrows to the Father of nature. I pause--feeling forcibly all



the emotions I am describing; and (reminded, as I register my

sorrows, of the sublime calm I have felt, when in some tremendous



solitude, my soul rested on itself, and seemed to fill the universe)

I insensibly breathe soft, hushing every wayward emotion, as if



fearing to sully with a sigh, a contentment so extatic.

"Having settled my father's affairs, and, by my exertions in



his favour, made my brother my sworn foe, I returned to London.

My husband's conduct was now changed; I had during my absence,



received several affectionate, penitential letters from him; and

he seemed on my arrival, to wish by his behaviour to prove his



sincerity. I could not then conceive why he acted thus; and, when

the suspicion darted into my head, that it might arise from observing



my increasing influence with my uncle, I almost despised myself

for imagining that such a degree of debasing selfishness



could exist.

"He became, unaccountable as was the change, tender and



attentive; and, attacking my weak side, made a confession of his

follies, and lamented the embarrassments in which I, who merited



a far different fate, might be involved. He besought me to aid

him with my counsel, praised my understanding, and appealed to the



tenderness of my heart.

"This conduct only inspired me with compassion. I wished to



be his friend; but love had spread his rosy pinions and fled far,

far away; and had not (like some exquisite perfumes, the fine spirit



of which is continually mingling with the air) left a fragrance

behind, to mark where he had shook his wings. My husband's renewed



caresses then became hateful to me; his brutality was tolerable,

compared to his distastefulfondness. Still, compassion, and the



fear of insulting his supposed feelings, by a want of sympathy,

made me dissemble, and do violence to my delicacy. What a task!



"Those who support a system of what I term false refinement,

and will not allow great part of love in the female, as well as



male breast, to spring in some respects involuntarily, may not

admit that charms are as necessary to feed the passion, as virtues



to convert the mellowing spirit into friendship. To such observers

I have nothing to say, any more than to the moralists, who insist



that women ought to, and can love their husbands, because it is

their duty. To you, my child, I may add, with a heart tremblingly



alive to your future conduct, some observations, dictated by my

present feelings, on calmly reviewing this period of my life. When



novelists or moralists praise as a virtue, a woman's coldness of

constitution, and want of passion; and make her yield to the ardour



of her lover out of sheer compassion, or to promote a frigid plan

of future comfort, I am disgusted. They may be good women, in the



ordinary acceptation of the phrase, and do no harm; but they appear

to me not to have those 'finely fashioned nerves,' which render






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