“‘Let some of our modern dispensers of unlettered wrath, before they condemn a trembling author to shame, and sometimes to despair, ask their own sapient heads if they could produce such books as their malice would consign to oblivion. Is there no punishment due to the being who wantonly destroys another’s hopes, and takes from talents, industry, and truth, the means of obtaining an honorable subsistence?’
“Well, Mum, you’ve certainly done it this time!” my daughter announced. “I shouldn’t wonder if the reviewers were to prove to you just how unchastened they are by your invective. You are brave indeed if you do not beware them after this.”
I widened my eyes, playing the innocent. “Remember, my darling, that in fiction there is always a distinction to be made between the opinions of the author and of the novel’s narrator.”
My two artistic careers fed upon each other: I brought the experiences of my theatrical background to my writing, taking my stage techniques to the page. In Walsingham I played many of the parts—all of them aspects of my own soul: the wronged and jilted woman who sacrifices herself for the object of her affections and has her bounteousness of spirit and liberalities of friendship taken advantage of; and the melancholy “child of nature” who discerns the falsity of his social betters and is made to suffer for preferring blunt truth to hypocrisy.
I believed profoundly that in the momentous times in which we dwelt the most powerful of the human race were men of letters, not men of title—those who could guide the pen and influence the country by the genuine language of truth and philanthropy. If only they would permit us women to join them—united, what mountains we should be able to move!
All through the summer of 1797, living almost exclusively at Englefield Cottage, my hours were chiefly devoted to writing Walsingham, though I confess my body was in astounding pain. Rheumatic complaints confined me to home twixt bed and couch; I lay in one or reclined upon the other, penning the pages as quickly as my cramped hands would permit. I sold my carriage, for I no longer had any need of it—travel anywhere was far too arduous for me; and besides, I could scarce afford the upkeep any longer. Although my physician had informed me that by exercise only could my existence be prolonged, the narrowness of my financial circumstances obliged me to forgo the only means by which it could be obtained.
In October, Walsingham went to auction. Longman outbid Hookham & Carpenter for the manuscript of the four-volume novel, paying one hundred and fifty pounds, a price that the press deemed almost unequaled for a work of the same species. How grand it felt, not only to receive such validation for my efforts but to extricate myself from debt! The novel that might just as well have been my confessional was published on December 7, 1797. The initial print run of a thousand copies was gone in a twinkling.
Another stroke of good fortune occurred: The Morning Post scooped the Oracle and began serializing Walsingham, swelling my popularity among the readers to such an extent that reprints of previous novels were demanded. My candles guttered well into the wee hours of the morning as I struggled to prepare so many new editions for the press, poring over each line, rewriting here and there to correct typographical errors or rephrase an inelegant sentence. Sometimes I’d even revise the content to keep the story current. The solitary activity, though it occupied my every hour, did not replace my craving for the society of others, particularly my witty philosopher friends, where our open exchange of ideas made me feel so keenly alive.
Miss Wollstonecraft and Mr. Godwin welcomed me into their circle of friends, which included other female writers, such as Amelia Opie and Elizabeth Inchbald. I was the only one, however, who had mingled among the nobility, and even when I was feeling low, Godwin would remark that I invariably added a dash of glamour to their salon. Though the room was filled with brilliant and incisive thinkers, I had inhabited a different world from them, and had at the outset of my career jettisoned all hope of being considered respectable gentry—though respect as an artist was everything I craved. No, I could never be deemed a lady because I blew my own trumpet; it did not satisfy me to raise my ink blotter before my person as if to shield my modesty and hide from public scrutiny.
Mr. Godwin and Miss Wollstonecraft had visited me frequently throughout 1796 and into the following year, though our acquaintance was rather abruptly cut short soon after Godwin broke his self-imposed vow of eternal bachelorhood and married Mary in March of 1797. Though I sensed she had initiated the termination of our visits out of jealousy that perhaps I held some sort of fascination for William—who did in fact regard me fondly, and once confessed I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—I nonetheless felt a renewed admiration for her. She had managed to effect what was thought to be impossible. And it soothed my heart like a balm to believe that love indeed possesses the power to change a person’s long-held credos.
But not too many months later—on September 10, 1797—Mary Wollstonecraft died of childbed fever. The world had lost one of its brightest and most promising luminaries—and modern women found themselves bereft of their finest champion. She and I were never two flowers on one stem; yet I’d felt anointed by her to carry on the legacy she had left behind, to wave the banner proclaiming the rights of women in front of everybody’s eyes until they could not help but read it.
In January 1798, four months after Mary’s death, William Godwin resumed our visits. He always found me scribbling with such a zealous intensity that my quill points snapped from puncturing the paper, leaving amorphous blots of ink in their wake.
I was
