Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  How dare you, sir? And there she stopped; having almost overshot herself; as I designed she should.

  How dare I what, madam? And I looked with meaning. How dare I what?

  Vile man! And do you—and there again she stopped.

  Do I what, madam? And why vile man?

  How dare you to curse anybody in my presence?

  Well, madam, it is just as I thought. And now I know how to account for a temper, that I hope is not natural to you.

  Artful wretch! And is it thus you would entrap me? But know, sir, that I receive letters from nobody but Miss Howe. Miss Howe likes some of your ways as little as I do; for I have set everything before her. Yet she is thus far your enemy, as she is mine—she thinks I should not refuse your offers; but endeavour to make the best of my lot. And now you have the truth. Would to Heaven you were capable of dealing with equal sincerity!

  I am, madam. And here, on my knee, I renew my vows, and my supplication, that you will make me yours—yours for ever. And let me have cause to bless you and Miss Howe in the same breath.

  To say the truth, Belford, I had before begun to think that that vixen of a girl, who certainly likes not Hickman, was in love with me.

  Rise, sir, from your too-ready knees; and mock me not.

  Mock you, madam! and I arose, and re-urged her for the [wedding] day.

  My day, sir, said she, is never. But I will retire. I will see you again tomorrow. I cannot before. I think I hate you. You may look—Indeed I think I hate you. And if, upon a re-examination of my own heart, I find I do, I would not for the world that matters should go on farther between us.

  I was too much vexed, disconcerted, mortified, to hinder her retiring.

  Letter 207: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Thursday, May 25

  Now have I a foundation to go upon in my terms. My lord, in the exuberance of his generosity, mentions a thousand pounds a year penny-rents. This I know, that were I to marry this lady, he would rather settle upon her all he has a mind to settle, than upon me: and has even threatened that if I prove not a good husband to her, he will leave all he can at his death, from me, to her. Yet considers not that a woman so perfect can never be displeased with her husband but to his disgrace; for who will blame her? Another reason why a Lovelace should not wish to marry a Clarissa.

  But what a pretty fellow of an uncle mine, to think of making a wife independent of her emperor, and a rebel of course—yet smarted himself for an error of this kind!

  My beloved, in her torn paper, mentions but two hundred pounds a year for her separate use. I insisted upon her naming a larger sum. She said it might then be three; and I, for fear she should suspect very large offers, named five, and the entire disposal of all arrears in her father’s hands, for the benefit of Mrs Norton, or whom she pleased.

  But yet, what mortifies my pride is, that this exalted creature, if I were to marry her, would not be governed in her behaviour to me by love, but by generosity merely, or by blind duty; and had rather live single, than be mine.

  I cannot bear this. I would have the woman whom I honour with my name, if ever I confer this honour upon any, forgo even her superior duties for me. I would have her look after me when I go out, as far as she can see me, as my Rosebud after her Johnny; and meet me at my return with rapture. I would be the subject of her dreams, as well as of her waking thoughts. I would have her look upon every moment lost, that is not passed with me: sing to me, read to me, play to me when I pleased; no joy so great as in obeying me. When I should be inclined to love, overwhelm me with it; when to be serious or solitary, if intrusive, awfully so; retiring at a nod; approaching me only if I smiled encouragement: steal into my presence with silence; out of it, if not noticed, on tiptoe. Be a Lady Easy to all my pleasures, and valuing those most, who most contributed to them; only sighing in private, that it was not herself at the time. Thus of old did the contending wives of the honest patriarchs; each recommending her handmaid to her lord, as she thought it would oblige him, and looking upon the genial product as her own.

  • • •

  Another agreeable conversation. The day of days the subject. As to fixing a particular one, that need not be done till the settlements are completed. As to marrying at my lord’s chapel, the ladies of my family present, that would be making a public affair of it; and my charmer observed with regret, that it seemed to be my lord’s intention to make it so.

  The sex may say what they will, but a poor innocent fellow had need to take great care of himself, when he dances upon the edge of the matrimonial precipice. Many a faint-hearted man, when he began in jest, or only designed to ape gallantry, has been forced into earnest, by being over-prompt, and taken at his word, not knowing how to own that he meant less than the lady supposed he meant.

  Then these little sly rogues, how they lie couchant, ready to spring upon us harmless fellows the moment we are in their reach! When the ice is once broken for them, how swiftly can they make to port! Meantime, the subject they can least speak to, they most think of. Nor can you talk of the ceremony before they have laid out in their minds how it is all to be. Little saucy-face designers! how first they draw themselves in, then us!

  LOVELACE

  Letter 209: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Wilt thou believe me, when I tell thee that I have so many contrivances rising up and crowding upon me for preference, with regard to my Gloriana, that I hardly know which to choose? I could tell thee of no less than six princely ones, any of which must do. But as the dear creature has not grudged giving me trouble, I think I ought not, in gratitude, to spare combustibles for her; but, on the contrary, to make her stare and stand aghast, by springing three or four mines at once.

  And now, Jack, what dost think?

  That thou art a cursed fellow, if—

  If! No if’s. But I shall be very sick tomorrow. I shall, ‘faith.

  Sick! Why sick? What a devil shouldst thou be sick for?

  Perhaps thou thinkest my view to be, to draw the lady to my bedside: that’s a trick of three or four thousand years old; and I should find it much more to my purpose, if I could get to hers. However, I’ll condescend to make thee as wise as myself.

  I don’t intend to be so very bad as Dorcas shall represent me to be. But yet I know I shall retch confoundedly, and bring up some clotted blood. To be sure, I shall break a vessel: there’s no doubt of that; and a bottle of Eaton’s styptic shall be sent for; but no doctor. If she has humanity, she will be concerned. But if she has love, let it have been pushed ever so far back, it will, on this occasion, come forward, and show itself; not only in her eye, but in every line of her sweet face.

  I will be very intrepid. I will not fear death, or anything else. I will be sure of being well in an hour or two, having formerly found great benefit by this balsamic medicine, on occasion of an inward bruise by a fall from my horse in hunting, of which, perhaps, this malady may be the remains. And this will show her, that though those about me may make the most of it, I don’t; and so can have no design in it.

  Well, methinks thou sayest, I begin to think tolerably of this device.

  I knew thou wouldst, when I explained myself.

  Now, Belford, if she be not much concerned at the broken vessel, which, in one so fiery in his temper as I have the reputation to be thought, may be very dangerous; a malady that I shall calmly attribute to the harasses and doubts that I have laboured under for some time past; which will be a further proof of my love, and will demand a grateful return—

  What then, thou egregious contriver?

  Why then I shall have the less remorse, if I am to use a little violence: for can she deserve compassion, who shows none?

  And what if she show a great deal of concern?

  Then shall I be in hope of building on a good foundation. Love hides a multitude of faults, and diminishes those it cannot hide. Love, when f
ound out or acknowledged, authorizes freedom; and freedom begets freedom; and I shall then see how far I can go.

  Well but, Lovelace, how the deuce wilt thou, with that full health and vigour of constitution, and with that bloom in thy face, make anybody believe thou art sick?

  How! Why take a few grains of ipecacuanha; enough to make me retch like a fury.

  Good! But how wilt thou manage to bring up blood, and not hurt thyself?

  Foolish fellow! Are there not pigeons and chickens in every poulterer’s shop?

  And now, Belford, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, allow that it is a right thing to be sick? Lord, Jack, so much delight do I take in my contrivances, that I shall be half sorry when the occasion for them is over; for never, never shall I again have such charming exercise for my invention.

  Letter 211: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Cocoa Tree [coffee house], Saturday, May 27

  This ipecacuanha is a most disagreeable medicine! That these cursed physical folks can find out nothing to do us good, but what would poison the devil!

  But now this was to take down my countenance. It has done it: for, with violent retchings, having taken enough to make me sick, and not enough water to carry it off, I presently looked as if I had kept my bed a fortnight.

  Two hours it held me. I had forbid Dorcas to let my beloved know anything of the matter; out of tenderness to her; being willing, when she knew my prohibition, to let her see that I expected her to be concerned for me.

  Well, but Dorcas nevertheless is a woman, and she can whisper to her lady the secret she is enjoined to keep!

  What’s the matter, Dorcas?

  Nothing, madam.

  My beloved wonders she has not seen me this morning, no doubt; but is too shy to say she wonders. Repeated What’s the matter’s, however, as Dorcas runs up and down stairs by her door, bring on, Oh! madam! my master!—my master!

  What! How! When!—and all the monosyllables of surprise.

  I must not tell you, madam. My master ordered me not to tell you. But he is in a worse way than he thinks for! But he would not have you frighted.

  High concern took possession of every sweet feature. She pitied me! By my soul, she pitied me!

  Out she darts. As how! as how, Dorcas!

  Oh madam—a vomiting of blood! a vessel broke, to be sure!

  Down she hastens; finds everyone as busy over my blood in the entry, as if it were that of the Neapolitan saint.

  In steps my charmer! with a face of sweet concern.

  How do you, Mr Lovelace!

  Oh my best love! Very well! Very well! Nothing at all! Nothing of consequence! I shall be well in an instant!

  In short, Belford, I have gained my end. I see the dear soul loves me. I see she forgives me all that’s past. I see I have credit for a new score.

  Nor will the choicest of my fair one’s favours be long prohibited goods to me!

  Everyone now is sure that she loves me. Tears were in her eyes more than once for me. She suffered me to take her hand, and kiss it as often as I pleased. On Mrs Sinclair’s mentioning that I too much confined myself, she pressed me to take an airing, but obligingly desired me to be careful of myself. Wished I would advise with a physician.

  I kissed her hand again! She was all goodness! Would to Heaven I better deserved it, I said! But all were golden days before us! Her presence and generous concern had done everything. I was well! Nothing ailed me. But since my beloved will have it so, I’ll take a little airing! Let a chair be called! All the art of healing is in your smiles! Your late displeasure was the only malady!

  And now, Belford, was it not worth while to be sick? And yet I must tell thee, that too many pleasanter expedients offer themselves, to make trial any more of this confounded ipecacuanha.

  Letter 219: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Friday, June 2

  Notwithstanding my studied-for politeness and complaisance for some days past; and though I have wanted courage to throw the mask quite aside; yet I have made the dear creature more than once look about her by the warm though decent expressions of my passion.

  I endeavoured to justify my passion, by laying over-delicacy at her door. That was not, she said, my fault, if it were hers. She must plainly tell me that I appeared to her incapable of distinguishing what were the requisites of a pure mind.

  • • •

  I have just now been called to account for some innocent liberties which I thought myself entitled to take before the women; as they suppose us married, and now within view of consummation.

  I took the lecture very hardly; and with impatience wished for the happy day and hour when I might call her all my own, and meet with no check from a niceness that had no example.

  She looked at me with a bashful kind of contempt. I thought it contempt, and required the reason for it; not being conscious of offence, as I told her.

  This is not the first time, Mr Lovelace, said she, that I have had cause to be displeased with you, when you, perhaps, have not thought yourself exceptionable. But, sir, let me tell you that the married state, in my eye, is a state of purity, and (I think she told me) not of licentiousness; so at least, I understood her.

  Marriage purity, Jack! Very comical, ‘faith. Yet, sweet dears, half the female world ready to run away with a rake, because he is a rake; and for no other reason; nay, every other reason against their choice.

  From the whole of the above, thou wilt gather that I have not been a mere dangler, a Hickman, in the past days, though not absolutely active and a Lovelace.

  The dear creature now considers herself as my wife-elect. The unsaddened heart, no longer prudish, will not now, I hope, give the sable turn to every action of the man she dislikes not. And yet she must keep up so much reserve as will justify past inflexibilities. Many and many a pretty soul would yield, were she not afraid that the man she favoured would think the worse of her for it.

  Sat. June 3

  Just returned from Doctors’ Commons. I have been endeavouring to get a licence. Very true, Jack. I have the mortification to find a difficulty in obtaining this all-fettering instrument, as the lady is of rank and fortune, and as there is no consent of father or next friend.

  I made report of this difficulty. It is very right, she says, that such difficulties should be made.

  I asked if she approved of the settlements? She said she had compared them with my mother’s, and had no objection. She had written to Miss Howe upon the subject, she owned; and to inform her of our present situation.

  • • •

  We have held that women have no souls. And if so, to whom shall I be accountable for what I do to them? Nay, if souls they have, as there is no sex in ethereals, nor need of any, what plea can a lady hold of injuries done her in her lady-state, when there is an end of her lady-ship?

  Letter 220: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Monday, June 5

  I am now almost in despair of succeeding with this charming frost-piece by love or gentleness. I have been again at the Commons.

  Twice indeed with rapture, which once she called rude, did I salute her; and each time, resenting the freedom, did she retire; though, to do her justice, she favoured me again with her presence at my first entreaty, and took no notice of the cause of her withdrawing.

  Is it policy to show so open a resentment for innocent liberties which, in her situation, she must so soon forgive?

  Yet the woman who resents not initiatory freedoms must be lost. For love is an encroacher. Love never goes backward. Love is always aspiring. Always must aspire. Nothing but the highest act of love can satisfy an indulged love. And what advantages has a lover who values not breaking the peace, over his mistress who is solicitous to keep it!

  I have now at this instant wrought myself up, for the dozenth time, to a half-resolution. A thousand agreeable things I have t
o say to her. She is in the dining-room. Just gone up. She always expects me when there.

  • • •

  I sat down by her. I took both her hands in mine. I would have it so. All gentle my voice. Her father mentioned with respect. Her mother with reverence. Even her brother amicably spoken of. I never thought I could have wished so ardently, as I told her I did wish, for a reconciliation with her family.

  A sweet and grateful flush then overspread her fair face; a gentle sigh now and then heaved her handkerchief.

  I would hasten again to the Commons; and would not return without the licence.

  The Lawn I proposed to retire to, as soon as the happy ceremony was over. This day and that day I proposed.

  It was time enough to name the day when the settlements were completed, and the licence obtained.

  No new delays, for heaven’s sake, I besought her; reproaching her gently for the past. Name but the day—an early day, I hoped in the following week—that I might hail its approach and number the tardy hours.

  My cheek reclined on her shoulder—kissing her hands by turns. Rather bashfully than angrily reluctant, her hands sought to be withdrawn; her shoulder avoiding my reclined cheek—apparently loath and more loath to quarrel with me; her downcast eye confessing more than her lips could utter. Now surely, thought I, it is my time to try if she can forgive a still bolder freedom than I had ever yet taken.

  I then gave her struggling hands liberty. I put one arm round her waist: I imprinted a kiss on her sweet lips, with a Be quiet only, and an averted face, as if she feared another.

  Encouraged by so gentle a repulse, the tenderest things I said; and then, with my other hand, drew aside the handkerchief that concealed the beauty of beauties, and pressed with my burning lips the charmingest breast that ever my ravished eyes beheld.

  A very contrary passion to that which gave her bosom so delightful a swell immediately took place. She struggled out of my encircling arms with indignation. I detained her reluctant hand. Let me go, said she. I see there is no keeping terms with you. Base encroacher! Is this the design of your flattering speeches? Far as matters have gone, I will for ever renounce you. You have an odious heart. Let me go, I tell you.