Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  And let me tell you, my dear, that as long as I can satisfy my own mind that good is intended, and that it is hardly possible that evil should ensue from our correspondence; as long as I know that this prohibition proceeds originally from the same spiteful minds which have been the occasion of all these mischiefs; as long as I know that it is not your fault if your relations are not reconciled to you; and that upon conditions which no reasonable people would refuse—you must give me leave, with all deference to your judgement and to your excellent lessons (which would reach almost every other case of this kind but the present), to insist upon your writing to me, and that minutely, as if this prohibition had not been laid.

  It is not from humour, from perverseness, that I insist upon this. I cannot express how much my heart is in your concerns. And you must, in short, allow me to think that if I can do you service by writing, I shall be better justified by continuing to write than my mamma is by her prohibition.

  But yet, to satisfy you all I can, I will as seldom return answers while the interdict lasts as may be consistent with my notions of friendship, and the service I owe you and can do you.

  As to your expedient of writing by Hickman (and now, my dear, your modest man comes in: and as you love modesty in that sex, I will do my endeavour by a proper distance to keep him in your favour), I know what you mean by it, my sweet friend. It is to make that man significant with me. As to the correspondence, THAT shall go on, I do assure you, be as scrupulous as you please—so that that will not suffer, if I do not close with your proposal as to him.

  I think I must tell you that it will be honour enough for him to have his name made use of so frequently betwixt us. This, of itself, is placing a confidence in him that will make him walk bolt upright, and display his white hand and his fine diamond ring; and most mightily lay down his services, and his pride to oblige, and his diligence, and his fidelity, and his contrivances to keep our secret; and his excuses, and his evasions to my mamma when challenged by her; with fifty and’s beside. And will it not moreover give him pretence and excuse oftener than ever to pad-nag it hither to good Mrs Howe’s fair daughter?

  But to admit him into my company te[adte-a[ag-te[adte, and into my closet as often as I would wish to write to you; I only to dictate to his pen—my mamma all the time supposing that I was going to be heartily in love with him—to make him master of my sentiments, and of my heart, as I may say, when I write to you—indeed, my dear, I won’t. Nor, were I married to the best HE in England, would I honour him with the communication of my correspondencies.

  No, my dear, it is sufficient, surely, for him to parade it in the character of our letter-conveyer, and to be honoured in a cover [envelope]. And never fear but, modest as you think him, he will make enough of that.

  You are always blaming me for want of generosity to this man, and for abuse of power. But I profess, my dear, I cannot tell how to help it. Do, dear, now, let me spread my plumes a little, and now and then make myself feared. This is my time, you know, since it will be no more to my credit, than to his, to give myself those airs when I am married. He has a joy when I am pleased with him that he would not know but for the pain my displeasure gives him.

  This, I am satisfied, will be the consequence, if I do not make him quake now and then, he will endeavour to make me fear. All the animals in the creation are more or less in a state of hostility with each other. The wolf, that runs away from a lion, will devour a lamb the next moment. I remember that I was once so enraged at a game-chicken that was continually pecking at another (a poor humble one, as I thought him), that I had the offender caught, and without more ado, in a pet of humanity, wrung his neck off. What followed this execution? Why that other grew insolent, as soon as his insulter was gone, and was continually pecking at one or two under him. Peck and be hanged, said I. I might as well have preserved the first; for I see it is the nature of the beast.

  Excuse my flippancies. I wish I were with you. I would make you smile in the midst of your gravest airs, as I used to do. Oh that you had accepted of my offer to attend you! But nothing that I offer, will you accept. Take care! you will make me very angry with you: and when I am, you know I value nobody—for, dearly as I love you, I must be, and cannot always help it,

  Your saucy

  ANNA HOWE

  Letter 137: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Friday, April 21

  Mr Lovelace communicated to me this morning early, from his intelligencer, the news of my brother’s [abduction] scheme. I like him the better for making very light of it; and for his treating it with contempt. And indeed, had I not had the hint of it from you, I should have suspected it to be some contrivance of his, in order to hasten me to town, where he has long wished to be himself.

  I asked Mr Lovelace, seeing him so frank and cool, what he would advise me to do?

  Shall I ask you, madam, what are your own thoughts? Why I return the question, said he, is because you have been so very earnest that I should leave you as soon as you are in London, that I know not what to propose without offending you.

  My opinion is, said I, that I should studiously conceal myself from the knowledge of everybody but Miss Howe.

  You condescended, dearest creature, said he, to ask my advice. It is very easy, give me leave to say, to advise you what to do. I hope I may, on this new occasion speak without offence, notwithstanding your former injunctions. You see that there can be no hope of reconciliation with your relations. Can you, madam, consent to honour with your hand a wretch whom you have never yet obliged with one voluntary favour?

  What a recriminating, what a reproachful way, my dear, was this, of putting a question of this nature!

  I expected not from him, at the time, either the question or the manner. I am ashamed to recollect the confusion I was thrown into—all your advice in my head at the moment: yet his words so prohibitory. He confidently seemed to enjoy my confusion (indeed, my dear, he knows not what respectful love is!); and gazed upon me as if he would have looked me through.

  He was still more declarative afterwards indeed, as I shall mention by and by, but it was half-extorted from him.

  My heart struggled violently between resentment and shame to be thus teased by one who seemed to have all his passions at command, at a time when I had very little over mine; till at last I burst into tears, and was going from him in high disgust; when, throwing his arms about me, with an air, however, the most tenderly respectful, he gave a stupid turn to the subject.

  It was far from his heart, he said, to take so much advantage of the strait which the discovery of my brother’s foolish project had brought me into, as to renew without my permission a proposal which I had hitherto discountenanced, and which for that reason—

  And then he came with his half-sentences, apologizing for what he had hardly half proposed.

  Surely he had not the insolence to intend to tease me, to see if I could be brought to speak what became me not to speak. But, whether he had or not, it did tease me, insomuch that my very heart was fretted and I broke out at last into fresh tears, and a declaration that I was very unhappy. And just then recollecting how like a tame fool I stood, with his arms about me, I flung from him with indignation. But he seized my hand, as I was going out of the room, and upon his knees besought me stay for one moment: and then tendered himself, in words the most clear and explicit, to my acceptance, as the most effectual means to disappoint my brother’s [abduction] scheme and set all right.

  But what could I say to this? Extorted from him, as it seemed to me, rather as the effect of his compassion, than of his love? What could I say? I paused, I looked silly! I am sure I looked very silly. He suffered me to pause and look silly; waiting for me to say something: and at last, ashamed of my confusion, and aiming to make an excuse for it, I told him that I desired he would avoid such measures as might add to an uneasiness which was so visible upon reflecting on the irreconcileableness of
my friends, and what unhappy consequences might follow from this unaccountable project of my brother.

  He promised to be governed by me in everything.

  I told him I had hopes it would not be long before Mr Morden arrived; and doubted not that he would be the readier to engage in my favour, when he found that I made no other use of his, Mr Lovelace’s, assistance than to free myself from the addresses of a man so disagreeable to me as Mr Solmes: I must therefore wish that everything might remain as it was, till I could hear from my cousin.

  Good God! and you, madam, still resolve to show me that I am to hope for no share in your favour, while any the remotest prospect remains that you will be received by my bitterest enemies at the price of my utter rejection?

  This was what I returned, with warmth, and with a salving art too—You have seen, Mr Lovelace, how much my brother’s violence can affect me: but you will be mistaken if you let loose yours upon me with a thought of terrifying me into measures, the contrary of which you have acquiesced with.

  One word more he begged me to hear. He was determined studiously to avoid all mischief, and every step that might lead to mischief, let my brother’s proceedings, short of a violence upon my person, be what they would: but if any attempt that should extend to that were to be made, would I have him to be a quiet spectator of my being seized, or carried back, or aboard, by this [accomplice] Singleton; or in case of extremity, was he not permitted to stand up in my defence?

  Stand up in my defence, Mr Lovelace! I should be very miserable were there to be a call for that: but do you think I might not be safe and private in London? By your friend’s description of the widow’s house, I should think I might be safe there.

  The widow’s house, he replied, as described by his friend, being a back house within a front one, and looking to a garden rather than a street, had the appearance of privacy: but if, when there, it was not approved, it would be easy to find another more to my liking—though, as to his part, the method he would advise should be to write to my uncle Harlowe as one of my trustees, and wait the issue of it here at Mrs Sorlings’s, fearlessly directing it to be answered hither. To be afraid of little spirits, was but to encourage insults, he said.

  Inwardly vexed, I told him that he himself had proposed to leave me when I was in town: that I expected he would: and that, when I was known to be absolutely independent, I should consider what to write and what to do: but that, while he was hanging about me, I neither would nor could.

  He would be very sincere with me, he said: this project of my brother’s had changed the face of things. He must, before he left me, see how I liked the London widow and her family, if I chose to go thither: they might be people whom my brother might buy. But if he saw they were persons of integrity, he then might go for a day or two, or so. But he must needs say, he could not leave me longer.

  Do you propose, sir, said I, to take up your lodgings in the same house?

  He did not, he said; as he knew the use I intended to make of his absence, and my punctilio. And yet the house where he had lodgings was new-fronting: but he could go to his friend Belford’s, in Soho; or perhaps, to the same gentleman’s house at Edgware, and return on mornings, till he had reason to think this wild project of my brother’s laid aside. But no farther till then would he venture.

  The result of all was, to set out on Monday next for town. I hope it will be in a happy hour.

  I cannot, my dear, say too often, how much I am

  Your ever obliged

  CL. HARLOWE

  Letter 138: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Friday, April 21

  And now, Belford, what wilt thou say, if like the fly buzzing about the bright taper, I had like to have singed the silken wings of my liberty? Never was man in greater danger of being caught in his own snares—all his views anticipated: all his schemes untried; and not having brought the admirable creature to town nor made an effort to know if she be really angel or woman.

  I offered myself to her acceptance, with a suddenness, ‘tis true, that gave her no time to wrap herself in reserve; and in terms less tender than fervent, tending to upbraid her for her past indifference, and reminding her of her injunctions—for it was her brother’s plot, not love of me, that had inclined her to dispense with them.

  I gave way to her angry struggle—but, absolutely overcome by so charming a display of innocent confusion, I caught hold of her hand as she was flying from me; and kneeling at her feet, Oh my angel, said I (quite destitute of reserve, and hardly knowing the tenor of my own speech; and had a parson been there, I had certainly been a gone man), receive the vows of your faithful Lovelace. Make him yours, and only yours, for ever! This will answer every end! Who will dare to form plots and stratagems against my wife? That you are not so is the ground of all their foolish attempts and of their insolent hopes in Solmes’s favour. Oh be mine! I beseech you (thus on my knee I beseech you) to be mine. We shall then have all the world with us: and everybody will applaud an event that everybody expects.

  Was the devil in me! I no more intended all this ecstatic nonsense than I thought the same moment of flying in the air! All power is with this charming creature! It is I, not she, at this rate, that must fail in the arduous trial.

  Well, but what was the result of this involuntary impulse on my part? Wouldst thou not think I was taken at my offer?—an offer so solemnly made, and on one knee too?

  No such thing! The pretty trifler let me off as easily as I could have wished.

  Her brother’s project, and to find that there were no hopes of a reconciliation for her; and the apprehension she had of the mischiefs that might ensue—these, not my offer nor love of me, were the causes to which she ascribed all her sweet confusion. High treason the ascription against my sovereign pride—to make marriage with me but a second-place refuge!—and as good as to tell me that her confusion was owing to her concern that there were no hopes that my enemies would accept of her intended offer to renounce a man who had ventured his life for her, and was still ready to run the same risk in her behalf!

  I re-urged her to make me happy. But I was to be postponed to her cousin Morden’s arrival. On him are now placed all her hopes.

  I raved; but to no purpose.

  A confounded thing! The man to be so bashful; the lady to want so much courting! How shall two such come together, no kind mediatress in the way?

  But I can’t help it. I must be contented. ‘Tis seldom, however, that a love so ardent meets with a spirit so resigned in the same person. But true love, I am now convinced, only wishes: nor has it any active will but that of the adorable object.

  Letter 143: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

  Friday, April 21

  Thou, Lovelace, hast been long the entertainer; I the entertained. Nor have I been solicitous to animadvert, as thou wentest along, upon thy inventions and their tendency. For I believed, that with all thy airs, the unequalled perfections and fine qualities of this lady would always be her protection and security. But now that I find thou hast so far succeeded as to induce her to come to town, and to choose her lodgings in a house, the people of which will too probably damp and suppress any honourable motions which may arise in thy mind in her favour, I cannot help writing: and that professedly in her behalf.

  My inducements to this are not owing to virtue—but if they were, what hope could I have of affecting thee by pleas arising from it?

  Nor would such a man as thou art be deterred, were I to remind thee of the vengeance which thou mayest one day expect if thou insultest a woman of her character, family and fortune.

  Neither are gratitude and honour motives to be mentioned in a woman’s favour, to men such as we are, who consider all those of the sex as fair prize, whom we can obtain a power over. For our honour, and honour in the general acceptation of the word, are two things.

  What then is my motive? Why, the true friendship that
I bear thee, Lovelace; which makes me plead thy own sake and thy family’s sake, in the justice thou owest to this incomparable creature; who, however, so well deserves to have her sake to be mentioned as the principal consideration.

  Last time I was at M. Hall, thy noble uncle so earnestly pressed me to use my interest to persuade thee to enter the pale, and gave me so many family reasons for it, that I could not help engaging myself heartily on his side of the question; and the rather as I knew that thy own intentions with regard to this fine woman were then worthy of her. And of this I assured his lordship; who was half-afraid of thee because of the ill usage thou receivedst from her family. But now that the case is altered, let me press the matter home to thee from other considerations.

  By what I have heard of this lady’s perfections from every mouth, as well as from thine, and from every letter thou hast written, where wilt thou find such another woman? And why shouldst thou tempt her virtue? Why shouldst thou be for trying, where there is no reason to doubt?

  Were I in thy case, and designed to marry, and if I preferred a lady as I know thou dost this to all the women in the world, I should dread to make further trial, knowing what we know of the sex, for fear of succeeding; and especially if I doubted not that if there were a woman in the world virtuous at heart, it is she.

  And let me tell thee, Lovelace, that in this lady’s situation, the trial is not a fair trial. Considering the depth of thy plots and contrivances: considering the opportunities which I see thou must have with her, in spite of her own heart; all her relations’ follies acting in concert, though unknown to themselves, with thy wicked scheming head: considering how destitute of protection she is: considering the house she is to be in, where she will be surrounded with thy implements; specious, well-bred and genteel creatures, not easily to be detected when they are disposed to preserve appearances, especially by a young, inexperienced lady wholly unacquainted with the town: considering all these things, I say—what glory, what cause of triumph wilt thou have, if she should be overcome?