and let ‘to
follow her own imaginations,’ that the fallacy of her doctrines and the effects of an irreligious conduct might be manifested
to the world.” Others were appalled that Godwin could expose his dead wife to such scorn. Wollstonecraft’s friend William
Roscoe wrote:
Hard was thy fate in all the scenes of life,
As daughter, sister, parent, friend and wife
But harder still in death thy fate we own,
Mourn’d by thy Godwin—with a heart of stone.
Wollstonecraft’s reputation would remain tarnished by Godwin’s
Memoirs
until the middle of the twentieth century. Wollstonecraft’s ideas of equality were so severely mocked by critics of Godwin’s
intended memorial that subsequently feminists would choose narrower goals, such as suffrage for women, rather than the broad
demand for equal rights that Wollstonecraft had recommended. Though her daughter did not read the criticisms at the time they
were published, she became aware of them, and even suffered personally. The
Memoirs
and her mother’s reputation for immoral sexual behavior gave little Mary an unsavory notoriety even as a child. The world
truly was aware of her before she was aware of the world.
G
odwin was truly shocked by the response to his tribute, and it deepened his sorrow and depression over his wife’s death. Having
enjoyed his marriage, and wanting to find a mother for his two children, Godwin began to court a Mrs. Elwes, a widow, in the
spring of 1799. His attentions cooled when he learned that his neighbor Maria Reveley’s husband had died, and Godwin proposed
to her. Though she had enjoyed caring for the children, she had no desire to marry Godwin. When he shifted his attentions
back to Mrs. Elwes, she also turned him down. Next he tried to revive a friendship with the writer Elizabeth Inchbald by sending
her an advance copy of his novel
St. Leon
with a note asking to visit her. She answered that she could only see him in company. “While I retain the memory of all your
good qualities,” she wrote, “I trust you will allow me not to forget your bad ones.” This was hardly the response that Godwin
had hoped for; worse yet, she enclosed an unfavorable critique of the book. Godwin was crushed—so depressed that he could
barely go outside. He wrote in his journal, “This day I was desirous of calling on someone, to learn more exactly the character
of the book, but had not the courage . . . to look an acquaintance in the face.”
Godwin’s declining fame and influence brought about a loss of self-confidence that led to the deterioration of his health.
The first symptoms were seen at Johnson’s dinner parties, where he would drop off to sleep or lose consciousness. It was the
onset of narcolepsy, which would worsen over the years. During an attack, he would lose control of his muscles, his jaw would
drop, his legs lose their strength, and then he would crumple into sleep. He had the first of these fits in February 1800,
and they would recur sporadically for the rest of his life.
Some of his old friends now were shunning him for political reasons. The French Revolution which he so admired had mutated
into an aggressive nationalistic crusade. French troops were fighting successfully all over Europe, and in England as well
as other countries, revolutionary supporters such as Godwin were reviled. Godwin was spat on in the street—to many English,
he represented atheism, sexual immorality, and treason.
He was no less hard on himself than others were. In 1798, he made a personal assessment of his character:
I am tormented about the opinion others may entertain of me; fearful of intruding myself, and cooperating in my own humiliation
. . . and by my fear producing the thing I fear. . . . This, and perhaps only this, renders me often cold, uninviting and
unconciliating in society. . . . My nervous character . . . often deprives me of self possession, when I should repel injury
or
follow her own imaginations,’ that the fallacy of her doctrines and the effects of an irreligious conduct might be manifested
to the world.” Others were appalled that Godwin could expose his dead wife to such scorn. Wollstonecraft’s friend William
Roscoe wrote:
Hard was thy fate in all the scenes of life,
As daughter, sister, parent, friend and wife
But harder still in death thy fate we own,
Mourn’d by thy Godwin—with a heart of stone.
Wollstonecraft’s reputation would remain tarnished by Godwin’s
Memoirs
until the middle of the twentieth century. Wollstonecraft’s ideas of equality were so severely mocked by critics of Godwin’s
intended memorial that subsequently feminists would choose narrower goals, such as suffrage for women, rather than the broad
demand for equal rights that Wollstonecraft had recommended. Though her daughter did not read the criticisms at the time they
were published, she became aware of them, and even suffered personally. The
Memoirs
and her mother’s reputation for immoral sexual behavior gave little Mary an unsavory notoriety even as a child. The world
truly was aware of her before she was aware of the world.
G
odwin was truly shocked by the response to his tribute, and it deepened his sorrow and depression over his wife’s death. Having
enjoyed his marriage, and wanting to find a mother for his two children, Godwin began to court a Mrs. Elwes, a widow, in the
spring of 1799. His attentions cooled when he learned that his neighbor Maria Reveley’s husband had died, and Godwin proposed
to her. Though she had enjoyed caring for the children, she had no desire to marry Godwin. When he shifted his attentions
back to Mrs. Elwes, she also turned him down. Next he tried to revive a friendship with the writer Elizabeth Inchbald by sending
her an advance copy of his novel
St. Leon
with a note asking to visit her. She answered that she could only see him in company. “While I retain the memory of all your
good qualities,” she wrote, “I trust you will allow me not to forget your bad ones.” This was hardly the response that Godwin
had hoped for; worse yet, she enclosed an unfavorable critique of the book. Godwin was crushed—so depressed that he could
barely go outside. He wrote in his journal, “This day I was desirous of calling on someone, to learn more exactly the character
of the book, but had not the courage . . . to look an acquaintance in the face.”
Godwin’s declining fame and influence brought about a loss of self-confidence that led to the deterioration of his health.
The first symptoms were seen at Johnson’s dinner parties, where he would drop off to sleep or lose consciousness. It was the
onset of narcolepsy, which would worsen over the years. During an attack, he would lose control of his muscles, his jaw would
drop, his legs lose their strength, and then he would crumple into sleep. He had the first of these fits in February 1800,
and they would recur sporadically for the rest of his life.
Some of his old friends now were shunning him for political reasons. The French Revolution which he so admired had mutated
into an aggressive nationalistic crusade. French troops were fighting successfully all over Europe, and in England as well
as other countries, revolutionary supporters such as Godwin were reviled. Godwin was spat on in the street—to many English,
he represented atheism, sexual immorality, and treason.
He was no less hard on himself than others were. In 1798, he made a personal assessment of his character:
I am tormented about the opinion others may entertain of me; fearful of intruding myself, and cooperating in my own humiliation
. . . and by my fear producing the thing I fear. . . . This, and perhaps only this, renders me often cold, uninviting and
unconciliating in society. . . . My nervous character . . . often deprives me of self possession, when I should repel injury
or
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