In February of 1796, the poet Robert Merry, also known by his pen name Della Crusca, wrote to ask if I would allow him to present two of his dear friends, who he thought might provide my mind with some necessary stimulation, since Ban and I had increasingly little to say to one another. As several of my antislavery poems were being published in the popular papers and periodicals, my lover still argued on the floor of the House of Commons in favor of his family’s economic interests and that of other Liverpudlians in the traffic of human souls.
Naturally, I responded to Mr. Merry in the affirmative, and one day later that month, he paid a call on me in London.
Robert Merry, just three years my senior, looked old to me, making me feel rather antiquated myself. His once-dark curls were now grayish, and cut short, in the Titus-style ringlets so favored by his fellow Jacobins.
“Pray do not rise,” he exclaimed with a wink in my direction, knowing full well that crossing the room to greet him and our two guests was nigh impossible for me. “Allow me, Mrs. Robinson, to introduce my dear friend and radical sympathizer, William Godwin—the man who claimed he would rescue the Archbishop of Canterbury from a burning house before he would save his mother from the flames, on the grounds that His Grace had done more for the world to continue to deserve living in it.”
“I don’t quite know how one replies to such an introduction!” laughed Godwin, bending over my hand and bringing his lips to my fingers. He had tremendous élan as well as striking good looks, with a head like a handsome Roman orator, his skin pale nearly to the point of translucence. His eyes were the deep brown color of treacle, yet were lit from within by a tremendous intensity.
“And of course, his…”
“You may refer to me as his lover, Mr. Merry,” said my third guest.
“We were introduced only last month,” interjected Mr. Godwin.
Mr. Merry colored in embarrassment at his friend’s frankness. “And Miss Mary Wollstonecraft—author, of course, of—”
“A Vindication of the Rights of Women. Yes, I know.” I smiled, immensely gratified to make her acquaintance. “In fact, I have one of the first editions. I hope you won’t think me terribly gauche if I ask you to autograph it. I am a tremendous admirer of yours, Miss Wollstonecraft.”
How lovely to spend the day with a roomful of contemporaries, all of us between the ages of thirty-six and forty-one—to stretch the elastic muscles of the mind by indulging in good conversation.
“Dare I ask if you are penning another such provocative opus?” I asked Miss Wollstonecraft.
“I have indeed been hard at work, though I have not your gift of speed,” said Miss Wollstonecraft. “I am elbow-deep in The Wrongs of Women. No doubt you will have written three novels, a tragedy, a comic opera, and a volume of poetry before I have reached my last page. You are quite the prolific one.”
Did she mean it as a compliment or a jibe? I could not tell.
“William is composing a tragedy at present,” Miss Wollstonecraft added.
“Well, at present, I am enjoying Miss Robinson’s clove biscuits,” teased Mr. Godwin, grinning at Maria.
“You know quite well what I meant. For a philosopher, you can be dreadfully literal, you know.” She favored Mr. Godwin with the sparkling gaze of one newly in love. She had known the philosopher but a few weeks, and the spark between them could have ignited a bonfire.
Merry raised his eyebrows and glanced at me, as if to say, “A lovers’ quarrel, eh?” I endeavored to laugh at his comical expression.
“A tragedy, Mr. Godwin? Rather unusual territory for a philosopher and political scientist, nonetheless,” said I. “I do hope you are enjoying your exploration of the genre.”
“I fear nothing,” said Godwin boldly. “If I am to fail, at least I have made the endeavor. But the drama affords me yet another bully pulpit, if you will, from which to inculcate the public with my credos. You see, I believe our virtues and our vices may be traced to the incidents that make the history of our lives, and if these incidents could be divested of every improper tendency, vice would be extirpated from the world. I appreciate a story told in five acts; I find it cleansing to know that vice will be punished in the last one and that virtue will triumph.”
Mr. Godwin helped himself to another biscuit. He gazed at me so oddly, as if I and not Miss Wollstonecraft were the object of his ardor. I felt rather flattered, actually, and stole a glance at his lover, hoping she had not caught Mr. Godwin’s flirtatious look.
“I confess, Mrs. Robinson, being a helpless admirer of women who can boast of brains in addition to their obvious physical charms, I should like to call upon you from time to time, as you have far more experience with the genre than I, from both sides of the pit and the pen. If a humble suppliant may avail himself of your wisdom and experience…”
He’d made me laugh, longer and louder, and with more genuine feeling, than I had done in years. “You do me far too much honor, sir. I don’t deserve such encomiums. But I should be delighted to discuss the dramatist’s technique with you whenever you feel the urge to call upon me. It is not as
