1794, and on May 14 she gave birth to a girl, whom she named Frances in memory of Fanny Blood, the friend of her youth. There is every evidence throughout her letters to Imlay of how tenderly she loved the little one. In a letter to Everina, dated from Paris on September 20, she speaks thus of little Fanny:
“I want you to see my little girl, who is more like a boy. She is ready to fly away with spirits, and has eloquent health in her cheeks and eyes. She does not promise to be a beauty, but appears wonderfully intelligent, and though I am sure she has her father’s quick temper and feelings, her good humour runs away with all the credit of my good nursing.”
In September Imlay left Havre for London, and now that the Terror had subsided Mary returned to Paris. This separation really meant the end of their camaraderie. They were to meet again, but never on the old footing. The journey proved the most fatiguing that she ever made, the carriage in which she travelled breaking down four times between Havre and Paris. Imlay promised to come to Paris in the course of two months, and she expected him till the end of the year with cheerfulness. With the press of business and other distractions his feelings for her and the child had cooled, as the tone of his letters betrayed. For three months longer Imlay put her off with unsatisfactory explanations, but her suspense came to an end in April, when she went to London at his request. Her gravest forebodings proved too true. Imlay was already living with a young actress belonging to a company of strolling players; and it was evident, though at first he protested to the contrary, that Mary was only a second consideration in his life. He provided her, however, with a furnished house, and she did not at once abandon hope of a reconciliation: but when she realised that hope was useless, in her despair she resolved to take her life. Whether she actually attempted suicide, or whether Imlay learnt of her intention in time to prevent her, is not actually known. Imlay was at this time engaged in trade with Norway, and requiring a trustworthy representative to transact some confidential business, it was thought that the journey would restore Mary’s health and spirits. She therefore consented to take the voyage, and set out early in April 1795, with a document drawn up by Imlay appointing her as his representative, and describing her as “Mary Imlay, my best friend, and wife,” and concluding: “Thus, confiding in the talent, zeal, and earnestness of my dearly beloved friend and companion; I submit the management of these affairs entirely and implicitly to her discretion: Remaining most sincerely and affectionately hers truly, G. Imlay.”
The letters describing her travels, excluding any personal matters, were issued in 1796, as “Letters from Sweden and Norway,” one of her most readable books. The portions eliminated from these letters were printed by Godwin in his wife’s posthumous works, and are given in the present volume. She returned to England early in October with a heavy heart. Imlay had promised to meet her on the homeward journey, possibly at Hamburg, and to take her to Switzerland, but she hastened to London to find her suspicions confirmed. He provided her with a lodging, but entirely neglected her for some woman with whom he was living. On first making the discovery of his fresh intrigue, and in her agony of mind, she sought Imlay at the house he had furnished for his new companion. The conference resulted in her utter despair, and she decided to drown herself. She first went to Battersea Bridge, but found too many people there; and therefore walked on to Putney. It was night and raining when she arrived there, and after wandering up and down the bridge for half-an-hour until her clothing was thoroughly drenched she threw herself into the river. She was, however, rescued from the water and, although unconscious, her life was saved.
Mary met Imlay casually on two or three other occasions; probably her last sight of him was in the New Road (now Marylebone Road), when “he alighted from his horse, and walked with her some time; and the re-encounter passed,” she assured Godwin, “without producing in her any oppressive emotion.” Mary refused to accept any pecuniary assistance for herself from Imlay, but he gave a bond for a sum to be settled on her, the interest to be devoted to the maintenance of their child; neither principal nor interest, however, was ever paid. What ultimately became of Imlay is not known.
Mary at length resigned herself to the inevitable. Her old friend and publisher, Mr. Johnson, came to her aid, and she resolved to resume her literary work for the support of herself and her child. She was once more seen in literary society. Among the people whom she met at this time was William Godwin. Three years her senior, he was one of the most advanced republicans of the time, the author of “Political Justice” and the novel “Caleb Williams.” They had met before, for the first time in November 1791, but she displeased Godwin, because her vivacious gossip silenced the naturally quiet Thomas Paine, whom he was anxious to hear talk. Although they met occasionally afterwards, it was not until 1796 that they became friendly. There must have been something about Godwin that made him extremely attractive to his friends, for he numbered among them some of the most charming women of the day, and such men as Wordsworth, Lamb, Hazlitt, and Shelley were proud to be of his circle. To the members of his family he was of a kind, even affectionate, disposition. Unfortunately, he appears to the worst advantage—a kind of early Pecksniff—in his later correspondence and relations with Shelley, and it is by this correspondence at the present day that he is best known. The fine side-face portrait of Godwin by Northcote, in the National Portrait Gallery, preserves for us all the beauty of his intellectual brow and eyes. Another portrait of Godwin, full-face, with a long sad nose, by Pickersgill, once to be seen in the National Portrait Gallery, is not so pleasing. In a letter to Cottle, Southey gives an unflattering portrait of Godwin at the time of his marriage, which seems to suggest the full-face portrait of the philosopher—“he has large noble eyes, and a nose—oh, most abominable nose! Language is not vituperatious enough to describe the effect of its downward elongation.”
Godwin describes his courtship with Mary as “friendship melting into love.” They agreed to live together, but Godwin took rooms about twenty doors from their home in the Polygon, Somers Town, as it was one of his theories that living together under the same roof is destructive of family happiness. Godwin went to his rooms as soon as he rose in the morning, generally without taking breakfast with Mary, and he sometimes slept at his lodgings. They rarely met again until dinner-time, unless to take a walk together. During the day this extraordinary couple would communicate with each other by means of short letters or notes. Mr. Kegan Paul prints some of these; such as Godwin’s:
“I will have the honour to dine with you. You ask me whether I can get you four orders. I do not know, but I do not think the thing impossible. How do you do?”
And Mary’s: “Fanny is delighted with the thought of dining with you. But I wish you to eat your meat first, and let her come up with the pudding. I shall probably knock at your door on my way to Opie’s; but should I not find you, let me request you not to be too late this evening. Do not give Fanny butter with her pudding.” This note is dated April 20, 1797, and probably fixes the time when Mary was sitting for her portrait to Opie.
On the whole, Godwin and Mary lived happily together, with very occasional clouds, mainly due to her over-sensitive nature, and his confirmed bachelor habits.
Although both were opposed to matrimony on principle, they were married at Old St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797, the clerk of the church being witness. Godwin does not mention the event in his carefully registered diary. The reason for the marriage was that Mary was about to become a mother, and it was for the sake of the child that they deemed it prudent to go through the ceremony. But it was not made public at once, chiefly for fear that Johnson should cease to help Mary. Mrs. Inchbald and Mrs. Reveley, two of Godwin’s admirers, were so upset at the announcement of his marriage that they shed tears.
An interesting description of Mary at this time is given in Southey’s letter to Cottle, quoted above, dated March 13, 1797. He says, “Of all the lions or literati I have seen here, Mary Imlay’s countenance is the best, infinitely the best: the only fault in it is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke display—an expression indicating superiority; not haughtiness, not sarcasm, in Mary Imlay, but still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are light brown, and although the lid of one of them is affected by a little paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw.”
Mary busied herself with literary work; otherwise her short married life was uneventful. Godwin made a journey with his friend Basil Montagu to Staffordshire from June