1844, Ramsgate
I am writing this in the year 1844, from my house in Ramsgate, where the sea presses against the Kent coast with a steadiness my own body no longer possesses, and my strength is failing more quickly than I admit to those who move quietly through these rooms believing their caution spares me something. My hands ache, my breath shortens, and I know now that I will not be granted the long old age I once assumed was my due.
For forty years I have spoken in meeting houses in Norwich, in the women’s wards at Newgate Prison on Newgate Street in London, in committee rooms not far from Whitehall, and in drawing rooms where women nodded, smiled, and then let later invitations lapse. What I write here is not for them. It is for myself, while I am still able to hold the thread of my own life without another hand straightening it, softening it, or lifting it up as a lesson.
I must write now because others have already begun to sort my life for me, placing some scenes in the front of the pile and sliding others under the rest. My sons speak of what should remain after I am gone. Friends point to certain acts and say, This part will do people good. I hear in their voices the slow theft of my own memory.
Each day I grow more tired, more easily interrupted. Each page costs more than the last. If I do not complete this, the woman who acted, doubted, judged, failed, and persisted will vanish behind a portrait set upright in a hall where strangers can pass it without unease.
This writing must be finished while I am still myself.
