Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  I was forced to obey, and she flung from me, repeating base, and adding flattering, encroacher.

  • • •

  In vain have I urged by Dorcas for the promised favour of dining with her. She would not dine at all. She could not.

  But why makes she every inch of her person thus sacred?—so near the time too, that she must suppose, that all will be my own by deed of purchase and settlement?

  And should not my beloved, for her own sake, descend by degrees from goddess-hood into humanity? If it be pride that restrains her, ought not that pride to be punished?

  Let me perish, Belford, if I would not forgo the brightest diadem in the world for the pleasure of seeing a twin Lovelace at each charming breast, drawing from it his first sustenance; the pious task continued for one month, and no more!

  I now, methinks, behold this most charming of women in this sweet office, pressing with her fine fingers the generous flood into the purple mouths of each eager hunter by turns: her conscious eye now dropped on one, now on the other, with a sigh of maternal tenderness; and then raised up to my delighted eye, full of wishes, for the sake of the pretty varlets, and for her own sake, that I would deign to legitimate; that I would condescend to put on the nuptial fetters.

  Letter 224: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Wednesday night, 11 o’clock

  Faith, Jack, thou hadst half undone me with thy nonsense, though I would not own it in my yesterday’s letter. But I think I am my own man again.

  So near to execution my plot! So near springing my mine!

  I have time for a few lines preparative to what is to happen in an hour or two; and I love to write to the moment.

  We have been extremely happy. How many agreeable days have we known together! What may the next two hours produce!

  When I parted with my charmer (which I did with infinite reluctance, half an hour ago), it was upon her promise that she would not sit up to write or read. For so engaging was the conversation to me (and indeed my behaviour throughout the whole of it was confessedly agreeable to her), that I insisted, if she did not directly retire to rest, that she should add another happy hour to the former.

  To have sat up writing or reading half the night, as she sometimes does, would have frustrated my view, as thou wilt observe when my little plot unravels.

  • • •

  What—what—what now!—bounding villain! wouldst thou choke me!

  I was speaking to my heart, Jack! It was then at my throat. And what is all this for? These shy ladies, how, when a man thinks himself near the mark, do they tempest him!

  Is all ready, Dorcas? Has my beloved kept her word with me? Whether are these billowy heavings owing more to love or to fear? I cannot tell for the soul of me which I have most of. If I can but take her before her apprehension, before her eloquence, is awake.

  Limbs, why thus convulsed! Knees, till now so firmly knit, why thus relaxed? Why beat ye thus together? Will not these trembling fingers, which twice have refused to direct the pen, and thus curvedly deform the paper, fail me in the arduous moment?

  Why and for what all these convulsions? This project is not to end in matrimony surely!

  But the consequences must be greater than I had thought of till this moment. My beloved’s destiny or my own may depend upon the issue of the two next hours!

  I will recede, I think!

  • • •

  Soft, oh virgin saint, and safe as soft, be thy slumbers!

  I will now once more turn to my friend Belford’s letter. Thou shalt have fair play, my charmer. I’ll re-peruse what thy advocate has to say for thee. Weak arguments will do, in the frame I am in!

  But, what’s the matter! What’s the matter! But the uproar abates! What a double coward am I? Or is it that I am taken in a cowardly minute? for heroes have their fits of fear; cowards their brave moments: and virtuous ladies, all but my Clarissa, their moment critical—

  But thus coolly enjoying thy reflections in a hurricane! Again the confusion’s renewed!

  What! Where! How came it!

  Is my beloved safe!

  Oh wake not too roughly my beloved!

  Letter 225: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Thursday morning, five o’clock (June 8)

  Now is my reformation secured; for I never shall love any other woman! Oh she is all variety! She must be ever new to me! Imagination cannot form; much less can the pencil paint; nor can the soul of painting, poetry, describe an angel so exquisitely, so elegantly lovely!

  Thus then, connecting my last with the present, I lead to it.

  Didst thou not, by the conclusion of my former, perceive the consternation I was in, just as I was about to re-peruse thy letter, in order to prevail upon myself to recede from my purpose of awaking in terrors my slumbering charmer? And what dost thou think was the matter?

  I’ll tell thee.

  At a little after two, when the whole house was still, or seemed to be so, and, as it proved, my Clarissa abed and fast asleep; I also in a manner undressed for an hour before, and in my gown and slippers though, to oblige thee, writing on—I was alarmed by a trampling noise overhead, and a confused buzz of mixed voices, some louder than others, like scolding, and little short of screaming, all raised to vocatives, as in a fright: and while I was wondering what could be the matter, downstairs ran Dorcas, and at my door, in an accent rather frightedly and hoarsely inward than shrilly clamorous, cried out Fire! Fire! And this the more alarmed me, as she seemed to endeavour to cry out louder, but could not.

  My pen (its last scrawl a benediction on my beloved) dropped from my fingers; and up started I; and making but three steps to the door, opened it, and cried Where! Where! almost as much terrified as the wench. While she, more than half-undressed, her petticoats in her hand, unable to speak distinctly, pointed upstairs.

  I was there in a moment, and found all owing to the carelessness of Mrs Sinclair’s cook-maid, who, having sat up to read the simple history of Dorastus and Faunia when she should have been in bed, had set fire to an old pair of calico window-curtains.

  She had had the presence of mind in her fright, to tear down the half-burnt valance as well as curtains, and had got them, though blazing, into the chimney, by the time I came up; so that I had the satisfaction to find the danger happily over.

  Meantime Dorcas, after she had directed me upstairs, not knowing the worst was over, and expecting every minute the house would be in a blaze, out of tender regard for her lady (I shall for ever love the wench for it) ran to her door, and rapping loudly at it, in a recovered voice, cried out with a shrillness equal to her love, Fire! Fire! The house is on fire! Rise, madam! This instant rise—if you would not be burnt in your bed!

  No sooner had she made this dreadful outcry, but I heard her lady’s door with hasty violence unbar, unbolt, unlock, and open, and my charmer’s voice sounding like that of one going into a fit.

  You may believe how much I was affected. I trembled with concern for her, and hastened down faster than the alarm of fire had made me run up, in order to satisfy her that all the danger was over.

  When I had flown down to her chamber door, there I beheld the charmingest creature in the world, supporting herself on the arm of the gasping Dorcas, sighing, trembling, and ready to faint, with nothing on but an under-petticoat, her lovely bosom half-open, and her feet just slipped into her shoes. As soon as she saw me, she panted, and struggled to speak; but could only say, oh, Mr Lovelace! and down was ready to sink.

  I clasped her in my arms with an ardour she never felt before: My dearest life! fear nothing: I have been up—the danger is over—the fire is got under. And how (foolish devil! to Dorcas) could you thus, by your hideous yell, alarm and frighten my angel!

  Oh Jack! how her sweet bosom, as I clasped her to mine, heaved and panted! I could even distinguish her dear heart flutter, flutter, fl
utter, against mine; and for a few minutes, I feared she would go into fits.

  Lest the half-lifeless charmer should catch cold in this undress, I lifted her to her bed, and sat down by her upon the side of it, endeavouring with the utmost tenderness, as well of action as expression, to dissipate her terrors.

  But, far from being affected by an address so fervent (although from a man she had so lately owned a regard for, and with whom, but an hour or two before, she had parted with so much satisfaction), that I never saw a bitterer, or more moving grief, when she came fully to herself.

  She appealed to Heaven against my treachery, as she called it; while I, by the most solemn vows, pleaded my own equal fright, and the reality of the danger that had alarmed us both.

  She conjured me, in the most solemn and affecting manner, by turns threatening and soothing, to quit her apartment, and permit her to hide herself from the light, and from every human eye.

  I besought her pardon, yet could not avoid offending; and repeatedly vowed that the next morning’s sun should witness our espousals. But taking, I suppose, all my protestations of this kind, as an indication that I intended to proceed to the last extremity, she would hear nothing that I said; but, redoubling her struggles to get from me, in broken accents, and exclamations the most vehement, she protested that she would not survive what she called a treatment so disgraceful and villainous; and, looking all wildly round her as if for some instrument of mischief, she espied a pair of sharp-pointed scissors on a chair by the bedside, and endeavoured to catch them up, with design to make her words good on the spot.

  Seeing her desperation, I begged her to be pacified; that she would hear me speak but one word, declaring that I intended no dishonour to her: and having seized the scissors, I threw them into the chimney; and she still insisting vehemently upon my distance, I permitted her to take the chair.

  But, oh the sweet discomposure! Her bared shoulders and arms, so inimitably fair and lovely: her spread hands crossed over her charming neck; yet not half concealing its glossy beauties: the scanty coat, as she rose from me, giving the whole of her admirable shape and fine-turned limbs: her eyes running over, yet seeming to threaten future vengeance: and at last her lips uttering what every indignant look and glowing feature portended; exclaiming as if I had done the worst I could do, and vowing never to forgive me; wilt thou wonder that I could avoid resuming the incensed, the already too-much-provoked fair one?

  I did; and clasped her once more to my bosom: but, considering the delicacy of her frame, her force was amazing, and showed how much in earnest she was in her resentment; for it was with the utmost difficulty that I was able to hold her: nor could I prevent her sliding through my arms, to fall upon her knees: which she did at my feet. And there, in the anguish of her soul, her streaming eyes lifted up to my face with supplicating softness, hands folded, dishevelled hair; for her night head-dress having fallen off in her struggling, her charming tresses fell down in naturally shining ringlets, as if officious to conceal the dazzling beauties of her neck and shoulders; her lovely bosom too heaving with sighs, and broken sobs, as if to aid her quivering lips in pleading for her—in this manner, but when her grief gave way to her speech, in words pronounced with that emphatical propriety which distinguishes this admirable creature in her elocution from all the women I ever heard speak; did she implore my compassion, and my honour.

  ‘Consider me, dear Lovelace,’ were her charming words! ‘on my knees I beg you to consider me, as a poor creature who has no protector but you; who has no defence but your honour: by that honour! by your humanity! by all you have vowed! I conjure you not to make me abhor myself! Not to make me vile in my own eyes!’

  I mentioned the morrow as the happiest day of my life.

  Tell me not of tomorrow; if indeed you mean me honourably, now, this very instant NOW! you must show it, and begone! You can never in a whole long life repair the evils you may NOW make me suffer!

  Wicked wretch!—insolent villain! Yes, she called me insolent villain, although so much in my power! And for what?—only for kissing (with passion indeed) her inimitable neck, her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, and her streaming eyes, as this assemblage of beauties offered itself at once to my ravished sight; she continuing kneeling at my feet, as I sat.

  If I am a villain, madam—And then my grasping but trembling hand—I hope I did not hurt the tenderest and loveliest of all her beauties. If I am a villain, madam—

  She tore my ruffle, shrunk from my happy hand, with amazing force and agility, as with my other arm I would have encircled her waist.

  Indeed you are! The worst of villains! Help! dear blessed people! and screamed—No help for a poor creature!

  Am I then a villain, madam? Am I then a villain, say you?—and clasped both my arms about her, offering to raise her to my bounding heart.

  Oh no! and yet you are! And again I was her dear Lovelace! Her hands again clasped over her charming bosom. Kill me! kill me!—if I am odious enough in your eyes, to deserve this treatment; and I will thank you! Too long, much too long, has my life been a burden to me!—or, wildly looking all around her, give me but the means, and I will instantly convince you that my honour is dearer to me than my life!

  Then, with still folded hands, and fresh-streaming eyes, I was her blessed Lovelace; and she would thank me with her latest breath if I would permit her to make that preference, or free her from farther indignities.

  I sat suspended for a moment. By my soul, thought I, thou art upon full proof an angel and no woman! Still, however, close clasping her to my bosom, as I had raised her from her knees, she again slid through my arms, and dropped upon them: ‘See, Mr Lovelace! Good God! that I should live to see this hour, and to bear this treatment! see, at your feet a poor creature, imploring your pity, who for your sake is abandoned of all the world! Let not my father’s curse thus dreadfully operate! Be not you the inflicter, who have been the cause of it! But spare me! I beseech you spare me!—for how have I deserved this treatment from you? For your own sake, if not for my sake, and as you would that God Almighty, in your last hour, should have mercy upon you, spare me!’

  What heart but must have been penetrated?

  I would again have raised the dear suppliant from her knees; but she would not be raised, till my softened mind, she said, had yielded to her prayer, and bid her rise to be innocent.

  Rise then, my angel, rise, and be what you are, and all you wish to be! Only pronounce me pardoned for what has passed, and tell me you will continue to look upon me with that eye of favour and serenity, which I have been blessed with for some days past, and I will submit to my beloved conqueress, whose power never was at so great an height with me, as now; and retire to my apartment.

  God Almighty, said she, hear your prayers in your most arduous moments, as you have heard mine! And now leave me, this moment leave me, to my own recollection: in that you will leave me to misery enough, and more than you ought to wish to your bitterest enemy.

  Impute not everything, my best beloved, to design; for design it was not.

  Oh Mr Lovelace!

  Upon my soul, madam, the fire was real—(and so it was, Jack!). The house might have been consumed by it, as you will be convinced in the morning by ocular demonstration.

  Oh Mr Lovelace!

  Let my passion for you, madam, and the unexpected meeting of you at your chamber door, in an attitude so charming—

  Leave me, leave me, this moment! I beseech you, leave me; looking wildly and in confusion, now about her, and now upon herself.

  Excuse me, dearest creature, for those liberties which, innocent as they were, your too great delicacy may make you take amiss.

  No more! no more! Leave me, I beseech you! Again looking upon herself, and around her, in a sweet confusion. Begone! Begone! Then weeping, she struggled vehemently to withdraw her hands, which all the while I held between mine. Her struggles! Oh what additiona
l charms, as I now reflect, did her struggles give to every feature, every limb, of a person so sweetly elegant and lovely!

  Impossible! my dearest life, till you pronounce my pardon! Say but you forgive me! Say you do!

  I beseech you, begone! Leave me to myself, that I may think what I can do, and what I ought to do.

  That, my dearest creature, is not enough. You must tell me that I am forgiven; that you will see me tomorrow, as if nothing had happened.

  And then, clasping her again in my arms, hoping she would not forgive me—

  I will—I do forgive you—wretch that you are!

  And will you look upon me tomorrow, as if nothing had passed?

  Yes, yes!

  I cannot take these peevish affirmatives, so much like intentional negatives! Say you will, upon your honour!

  Upon my honour, then. Oh now, begone! begone! and never—

  What, never, my angel! Is this forgiveness?

  Never, said she, let what has passed be remembered more!

  I insisted upon one kiss to seal my pardon—and retired like a fool, a woman’s fool, as I was! I sneakingly retired! Couldst thou have believed it?

  But I had no sooner entered my own apartment, than, reflecting upon the opportunity I had lost, and that all I had gained was but an increase of my own difficulties; and upon the ridicule I should meet with below, upon a weakness so much out of my usual character; I repented, and hastened back, in hope that through the distress of mind which I left her in, she had not so soon fastened her door; and I was fully resolved to execute all my purposes, be the consequence what it would; for, thought I, I have already sinned beyond cordial forgiveness, I doubt; and if fits and desperation ensue, I can but marry at last, and then I shall make her amends.