“I’m guessing that person is not you,” I said.
“And I’m guessing it’s not you, either.”
My ideas about sex, I knew, were still mostly theoretical. Here was a man who was the furthest thing from it. He was flesh and feeling, and inviting me, directly and without pretense, to share mine with him, as his equal. I was thirty-three years old, on the verge of thirty-four. I felt the pull of Imlay strongly, wanted to believe in him, yet still resisted, maybe because Helen Maria whispered in my ear, “Be careful of that one, you know, he’s got a woman in every port.” And though everyone seemed to adore him, without exception, I took gingerly steps.
Then Tom Paine invited me for dinner at a hotel in the elegant Faubourg Saint-Denis to meet a woman younger than I was—Anne-Josèphe Théroigne de Méricourt—a failed singer-turned-courtesan, turned-militant-and-legend. She had a Jeanne d’Arc sort of beauty, wild-cropped dark hair framing her heart-shaped face, a great crown of white ribbons, and a rose at her breast.
“I’ve heard that in the march on Versailles,” I said, “you led the charge in a red riding coat on a black horse, sword in hand and pistols ready.”
“Oh, I’d heard a white riding habit and round-brimmed hat,” she said, with a flashing smile. “In fact I spent most of the night in bed, depressed, though I did go to the palace next day to watch the royal family removed and marched to Paris. A sobering sight.”
“But Théroigne has a plan to form a legion of Amazons to fight for Paris and the Revolution,” said Paine. “Don’t doubt she’ll do it.”
“Women must bear arms, same as men,” she said. “That’s what will make us citizens.”
“I wish men would turn their bayonets into pruning hooks, and give up war altogether,” I said.
“We must compete on their field. They won’t give it to us any other way. Deep down, the spectacle of a liberated woman terrifies men. They’d rather make monsters or whores of us all.”
“We want the same thing,” I said. “But not so we can be more like men. I’d prefer they be more like us, frankly—in our truest form.”
“Are there no ‘manly’ virtues you would want for us?”
“Reason. Moral rightness. Strength, courage. The same as I want for all people. Based on education, not birth or status or title.”
“Don’t you believe in heroism?” said Paine, enjoying our parrying with each other.
“I do, but war doesn’t teach men heroic virtues. It’s right to defend your own country under attack, but most wars are fought for financial gain, and valorize greed. A soldier is trained in cunning and artifice.”
“Exactly how women seduce men,” Théroigne said with a wink.
“Yes. How easily private tyrannies become public ones.”
Théroigne leaned forward, her beatific face now fierce. “But we too wish to gain a civic crown, Wollstonecraft, and the right to die for our liberty, which might be dearer to us than to men, since our sufferings under despots have been greater.”
“But who decides who will die? Those with power.”
“Then let us wrest the power away, by any means. We’re in a battle for our lives.”
I was taken with her, as Paine knew I would be, and in the middle of May, insisted that Imlay come with me to see her speak about the rights of women on the Terrasse des Feuillants in the Garden of the Tuileries. I knew he would feel about her as I did.
“Let us raise ourselves to the height of our destinies; let us break our chains!” she yelled to the crowd, in her tight cropped jacket, full skirt, sash, and sword. “But let us also stop and think how we will wield our power, or else we are lost!”
I turned my head to watch Imlay watch her. Even when he was in profile, all his feelings were on display. He turned to me with a conspiratorial smile, his eyes brimming with excitement. Here was a man not threatened but thrilled by the “spectacle of a liberated woman.” But when he turned back to watch her, I saw his mouth gape in horror. Market women in red pantaloons and caps, who’d terrorized the streets for weeks, were pushing their way to the front, arms raised, with stones in their fists. The first stone flew over Théroigne’s head, the next missed her by a sliver, but then she took a direct hit to the forehead, blood dripping down her nose and into her hair. The women breached the steps, knocking her down. I lost sight of her, but Imlay, taller than I was, could still see. He grabbed my hand.
“We have to get out of here. Now!”
“There’s no one to save her,” I said. “Is anyone even trying?” But I knew he was right. Most of the crowd seemed to be staying, some shouting, others watching wide-eyed with their hands on their mouths. Imlay steered me through, with as much courtesy as he could, but I could feel the force of his hand, and when some of the crowd started to turn and flee, he stepped up his pace. I was panting and frightened, fearful for Théroigne, whom we were abandoning to her fate.
“Please tell me!” I yelled. “What were they doing to her?”
“Just hurry, Wollstonecraft. Can you walk faster?”
I tried to keep up with him, holding my skirt with one hand, but I tripped over someone else’s feet and nearly went down. I felt Imlay catch me under the arm; he pulled me closer and quickened to a run. When we were finally well clear of the crowd, we found a bench and he sat me down on it. My lungs were fanning, but I couldn’t catch my breath. Standing in front of me, as if keeping watch, he wiped his forearm across his brow.
“You’re pale as a sheet. Are you all right?”
“I feel dizzy and faint,” I said, with both hands on my hair. “And I’ve lost my hat.” I didn’t care about the hat, but it made me feel vulnerable.
“Better your hat than your head. Here, put it between your legs.”
He sat beside me as I began to find my breath again, patted my back with touching concern.
“It’ll be better soon. Is it better?”
I nodded, but I couldn’t get the image out of my mind, Théroigne, so vivid and brave a person I’d met just days ago, standing on the terrace like a wounded child trying to grasp what was happening.
“Deep breaths,” said Imlay.
“What were they doing to her?” I said. “You have to tell me.”
“Just breathe.”
Finally I sat up. I had to know. He could see it in my eyes.
“They were tearing off her clothes,” he said. I saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. He gripped his hat in his hand. “And smashing her skull with stones.”
My chest collapsed. I covered my eyes with my hands, but it didn’t take the image away.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
“We are lost,” I said. “She was right.”
I don’t remember how long we sat like that, in stunned silence, me blinking back burning tears. What I do remember, little bird, is the breeze through my hair, how soft it was on my cheeks, delicate and calm. For a moment I couldn’t comprehend how those things could live side by side, the awful and the sublime. But in time Imlay peeled away my hands and took them in his. I looked into his sad eyes, and saw that he was as shaken as I was.
That was the day we couldn’t be parted, not for anything.
He took me to his apartment in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, up a winding staircase, and into a series of rooms with warm parquet floors, all the walls, doors, even shutters painted a perfect robin’s-egg blue. It had begun to rain. Imlay lit a candelabra, took my hand, and led me to his bed. We fell into it wordlessly, but with complete understanding. We both wanted, needed, an act of love to erase the hate we’d just witnessed, still raw in our minds. There was no desperation in it (that would come later), but an abiding kindness between us. His eyes glimmered with sympathy, his kisses were softer than soft. Imlay was at ease in his body, and he made me at ease in mine. Together we made ourselves a place of safety.
We were soon tangled in bed linens, both spent, my hair spilled across the pillow, our skin moist with sweat. I reached my hand to the dappled light from the c
urtained window. He pressed his palm to mine, lined our fingers edge to edge. The carnelian stone in my ring seemed lit from within. Imlay spun it round on my finger.
“From a former lover?”
“You, the jealous sort?”
“The interested sort,” he said, and asked with his eyes if he could slip the ring off my finger. I let him do it, let him try it on, but it only went as far as his first knuckle.
“You can’t have it,” I said, turning toward him. “It’s all I have left.”
“Oh,” he said, with a crease in his brow. “Dead, then?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” He laid his head on the pillow to face mine. Except for two ravines from his cheek to his jaw where he smiled, his skin was taut and burnished by sun, the most perfect golden brown. His strong chin sprouted flecks of brown and white.
I felt the indentation the ring had left at the base of my finger, studied the thin circle of white skin. “Strange. I haven’t had it off since that day.”
He replaced the ring with a light touch. “You must have loved him very much.”
“Her,” I said. “I loved her. Very much.” Fanny still, after all this time, made tears fall from my eyes. Imlay caught one on his finger, and put it on his tongue.
“Hmm. Salt,” he said. “I guess you’re human after all.”
“What else would I be?”
“I don’t know, Mary. I’ve never met a human quite like you.”
It undid my proud heart to hear him call me by my given name. All the shame of loving, unloved, all my agony, I forgot. Within two weeks I was Imlay’s “dear girl.” When I chanced to catch myself in a mirror, I could see a luster in my eyes, my own cheeks the color of rose petals, and just as smooth. I heard cheerfulness in my voice, and felt a kind of universal love of everyone. Helen Maria told me my smile was bewitching, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d win every heart and soul down to the last man or woman in Paris.
A Frenchwoman who’d read my second Vindication and wanted to impress me told me she thought love affairs silly and demeaning for both parties, not worth the effort, and certainly not the drama that inevitably ensued. How could I tell her that I now disavowed myself? Fuseli was right after all. Passionate sex was an elemental ingredient of being human. But it was the union of two hearts, the joining of love with lovemaking, that mattered. At last I was part of the Revolution, an adventurer with Imlay in building a relationship between a man and woman, a love affair between equals. Where Fuseli was the tinder and spark, Imlay was my raging fire.
“Tant pis pour vous,” I said to the Frenchwoman. Too bad for you.
* * *
When eighty thousand Parisians marched at the end of May to protest the price of bread, they demanded the moderates be kicked out and the Jacobins take over. Many of our friends faced arrest; it was announced that all resident aliens had to chalk their names on their doors. I knew my hosts would be accused of harboring me, so installed myself in a small house three miles out of Paris, in Neuilly, where I might escape being spied upon.
The cottage was snug, with thick stucco walls, a stone hearth, low beamed ceilings. It was furnished, but I bought myself a simple walnut writing desk, where I read and wrote during the day. In the afternoons I took long walks in nearby forests and fields, reveling in Nature and breathing its cleansing air. My principal company was an old gardener, who wanted to do everything for me, even make my bed and bring me grapes—the best ones he saved for me. He warned me against the brigands and vagabonds who hid in the woods, but I felt untouchable.
Imlay was my night visitor. I would meet him at the gates of the city as soon as the sun started down, both of us full of hungry kisses. Every evening was a celebration of our closeness. We enacted our ritual, in all its varieties, and then with a candle, a plate of grapes, and rarely a stitch of clothes between us, quizzed each other about near everything. Sometimes all the way to morning.
“Surely, we can find something to disagree about,” he said, pulling me close.
“Well, I’ve had an anonymous letter warning me that you’re some sort of spy or other, and that I should steer clear. Imlay’s nothing but trouble, was the message. Though they didn’t say exactly which side you’re on.”
“There are so many to choose from.”
I laughed and pulled one of his books off the table by my bed. “It’s said that you couldn’t possibly have written this, Mr. Imlay, or a novel to boot, and that they are merely a cover for more nefarious activities.” I flicked the pages in his face, which made him laugh too. He took the book and read the title page, pretending it was the first time:
“A Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North America, Containing a Succinct Account of Its Climate, Natural History, Population, Agriculture, Manners and Customs—What a colossal achievement!”
“To my point,” I said.
“Yes. How could one man possibly have accomplished so much, and in only one book?”
“This is one of my favorite passages,” I said, taking it from his hand and turning to a page I’d marked, “which ought to be familiar to—whoever wrote it.”
He crossed his arms under his head and lay back to listen.
“‘Here an eternal verdure reigns,’” I read, “‘and the brilliant sun pierces through the azure heavens—’”
“Soul of a poet,” he said. “Couldn’t possibly be me.”
“‘Flowers full and perfect, with all the variegated charms which color and nature can produce, decorate the smiling groves—’”
“He’s very good,” said Imlay. “Do go on.”
“‘Soft zephyrs gently breathe and the air gives a voluptuous glow of health and vigor that ravishes the intoxicated senses—’”
I stopped, because what had begun as a joke between us, these written words, now moved me greatly. Imlay turned his head to look at me. I found it hard to go on.
“And the sweet songsters of the forests,” he recited from memory, “warble their tender notes in unison with love and nature.”
I was speechless. Not because I doubted him, I didn’t. But because he was gorgeous to me in that moment, a revelation. I had never met a human quite like him.
“I love you, Mary. I don’t want to be without you. When all this madness is done here, I want us to be together, in America. To build a life there. Our life there.”
My happiness was beyond anything I’d dared imagine. We had long, quiet evenings, read aloud to each other, forged plans for a simple cottage with a garden on the banks of the Ohio River, where we would write and study, argue for our causes. We slept skin to skin.
Then one day he wrote me, apologizing that he couldn’t come that night, with business to attend to early the next day. How quickly despair fills every cranny of doubt, little bird. They were old feelings, I knew, but so near to my surface that I couldn’t keep them down. Trying to flee my fears, which I knew to be irrational, I walked eleven miles the next day to Versailles, never having seen it with my own eyes. It seemed important to the book I was writing for Johnson, important as a human being telling the tale.
The day was warm, with gray tufted clouds dulling the light. I was surprised to find myself the only person in the deserted palace, walking alone through its grand salons, one for war, one for peace, the Galerie des Glaces with its arcaded mirrors facing the windows that looked out on the gardens. The fountains were dry. Grass choked everything. Flowers spilled over their weed-ridden beds. Hedges that had been tamed and coerced into grotesque shapes to please the human eye seemed to displease Nature, which now made a mockery of them. But stranger still was to stroll the enfilade of the king’s and queen’s separate apartments, seven rooms each, distinguished by the color of their flocked wallpaper and matching damask drapes, blue, then green, then gold, then salmon, and on and on, with framed portraits, and paintings on the ceilings of the Roman gods, male for him, female for her. A thick layer of dust sat on the gilded furniture, the beds closed up in their heavy cur
tains. The air was chill, with dampness stealing inside. Moss and mold crept over the window frames.
It was twenty times a Mitchelstown, a hundred times as sad.
“You don’t know the pleasure it gives me imagining the day when we can live together,” I told Imlay the next evening when he met me at the gates, restoring my faith. “And how many plans I have, thinking of our cozy cottage, simple garden, why, even our chickens will be convivial.”
He had a pained look on his face.
“What have I said?”
“It’ll take time, Mary. And money. Lots of money. I’ve a scheme for it, but you must be patient.”
“Everyone always tells me to be patient. Patience be damned! My heart’s found peace in you, and hope in our plan.”
He took my hand when I reached for his, but the rest of his body went rigid. “Can’t that be enough? For now? You’re so quick to feel and say everything. I can hardly keep up sometimes.”
I felt a shiver in my heart, a fleeting sense that I would lose him. I knew I couldn’t bear it. “Of course. Your dear girl will wait. I promise.”
He kissed my forehead and retired to bed alone.
I vowed to myself not to press him, knowing my ardor might drive him away. I was terrified to need him as much as I did, and to think that he didn’t need me. How could we be equals if our feelings were not the same, if the experience of our union did not equate one to the other? And when his visits to Neuilly lessened—he claimed to be all consumed by his new business scheme—a familiar melancholy was my companion instead. He asked me to give him time, to believe in him, to try to control my feelings, but it was a gargantuan effort.
One evening I went to our meeting place at the gate, but he didn’t come, nor had he written to say he wouldn’t. I fretted all night, woke early, and took my chances going inside the city gates to find him. The rain ran almost like rivers in the streets. Wet all over and frantic, I didn’t realize until too late that I’d cut near the Place de la Révolution, where executions proceeded daily, in front of a wild, ogling mob. I found myself in front of the Cabaret de la Guillotine. People streamed past me, some with picnic baskets despite the squall. Hawkers sold blade-and-timber souvenirs, people passed out programs with the names of that day’s victims. I’d stumbled into a ghastly carnival scene that only intensified my panic. I looked down to see my boots awash in blood, a river of its own, all the way from its macabre source.
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