Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  Oh that your mother would have the goodness to permit me the presence of the only comforter that my afflicted, my half-broken heart, could be raised by! But I charge you, think not of coming up without her indulgent permission. I am too ill at present, my dear, to think of combating with this dreadful man; and of flying from this horrid house! My bad writing will show you this. But my illness will be my present security, should he indeed have meditated villainy. Forgive, oh forgive me, my dearest friend, the trouble I have given you! All must soon—But why add I grief to grief, and trouble to trouble? But I charge you, my beloved creature, not to think of coming up without your mother’s leave, to the truly desolate and broken-spirited

  CLARISSA HARLOWE

  • • •

  Well, Jack! And what thinkest thou of this last letter? Miss Howe values not either fame or censure; and thinkest thou that this letter will not bring the little fury up, though she could procure no other conveyance than her higgler’s panniers, one for herself, the other for her maid? She knows where to come now! Many a little villain have I punished for knowing more than I would have her know; and that by adding to her knowledge and experience. What thinkest thou, Belford, if by getting hither this virago, and giving cause for a lamentable letter from her to the fair fugitive, I should be able to recover her? Would she not visit that friend in her distress, thinkest thou, whose intended visit to her in hers brought her into the condition she herself had so perfidiously escaped from?

  Let me enjoy the thought!

  Shall I send this letter? Thou seest I have left room, if I fail in the exact imitation of so charming a hand, to avoid too strict a scrutiny. Do they not both deserve it of me? Seest thou not how the raving girl threatens her mother? Ought she not to be punished? And can I be a worse devil, or villain, or monster, than she calls me in this letter; and has called me in her former letters; were I to punish them both, as my vengeance urges me to punish them. And when I have executed that my vengeance, how charmingly satisfied may they both go down into the country, and keep house together, and have a much better reason than their pride could give them for living the single life they have both seemed so fond of?

  I am on tiptoe, Jack, to enter upon this project. Is not one country as good to me as another, if I should be obliged to take another tour upon it?

  • • •

  But I will not venture. Mr Hickman is a good man, they tell me. I love a good man. I hope one of these days to be a good man myself.

  But the principal reason that withholds me (for ‘tis a tempting project!) is, for fear of being utterly blown up if I should not be quick enough with my letter, or if Miss Howe should deliberate on setting out, or try her mother’s consent first; in which time, a letter from my frighted beauty might reach her; for I have do doubt, wherever she has refuged, but her first work was to write to her vixen friend. I will therefore go on patiently; and take my revenge upon the little fury at my leisure.

  But, in spite of my compassion for Hickman, whose better character is sometimes my envy, and who is one of those mortals that bring clumsiness into credit with the mothers, to the disgrace of us clever fellows, and often to our disappointment with the daughters; and who has been very busy in assisting these double-armed beauties against me; I swear by all the dii majores, as well as minores, that I will have Miss Howe, if I cannot have her more exalted friend! And then, if there be so much flaming love between these girls as they pretend, what will my charmer profit by her escape?

  And now that I shall permit Miss Howe to reign a little longer, let me ask thee if thou hast not, in the enclosed letter, a fresh instance that a great many of my difficulties with her sister-toast are owing to this flighty girl?

  Letter 230: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Thursday evening, June 8

  After my last, so full of other hopes, the contents of this will surprise you. Oh my dearest friend, the man has at last proved himself to be a villain! It was with the utmost difficulty last night, that I preserved myself from the vilest dishonour. He extorted from me a promise of forgiveness; and that I would see him next day, as if nothing had happened: but if it were possible to escape from a wretch who, as I have too much reason to believe, formed a plot to fire the house, to frighten me almost naked into his arms, how could I see him next day?

  I have escaped, Heaven be praised, I have!

  All my present hope is to find some reputable family, or person of my own sex, who is obliged to go beyond sea, or who lives abroad; I care not whither; but if I might choose, in some one of our American colonies—never to be heard of more by my relations, whom I have so grievously offended.

  Neither is there need of the renewal of your so often tendered goodness to me: for I have with me rings and other valuables that were sent me with my clothes, which will turn into money, to answer all I can want till Providence shall be pleased to put me into some way to help myself, if, for my further punishment, my life is to be lengthened beyond my wishes.

  I am at present at one Mrs Moore’s at Hampstead. My heart misgave me at coming to this village, because I had been here with him more than once: but the coach hither was so ready a conveniency, that I knew not what to do better. Then I shall stay here no longer than till I can receive your answer to this: in which you will be pleased to let me know if I cannot be hid, according to your former contrivance (happy, had I given into it at the time!) by Mrs Townsend’s assistance, till the heat of his search be over. The Deptford road, I imagine, will be the right direction to hear of a passage, and to get safely aboard.

  I am sure you will approve of my escape—the rather, as the people of the house must be very vile: for they, and that Dorcas too, did hear me (I know they did) cry out for help. If the fire had been other than a villainous plot (although in the morning, to blind them, I pretended to think it otherwise), they would have been alarmed as much as I; and have run in, hearing me scream, to comfort me, supposing my terror was the fire; to relieve me, supposing it were anything else. But the vile Dorcas went away, as soon as she saw the wretch throw his arms about me! An evident contrivance of them all. God be praised, I am out of their house!

  My terror is not yet over: I can hardly think myself safe: every well-dressed man I see from my windows, whether on horseback or on foot, I think to be him.

  I know you will expedite an answer. What a dreadful hand have I made of it!

  You will direct for me, my dear, by the name of Mrs Harriot Lucas.

  Had I not made escape when I did, I was resolved to attempt it again and again.

  How hard, how next to impossible, my dear, to avoid many lesser deviations when we are betrayed into a capital one!

  When I began, I thought to write but a few lines. But, be my subject what it will, I know not how to conclude when I write to you.

  Your unhappy, but ever-affectionate,

  CLARISSA HARLOWE

  Letter 231: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Friday morning, past two o’clock

  Io Triumphe! Io Clarissa, sing! Once more, what a happy man thy friend! A silly dear novice, to be heard to tell the coachman whither to carry her! And to go to Hampstead, of all the villages about London! The place where we had been together more than once!

  Methinks I am sorry she managed no better! I shall find the recovery of her too easy a task, I fear! Had she but known how much difficulty enhances the value of anything with me, and had she had the least notion of obliging me, she would never have stopped short at Hampstead, surely.

  Well, but after all this exultation, thou wilt ask, If I have already got back my charmer? I have not. But knowing where she is, is almost the same thing as having her in my power: and it delights me to think how she will start and tremble, when I first pop upon her! How she will look with conscious guilt, that will more than wipe off my guilt of Wednesday night, when she sees her injured lover, and acknowledged husband, from whom, the
greatest of felonies, she would have stolen herself.

  • • •

  Now, Jack, will not her feints justify mine? Does she not invade my province, thinkest thou? And is it not now fairly come to Who shall most deceive and cheat the other? So, I thank my stars, we are upon a par, at last, as to this point—which is a great ease to my conscience, thou must believe.

  Letter 232: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Upper Flask, Hampstead, Friday (June 9)

  morn. 7 o’clock

  I am now here, and here have been this hour and half. What an industrious spirit have I! Nobody can say that I eat the bread of idleness. I take true pains for all the pleasure I enjoy. I cannot choose but to admire myself strangely; for, certainly, with this active soul, I should have made a very great figure in whatever station I had filled.

  And now I have so much leisure upon my hands, that, after having informed myself of all necessary particulars, I am set to my shorthand writing, in order to keep up with time as well as I can: for the subject is now become worthy of me; and it is yet too soon, I doubt, to pay my compliments to my charmer, after all her fatigues for two or three days past. And, moreover, I have abundance of matters preparative to my future proceedings to recount, in order to connect and render all intelligible.

  And here, supposing my narrative of the dramatic kind, ends Act the First. And now begins

  • • •

  ACT II. SCENE, Hampstead Heath Continued

  Enter my Rascal

  Will told them, before I came, ‘That his lady was but lately married to one of the finest gentlemen in the world. But that, he being very gay and lively, she was mortal jealous of him; and in a fit of that sort, had eloped from him. For although she loved him dearly, and he doted upon her (as well he might, since, as they had seen, she was the finest creature that ever the sun shone upon), yet she was apt to be very wilful and sullen, if he might take the liberty to say so—but truth was truth—and if she could not have her own way in everything, would be for leaving him. That she had three or four times played his master such tricks; but with all the virtue and innocence in the world; running away to an intimate friend of hers, who, though a young lady of honour, was but too indulgent to her in this her only failing: for which reason his master had brought her to London lodgings; their usual residence being in the country: and that, on his refusing to satisfy her about a lady he had been seen with in the park, she had, for the first time since she came to town, served his master thus: whom he had left half-distracted on that account.’

  And truly well he might, poor gentleman! cried the honest folks, pitying me before they saw me.

  When I came, my person and dress having answered Will’s description, the people were ready to worship me. I now and then sighed, now and then put on a lighter air; which, however, I designed should show more of vexation ill-disguised, than of real cheerfulness. And they told Will it was a thousand pities so fine a lady should have such skittish tricks; adding, that she might expose herself to great dangers by them; for that there were rakes everywhere (Lovelaces in every corner, Jack!), and many about that town who would leave nothing unattempted to get into her company: and although they might not prevail upon her, yet might they nevertheless hurt her reputation; and, in time, estrange the affections of so fine a gentleman from her.

  Good sensible people, these! Hey, Jack!

  Here, landlord; one word with you. My servant, I find, has acquainted you with the reason of my coming this way. An unhappy affair, landlord! A very unhappy affair! But never was there a more virtuous woman.

  So, sir, she seems to be. A thousand pities her ladyship has such ways. And to so good-humoured a gentleman as you seem to be, sir.

  Mother-spoilt, landlord! Mother-spoilt! that’s the thing! But, sighing, I must make the best of it. What I want you to do for me, is to lend me a great-coat. I care not what it is. If my spouse should see me at a distance, she would make it very difficult for me to get at her speech. A great-coat with a cape, if you have one. I must come upon her before she is aware.

  I am afraid, sir, I have none fit for such a gentleman as you.

  Oh, anything will do! The worse the better.

  Exit landlord. Re-enter with two great-coats

  Ay, landlord, this will be best; for I can button the cape over the lower part of my face. Don’t I look devilishly down and concerned, landlord?

  I never saw a gentleman with a better-natured look. ‘Tis pity you should have such trials, sir.

  I must be very unhappy, no doubt of it, landlord.

  The good woman, who was within hearing of all this, pitied me much.

  Pray, your honour, said she, if I may be so bold, was madam ever a mamma?

  No!—and I sighed. We have been but a little while married; and, as I may say to you, it is her own fault that she is not in that way.

  She’ll get over all these freaks if once she be a mamma, I warrant.

  I can’t be severe to her; she knows that. The moment I see her, all resentment is over with me if she give me but one kind look.

  All this time, I was adjusting my horseman’s coat, and Will was putting in the ties of my wig, and buttoning the cape over my chin.

  I asked the gentlewoman for a little powder. She brought me a powder-box, and I lightly shook the puff over my hat, and flapped one side of it, though the lace looked a little too gay for my covering; and slouching it over my eyes, Shall I be known, think you, madam?

  Your honour is so expert, sir! I wish, if I may be so bold, your lady has not some cause to be jealous.

  The good woman, smiling, wished me success; and so did the landlord. And as thou knowest that I am not a bad mimic, I took a cane which I borrowed of the landlord, and stooped in the shoulders to a quarter of a foot of less height, and stumped away cross to the bowling-green, to practise a little the hobbling gait of a gouty man.

  And now I am going to try if I can’t agree with goody Moore for lodgings and other conveniencies for my sick wife.

  Wife, Lovelace! methinks thou interrogatest.

  Yes, wife; for who knows what cautions the dear fugitive may have given in apprehension of me?

  But has goody Moore any other lodgings to let?

  Yes, yes; I have taken care of that; and find that she has just such conveniencies as I want. And I know that my wife will like them. For, although married, I can do everything I please; and that’s a bold word, you know.

  Letter 233: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Hampstead, Friday night, June 9

  Now, Belford, for the narrative of narratives. I will continue it as I have opportunity; and that so dextrously, that if I break off twenty times, thou shalt not discern where I piece my thread.

  Although grievously afflicted with the gout, I alighted out of my chariot (leaning very hard on my cane with one hand, and on my new servant’s shoulder with the other) the same instant almost that he had knocked at the door, that I might be sure of admission into the house.

  I took care to button my great-coat about me, and to cover with it even the pommel of my sword; it being a little too gay for my years. I stooped forward; blinked with my eyes to conceal their lustre (no vanity in saying that, Jack!); my chin wrapped up for the toothache; my slouched laced hat, and so much of my wig as was visible, giving me all together the appearance of an antiquated beau.

  The maid came to the door. I asked for her mistress. She showed me into one of the parlours; and I sat down, with a gouty Oh!

  Enter goody Moore

  Your servant, madam—but you must excuse me; I cannot well stand. I find by the bill at the door that you have lodgings to let (mumbling my words as if, like my man Will, I had lost some of my fore-teeth): be pleased to inform me what they are; for I like your situation—and I will tell you my family. I have a wife, a good old woman—older than myself, by the way, a pretty deal. She is in
a bad state of health, and is advised into the Hampstead air.

  When, sir, shall you want to come in?

  I will take them from this very day; and, if convenient, will bring my wife in the afternoon.

  We have a single lady, who will be gone in two or three days. She has one of the best apartments: that will then be at liberty.

  You have one or two good ones meantime, I presume, madam, just to receive my wife; for we have lost time. These damned physicians. Excuse me, madam, I am not used to curse; but it is owing to the love I have for my wife. And, as I told you, we have lost time.

  You shall see what accommodations I have, if you please, sir. But I doubt you are too lame to walk upstairs.

  I can make shift to hobble up, now I have rested a little. I’ll just look upon the apartment my wife is to have.

  There were three rooms on a floor; two of them handsome; and the third, she said, still handsomer; but the lady was in it.

  I saw! I saw, she was! for as I hobbled up, crying out upon my weak ankles in the hoarse mumbling voice I had assumed, I beheld a little piece of her, just casting an eye, with the door ajar, as they call it, to observe who was coming up; and, seeing such an old clumsy fellow great-coated in weather so warm, slouched and muffled up, she withdrew, shutting the door without any emotion. But it was not so with me; for thou canst not imagine how my heart danced to my mouth at the very glimpse of her; so that I was afraid the thump, thump, thumping villain, which had so lately thumped as much to no purpose, would have choked me.

  But, madam, cannot a body just peep into the other apartment, that I may be more particular to my wife in the furniture of it?

  The lady desires to be private, sir—but—and was going to ask her leave.

  I caught hold of her hand. However, stay, stay, madam: it mayn’t be proper, if the lady loves to be private. Don’t let me intrude upon the lady.