by Rory Maddinson
Mary: A Fiction is a deeply psychological text that describes, as Wollstonecraft writes in her opening Advertisement, “the mind of a woman” (76). Central to understanding Mary’s mind, and hence the text as a whole, is the concept of compassion. Mary’s identity is tied to her need for a compassionate object. Rooted in her neglectful and traumatic childhood, Mary’s compassion acts as a catalyst both for her actions in the text, and for her changing mentality. In particular, compassion influences her relationships with her mother, Ann, Henry, and even the wider public. She uses compassion to help ground her sense of self, but is ultimately left at the end of the text with “a void” (148) in her heart as she comes to the realisation that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral and fleeting.
For a text that is preoccupied with compassion, Mary: A Fiction starts with a remarkable lack of it. Growing up, Mary was “neglected in every respect” (82) by her parents. Her mother felt “very few sentiments of maternal tenderness” (82) towards Mary, and referred to her as “the awkward thing” (82) that should be sent away. Meanwhile, her father was “very tyrannical and passionate” (83), so much so that Mary was “continually in dread” (83) that he might “frighten her mother to death” (83). Clearly, Mary grew up in a household that was notable for its lack of compassion, something that likely led her “to search for an object to love” (84) – a compassionate object. We can already see this compassionate urge growing later on in the same chapter. When a girl in her nursery stabbed herself “in a fit of delirium” (85), it clearly made a strong impression on Mary’s psyche, so much so that, from that point on, “every night of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when she first began to slumber”. Once more, Mary converts childhood trauma into a need to be compassionate. She makes a “vow” (85) that if she was ever a mistress of a household “she would herself watch over every part of it” (85) – she would show compassion. Overall, the start of the text sets Mary up as a “slave of compassion” (85), someone who needs compassion in order to become “singular and permanent” (85). Denied a fully-realised identity by her indifferent parents, Mary uses the act of being compassionate as a way of grounding her sense of self, something that becomes more apparent as she finally finds an object for her compassion: Ann.
Mary initially feels that Ann will allow her “to experience the pleasure of being beloved” (87). However, whilst to Mary she “was all the world” (87), Ann felt only “gratitude’. As Wollstonecraft indicates, Mary “was not necessary to [Ann’s] happiness” (87). The difference in affection here is reminiscent of Mary’s relationship with her parents, and the response is the same – Mary finds a way to act compassionately so as to avoid a collapse of identity. In this case, Mary imagines that Ann “looked sickly or unhappy” (87), so that “her tenderness would return like a torrent” (87). Wollstonecraft states later that this tenderness, this “warmth of compassion” (90), “gave the colour to her mind” (90). The idea of giving “colour” to one’s “mind” seems analogous to the construction of identity. Indeed, she says that responding to “the distress of others” (90), “carried her out of herself” (90). Being compassionate enables Mary to manifest a sense of identity. It grounds her through her relationship with other people; Mary requires a compassionate object.
The intensity of this desire to be compassionate is made clear when Ann falls further ill. For instance, the fact that “the canker-worm was lodged in [Ann’s] heart and preyed on her health” (93) put “a bewitching softness” in Mary’s mind (93). Clearly, Ann’s need for support, her need for compassion, is attractive to Mary. Moreover, Mary later proclaims that “to snatch [Ann] from the very jaws of destruction”, she “would have encountered a lion” (95). Again, her desire to be compassionate is overwhelming; it is enough to metaphorically challenge a lion. Even with her dying mother, who willingly admits that “I have not always treated you with kindness” (95), Mary shows compassion. She forgives her, much to her own “astonishment” (95).
At this point in the novel, Mary reluctantly marries Charles. As someone who ideologically opposed conventional marriage describing it as akin to enslavement, Wollstonecraft presents this as a threat to Mary’s individual identity. Her response then, is to act all the more compassionate to Ann. Indeed, when “the sound of [her husband’s] name made her turn sick” (97) she would listen to Ann’s cough and “forget all” (97). There is even an uncomfortable sense of pleasure that is expressed, as Mary goes about her acts of compassion “with convulsive eagerness” (97). As the threat to her identity increases, she becomes more reliant on the external sense of stability that being compassionate provides. In this way, “her comfort, almost her existence” (100) is dependent on Ann.
When Mary goes abroad with Ann to Lisbon, she is introduced to another object of compassion: Henry. Understanding Mary’s need to be compassionate is essential to understanding the character of Henry and Mary’s relationship to him. Even Mary’s first encounter with him is influenced by her compassionate drives. There are two men playing music in front of Ann and Mary. One is a “handsome, well-bred, sensible man” (103) – the picture of health. In contrast, the other, Henry, is “rather ugly” and “awkward” (103). It is the latter, rather than the former, that interests Mary, as the “invalid” (102) Henry offers an outlet for her compassion. Moreover, the fact that his violin music deeply impacts Mary is interesting. We learn later that Henry has similar childhood trauma to Mary. His father died before he was born and his mother favoured his eldest brother. He channels this trauma into his violin music, telling “the sorrows” (116) of his childhood “only to [his] violin” (116). Perhaps then, Mary was initially attracted to Henry’s violin music because her subconscious recognised signs of trauma – a trauma in need of compassion. After all, having heard his music, she “shed tears almost without being conscious of it” (105). The implications are profound: Mary’s need to be compassionate has become so embedded in her identity that it forms part of her subconscious, something that we potentially saw earlier when she was astonished by the fact she showed compassion to her neglectful mother.
Whatever the case, after Ann’s death, Henry becomes Mary’s new object of compassion. The death of Ann, like her marriage to Charles, threatens Mary’s identity because she no longer has an object of compassion. As she phrases it, “there was a void in [her heart]” (117). Hence, she receives in her heart “a new guest” (117): Henry. Similar to how Ann’s illness was “bewitching’, Henry’s need for compassion is “rather pleasing” (113) for Mary. His suffering becomes positive in Mary’s eyes, as it enables her to be compassionate. Caring for Henry provides only temporary relief however, as leaving Lisbon to return to England necessitates that she finds yet another new object of compassion.
Mary’s behaviour on the voyage back to England, and during the time she spent with Ann’s mother, can largely be understood as a search for some way to exercise her compassionate drives in order to ground her sense of self. For example, caring for the woman who was hauled on board “gratified her benevolence, and stole her out of herself” (127). The notion of Mary being stolen “out of herself” may be seen as an assertion of her identity, an identity that had been in a state of inward collapse since the death of Ann. Similarly, when back in England, Mary set herself to poor relief as “it was the only employment that eased her aching heart” (131). The trademark sign of suffering being viewed by Mary as positive is present once more, as seeing children who have “sallow cheeks” and “languid eyes” and are “covered with dirt” (132) gives her a “mixture of horror and satisfaction” (132). The way in which Mary fluctuates between objects of compassion at this point potentially foreshadows her eventual realisation that this her externally constructed self is unsustainable and fleeting.
Eventually, Mary reunites with Henry and he resumes his role as her object of compassion. At this point, Mary’s need to be compassionate is all-consuming and manifests itself in unhealthy ways. For example, she starts to feel envy towards Henry’s mother as “she wished involuntarily, that all the comfort [Henry] received should be from her” (138). The adverb “involuntarily” here potentially suggests that her compassionate drives, rooted as we have seen in her subconscious, have taken control of her active mind. Moreover, she begins to have suicidal thoughts, as she “cannot live without loving” (143) – being compassionate is too essential to her identity. For instance, Wollstonecraft writes that Mary “wished to have sought with him a watry grave; to have escaped the horror of surviving him” (141). She sees no future without her object of compassion.
Hence, when Henry eventually dies, we see a dramatic collapse of Mary’s sense of self, as she can no longer ground it in her acts of compassion. Henry shows an awareness of this, and asks if she will still be “comforted” (146) despite his death. Mary replies yes, but “the words almost choked her” (146), suggesting she may not actually believe this to be the case. Henry’s death, combined with the memory of Ann’s passing, shatters Mary’s externally constructed self, as she realises that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral. The resultant change is stark. She can no longer “bear” “the sight of the sick” (147) and she is unable “to fix on the mode of conduct she ought now to pursue” (147). Her identity is once more “a void” but this time she knows “benevolence [compassion] could not fill” it (148).
To conclude, understanding the way in which Mary’s need to have an object of compassion functions is essential in understanding the text as a whole. Her need to be compassionate, born out of childhood neglect, influences her actions throughout the novella and constitutes a key part of her identity. It also contributes to the tragedy of the text’s conclusion as, with the death of Henry, Mary comes to the realisation that the comfort of compassion is ephemeral and fleeting.
Works Cited
Wollstonecraft, Mary. Mary, a Fiction (1788) and the Wrongs of Woman, or Maria (1798). Edited by Michelle Faubert, Broadview Press Ltd, 2012.