Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  This, in short, was the case. While she was refusing all manner of obligation to me, keeping me at haughty distance; in hopes that her cousin Morden’s arrival would soon fix her in a full and absolute independence of me: disgusted likewise at her adorer, for holding himself the reins of his own passions, instead of giving them up to her control—she writes a letter urging an answer to a letter before written, for her apparel, her jewels and some gold which she had left behind her; all which was to save her pride from obligation and to promote the independence her heart was set upon. And what followed but a shocking answer, made still more shocking by the communication of a paternal curse upon a daughter deserving only blessings?

  Absent when it came, on my return I found her recovering from fits, again to fall into stronger fits; and nobody expecting her life; half a dozen messengers dispatched to find me out. Nor wonder at her being so affected; she, whose filial piety gave her dreadful faith in a father’s curses; and the curse of this gloomy tyrant extending, to use her own words when she could speak, to both worlds. Oh that it had turned in the moment of its utterance to a mortal quinsy, and sticking in his gullet had choked the old execrator, as a warning to all such unnatural fathers.

  What a miscreant had I been, not to have endeavoured to bring her back by all the endearments, by all the vows, by all the offers that I could make her?

  I did bring her back. More than a father to her; for I have given her a life her unnatural father had well-nigh taken away; shall I not cherish the fruits of my own benefaction? I have been in earnest in my vows to marry, and my ardour to urge the present time was a real ardour. But extreme dejection, with a mingled delicacy that in her dying moments I doubt not she will preserve have caused her to refuse me the time, though not the solemnity; for she has told me that now she must be wholly in my protection, being destitute of every other! More indebted still, thou seest, to her cruel friends, than to herself for her favour!

  She has written to Miss Howe an account of their barbarity; but has not acquainted her how very ill she was.

  Low, very low, she remains; yet dreading her stupid brother’s enterprise, she wants to be in London: where, but for this accident and (wouldst thou have believed it?) my persuasions, seeing her so very ill, she would have been this night; and we shall actually set out on Wednesday morning if she be not worse.

  Mrs Sorlings’s eldest daughter, at my motion, is to attend her in the chaise; while I ride by way of escort: for she is extremely apprehensive of the Singleton plot; and has engaged me to be all patience if anything should happen on the road. But nothing I am sure will happen: for, by a letter received just now from Joseph, I understand that James Harlowe has already laid aside his stupid project: and this by the earnest desire of all his friends to whom he had communicated it; who were afraid of the consequences that might attend it. But it is not over with me, however; although I am not determined at present as to the uses I may make of it.

  My beloved tells me she shall have her clothes sent her: she hopes also her jewels and some gold which she left behind her. But Joseph says clothes only will be sent. I will not, however, tell her that. On the contrary, I say there is no doubt but they will send all she wrote for, of personals. The greater her disappointment from them, the greater must be her dependence on me.

  Letter 153: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Tuesday, April 25

  All hands at work in preparation for London. What makes my heart beat so strong? Why rises it to my throat in such half-choking flutters, when I think of what this removal may do for me? I am hitherto resolved to be honest: and that increases my wonder at these involuntary commotions. ‘Tis a plotting villain of a heart: it ever was; and ever will be, I doubt. Such a joy when any roguery is going forward! I so little its master!

  The dear creature continues extremely low and dejected. Tender blossom! How unfit to contend with the rude and ruffling winds of passion, and haughty and insolent control! Never till now from under the wing (it is not enough to say of indulging, but) of admiring parents; the mother’s bosom only fit to receive this charming flower!

  And can I be a villain to such an angel! I hope not. But why once more, thou varlet, puttest thou me in mind that she may be overcome? And why is her own reliance on my honour so late and so reluctantly shown?

  But after all, so low, so dejected continues she to be that I am terribly afraid I shall have a vapourish wife, if I do marry. I should then be doubly undone. Not that I shall be much at home with her, perhaps, after the first fortnight or so. But when a man has been ranging like the painful bee from flower to flower, perhaps for a month together, and the thoughts of home and a wife begin to have their charms with him, to be received by a Niobe who, like a wounded vine, weeps its vitals away while it but involuntarily curls about you; how shall I be able to bear that?

  May heaven restore my charmer to health and spirits, I hourly pray, that a man may see whether she can love anybody but her father and mother! In their power, I am confident, it will be at any time, to make her husband joyless; and that, as I hate them so heartily, is a shocking thing to reflect upon. Something more than woman, an angel, in some things, but a baby in others: so father-sick! so family-fond! what a poor chance stands a husband with such a wife, unless, forsooth, they vouchsafe to be reconciled to her and continue reconciled?

  It is infinitely better for her and for me that we should not marry! What a delightful manner of life (Oh that I could persuade her to it!) would that be with such a lady! The fears, the inquietudes, the uneasy days, the restless nights; all arising from doubts of having disobliged me! Every absence dreaded to be an absence for ever! And then, how amply rewarded, and rewarding, by the rapture-causing return! Such a passion as this keeps love in a continual fervour; makes it all alive. The happy pair, instead of sitting dozing and nodding at each other in two opposite chimney-corners in a winter-evening, and over a wintry love, always new to each other, and having always something to say.

  Tuesday afternoon

  If you are in London when I get thither, you will see me soon. My charmer is a little better than she was. Her eyes show it, and her harmonious voice, hardly audible last time I saw her, now begins to cheer my heart once more. But yet she has no love, no sensibility! There is no addressing her with those meaning yet innocent freedoms (innocent at first setting out they may be called) which soften others of her sex. The more strange this, as she now acknowledges preferable favour for me; and is highly susceptible of grief. Grief mollifies and enervates. The grieved mind looks round it, silently implores consolation, and loves the soother. Grief is ever an inmate with joy. Though they won’t show themselves at the same window at one time; yet have they the whole house in common between them.

  Letter 154: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Wed. Apr. 26

  At last my lucky star has directed us into the desired port, and we are safely landed.

  But in the midst of my exultation, something, I know not what to call it, checks my joys, and glooms over my brighter prospects. If it be not conscience, it is wondrously like what I thought so, many, many years ago.

  Surely, Lovelace, methinks thou sayest: Thy good motions are not gone off already! Surely thou wilt not now at last be a villain to this lady.

  My beloved, who is charmingly amended, is retired to her constant employment, writing. I must content myself with the same amusement till she shall be pleased to admit me to her presence: having already given to every one her cue.

  But here comes the widow, with Dorcas Wykes in her hand. Dorcas Wykes, Jack, is to be the maid-servant to my fair one; and I am to introduce them both to her. In so many ways will it be in my power to have the dear creature now, that I shall not know which of them to choose!

  • • •

  So! The honest girl [Dorcas] is accepted!—of good parentage: but, through a neglected education, plaguy illiterate—she can neither write, nor rea
d writing. A kinswoman of Mrs Sinclair’s: so could not well be refused, the widow in person recommending her; and the wench only taken till her Hannah can come. What an advantage has an imposing or forward nature over a courteous one! So here may something arise to lead into correspondencies, and so forth! To be sure, a person need not be so wary, so cautious of what she writes, or what she leaves upon her table or toilet, when her attendant cannot read.

  Dorcas is a neat girl both in person and dress; a countenance not vulgar. But I saw she had a dislike to her at her very first appearance—yet I thought the girl behaved very modestly—overdid it a little perhaps!—shrunk back and looked shy upon her. The doctrine of sympathies and antipathies is a surprising doctrine. But Dorcas will be excessively obliging, and win her lady’s favour soon, I doubt not—I am secure in her incorruptibility. A great point that! For a lady and her maid of one party will be too hard for half a score devils.

  She [Clarissa] will insist, I suppose, upon my leaving her, and that I shall not take up my lodgings under the same roof. But circumstances are changed since I first made her that promise. I have taken all the vacant apartments; and must carry this point also.

  I hope in a while to get her with me to the public entertainments. She knows nothing of the town, and has seen less of its diversions than ever woman of her taste, her fortune, her endowments, did see. She has indeed a natural politeness which transcends all acquirement. Indeed she took so much pleasure in her own chosen amusements till persecuted out of them, that she had neither leisure nor inclination for the town diversions.

  These diversions will amuse. And the deuce is in it, if a little susceptibility will not put forth, now she receives my address, and if I can manage it so as to be allowed to live under one roof with her. What though the appearance be at first no more than that of an early spring flower in frosty weather, that seems afraid of being nipped by an easterly blast; that will be enough for me.

  Letter 155: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Wed. p.m. Apr. 26

  At length, my dearest Miss Howe, I am in London, and in my new lodgings. They are neatly furnished, and the situation, for the town, is pleasant. But I think you must not ask me how I like the old gentlewoman. Yet she seems courteous and obliging. Her kinswomen just appeared to welcome me at my alighting. They seem to be genteel young women.

  And now give me leave to chide you, my dearest friend, for your rash, and I hope revocable resolution, not to make Mr Hickman the happiest man in the world while my happiness is in suspense. Suppose I were to be unhappy, what, my dear, would your resolution avail me? Marriage is the highest state of friendship: if happy, it lessens our cares by dividing them, at the same time that it doubles our pleasures by a mutual participation. Why, my dear, if you love me, will you not rather give another friend to one who has not two that she is sure of?

  • • •

  Here I was broken in upon by Mr Lovelace; introducing the widow leading in a kinswoman of hers to attend me, if I approved of her, till my Hannah should come, or till I had provided myself with some other servant. The widow gave her many good qualities; but said that she had one great defect; which was that she could not write, nor read writing; that part of her education having been neglected when she was young. But for discretion, fidelity, obligingness, she was not to be outdone by anybody.

  As for her defect, I can easily forgive that. She is very likely and genteel; too genteel indeed, I think, for a servant. But what I like least of all in her, she has a strange sly eye. I never saw such an eye—half-confident, I think. But indeed Mrs Sinclair herself (for that is the widow’s name) has an odd winking eye; and her respectfulness seems too much studied, methinks, for the London ease and freedom. But people can’t help their looks, you know; and after all, she is extremely civil and obliging: and as for the young woman (Dorcas her name), she will not be long with me.

  I accepted her: how could I do otherwise (if I had a mind to make objections, which in my present situation I had not), her aunt present and the young woman also present; and Mr Lovelace officious in his introducing of them for my sake? But upon their leaving me, I told him, who seemed inclinable to begin a conversation with me that I desired that this apartment might be considered as my retirement: that when I saw him, it might be in the dining-room; and that I might be as little broke in upon as possible, when I am here. He withdrew very respectfully to the door; but there stopped; and asked for my company then in the dining-room. If he was about setting out for other lodgings, I would go with him now, I told him: but if he did not just then go, I would first finish my letter to Miss Howe.

  I see he has no mind to leave me if he can help it. My brother’s scheme may give him a pretence to try to engage me to dispense with his promise. But if I now do, I must acquit him of it entirely.

  My approbation of his tender behaviour in the midst of my grief has given him a right, as he seems to think, of addressing me with all the freedom of an approved lover. He has been ever since Sunday last continually complaining of the distance I keep him at; and thinks himself entitled now, to call in question my value for him; strengthening his doubts by my declared readiness to give him up to a reconciliation with my friends—and yet has himself fallen off from that obsequious tenderness, if I may couple the words, which drew from me the concessions he builds upon.

  While we were talking at the door, my new servant came up with an invitation to us both to tea. I said he might accept of it, if he pleased; but I must pursue my writing; and not choosing either tea or supper, I desired him to make my excuses below, as to both; and inform them of my choice to be retired as much as possible; yet to promise for me my attendance on the widow and her nieces at breakfast in the morning.

  He objected particularity in the eye of strangers as to avoiding supper.

  You know, said I, and can tell them that I seldom eat suppers. My spirits are low. You must never urge me against a declared choice. Pray, Mr Lovelace, inform them of all my particularities. If they are obliging, they will allow for them. I come not here to make new acquaintance.

  • • •

  I am exceedingly out of humour with Mr Lovelace: and have great reason to be so: as you will allow when you have read the conversation I am going to give you an account of; for he would not let me rest till I gave him my company in the dining-room.

  He began with letting me know that he had been out to inquire after the character of the widow; which was the more necessary, he said, as he supposed that I would expect his frequent absence.

  I did, I said; and that he would not think of taking up his lodging in the same house with me. But what was the issue of his inquiry?

  Why, indeed, it was in the main what he liked well enough. But as it was Miss Howe’s opinion, as I had told him, that my brother had not given over his scheme; as the widow lived by letting lodgings; and had others to let in the same part of the house which might be taken by an enemy; he knew no better way than for him to take them all, as it could not be for a long time; unless I would think of removing to others.

  So far was well enough: but as it was easy for me to see that he spoke the slighter of the widow, in order to have a pretence to lodge here himself, I asked him his intention in that respect. And he frankly owned that if I chose to stay here, he could not, as matters stood, think of leaving me for six hours together; and he had prepared the widow to expect that we should be here but for a few days—only till we could fix ourselves in a house suitable to our condition; and this, that I might be under the less embarrass, if I pleased to remove.

  Fix ourselves in a house, and we and our, Mr Lovelace—pray, in what light—

  He interrupted me. Why, my dearest life, if you will hear me with patience—yet I am half afraid that I have been too forward, as I have not consulted you upon it. But as my friends in town, according to what Mr Doleman has written in the letter you have seen conclude us to be married—

 
Surely, sir, you have not presumed—

  I perfectly raved at him. I would have flung from him in resentment; but he would not let me. And what could I do? Whither go, the evening advanced?

  I am astonished at you! said I. If you are a man of honour, what need of all this strange obliquity? You delight in crooked ways. Let me know, since I must stay in your company (for he held my hand), let me know all you have said. Indeed, indeed, Mr Lovelace, you are a very unaccountable man.

  My dearest creature, need I to have mentioned anything of this; and could I not have taken up my lodgings in this house unknown to you, if I had not intended to make you the judge of all my proceedings? But this is what I have told the widow before her kinswomen, and before your new servant—That indeed we were privately married at Hertford; but that you had preliminarily bound me under a solemn vow, which I am most religiously resolved to keep, to be contented with separate apartments, and even not to lodge under the same roof, till a certain reconciliation shall take place which is of high consequence to both. And further, that I might convince you of the purity of my intentions, and that my whole view in this was to prevent mischief, I have acquainted them that I have solemnly promised to behave to you before everybody, as if we were only betrothed and not married; not even offering to take any of those innocent freedoms which are not refused in the most punctilious loves.

  I told him that I was not by any means satisfied with the tale he had told, nor with the necessity he wanted to lay me under of appearing what I was not: that every step he took was a wry one, a needless wry one: and since he thought it necessary to tell the people below anything about me, I insisted that he should unsay all he had said, and tell them the truth.