Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  Again I venture to write to you (almost against inclination); and that by your former conveyance, little as I like it.

  I know not how it is with you. It may be bad; and then it would be hard to upbraid you for a silence you may not be able to help. But if not, what shall I say severe enough, that you have not answered either of my last letters? The first of which (and I think it imported you too much to be silent upon it) you owned the receipt of. The other, which was delivered into your own hands, was so pressing for the favour of a line from you, that I am amazed I could not be obliged—and still more, that I have not heard from you since.

  The fellow made so strange a story of the condition he saw you in, and of your speech to him, that I know not what to conclude from it: only, that he is a simple, blundering, and yet conceited fellow, who aiming at description, and the rustic wonderful, gives an air of bumkinly romance to all he tells. That this is his character, you will believe, when you are informed that he described you in grief excessive, yet so improved in your person and features, and so rosy, that was his word, in your face, and so flush-coloured, and so plump in your arms, that one would conclude you were labouring under the operation of some malignant poison; and so much the rather, as he was introduced to you when you were upon a couch, from which you offered not to rise, or sit up.

  Upon my word, Miss Harlowe, I am greatly distressed upon your account; for I must be so free as to say that, in your ready return with your deceiver, you have not at all answered my expectations, nor acted up to your own character: for Mrs Townsend tells me, from the women at Hampstead, how cheerfully you put yourself into his hands again: yet, at the time, it was impossible you should be married!

  Lord, my dear, what pity it is that you took so much pains to get from the man! But you know best! Sometimes I think it could not be you to whom the rustic delivered my letter. But it must too: yet it is strange I could not have one line by him: not one—and you so soon well enough to go with him back again!

  I am not sure that the letter I am now writing will come to your hands: so shall not say half that I have upon my mind to say. But if you think it worth your while to write to me, pray let me know what fine ladies, his relations, those were, who visited you at Hampstead, and carried you back again so joyfully to a place that I had so fully warned you—But I will say no more: at least till I know more: for I can do nothing but wonder, and stand amazed!

  Notwithstanding all the man’s baseness, ‘tis plain there was more than a lurking love—Good God! But I have done! Yet I know not how to have done, neither! Yet I must—I will.

  Only account to me, my dear, for what I cannot at all account for: and inform me whether you are really married, or not. And then I shall know whether there must, or must not, be a period shorter than that of one of our lives, to a friendship which has hitherto been the pride and boast of

  Your ANNA HOWE

  Letter 276: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Thursday noon, June 22

  At my repeated requests, she met me at six this morning. She was ready dressed; for she has not had her clothes off ever since she declared that they never more should be off in this house.

  It is easy for me, Mr Lovelace, to see that further violences are intended me if I comply not with your purposes, whatever they are. I will suppose them to be what you so solemnly profess they are. But I have told you as solemnly my mind, that I never will, that I never can, be yours; nor, if so, any man’s upon earth. All vengeance, nevertheless, for the wrongs you have done me, I disclaim. I want but to slide into some obscure corner, to hide myself from you, and from everyone who once loved me. The desire lately so near my heart, of a reconciliation with my friends, is much abated. They shall not receive me now, if they would.

  I know that I have not now a friend in the world. Even Miss Howe has given me up—or you are—but I would fain keep my temper! By your means I have lost them all—and you have been a barbarous enemy to me. You know you have.

  She paused.

  I could not speak.

  At last, she broke silence. I have no patience, said she, to find myself a slave, a prisoner in a vile house. Tell me, sir, in so many words tell me, whether it be, or be not, your intention to permit me to quit it? To permit me the freedom which is my birthright as an English subject?

  And saying this, away she flung, leaving me in a confusion so great that I knew not what to think, say, or do.

  But Dorcas soon roused me. Do you know, sir, running in hastily, that my lady is gone downstairs!

  No, sure! And down I flew, and found her once more at the street door, contending with Polly Horton to get out.

  She rushed by me into the fore-parlour, and flew to the window, and attempted once more to throw up the sash. Good people! Good people! cried she.

  I caught her in my arms, and lifted her from the window. But being afraid of hurting the charming creature (charming in her very rage), she slid through my arms on the floor. Let me die here! Let me die here! were her words; remaining jointless and immoveable till Sally and Mrs Sinclair hurried in.

  She was visibly terrified at the sight of the old wretch; while I, sincerely affected, appealed, Bear witness, Mrs Sinclair! Bear witness, Miss Martin! Miss Horton! Everyone bear witness, that I offer not violence to this beloved creature!

  She then found her feet. But let not that woman come into my presence—nor that Miss Horton neither, who would not have dared to control me, had she not been a base one!

  Hoh, sir! Hoh, madam! vociferated the old creature, her arms kemboed, and flourishing with one foot to the extent of her petticoats. What ado’s here about nothing! I never knew such work in my life, between a chicken of a gentleman, and a tiger of a lady!

  All thy new expostulations in my beloved’s behalf I will answer when I see thee.

  Letter 277: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Thursday night

  Confoundedly out of humour with this perverse lady. Nor wilt thou blame me, if thou art my friend.

  With great difficulty I prevailed upon her to favour me with her company for one half-hour this evening. The necessity I was under to go down to M. Hall was the subject I wanted to talk to her upon.

  If I go not down to M. Hall, madam, you’ll have no scruple to stay here, I suppose, till Thursday is over?

  If I cannot help myself, I must. But I insist upon being permitted to go out of this house, whether you leave it, or not.

  Well, madam, then I will comply with your commands. And I will go out this very evening, in quest of lodgings that you shall have no objection to.

  I will have no lodgings of your providing, sir. I will go to Mrs Moore’s at Hampstead.

  Mrs Moore’s, madam? I have no objection to Mrs Moore’s. But will you give me your promise to admit me there to your presence?

  As I do here—when I cannot help it.

  My heart, madam, my soul is all yours at present. But you must give me hope that your promise, in your own construction, binds you, no new cause to the contrary, to be mine on Thursday. How else can I leave you?

  Let me go to Hampstead; and trust to my favour.

  May I trust to it? Say, only, may I trust to it?

  How will you trust to it, if you extort an answer to this question?

  I will only say, madam, that I refer myself to your generosity. My heart is not to be trusted at this instant. As a mark of my submission to your will, you shall, if you please, withdraw—but I will not go to M. Hall. Live or die my uncle, I will not go to M. Hall—but will attend the effect of your promise. Remember, madam, you have promised to endeavour to make yourself easy, till you see the event of next Thursday. Next Thursday, remember, your uncle comes up to see us married. That’s the event!

  Away flew the charmer, with this half permission, and no doubt thought that she had an escape, nor without reason.

  Letter 278: MR LOVELACE T
O JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  June 23. Friday morning

  I went out early this morning, on a design that I know not yet whether I shall or shall not pursue; and on my return found Simon Parsons, my lord’s Berkshire bailiff (just before arrived), waiting for me with a message in form, sent by all the family, to press me to go down, and that at my lord’s particular desire; who wants to see me before he dies.

  • • •

  Nothing will do, Jack! I can procure no favour from her, though she has obtained from me the point which she had set her heart upon.

  I will give thee a brief account of what passed between us.

  I first proposed instant marriage; and this in the most fervent manner: but was denied as fervently.

  ‘Tis well, madam! But ask me anything I can do to oblige you; and I will oblige you, though in nothing will you oblige me.

  Then I ask you, then I request of you, to let me go to Hampstead.

  I paused—and at last—By my soul you shall—This very moment I will wait upon you, and see you fixed there, if you’ll promise me your hand on Thursday, in presence of your uncle.

  I want not you to see me fixed—I will promise nothing.

  You know the condition, madam—next Thursday.

  You dare not trust—

  My infinite demerits tell me that I ought not—Nevertheless I will confide in your generosity. Tomorrow morning (no new cause arising to give reason to the contrary), as early as you please, you may go to Hampstead.

  This seemed to oblige her. But yet she looked with a face of doubt.

  I will go down to the women. And having no better judges at hand, will hear what they say upon my critical situation with this proud beauty, who has so insolently rejected a Lovelace kneeling at her feet, though making an earnest tender of himself for a husband, in spite of all his prejudices to the state of shackles.

  Letter 280: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  She claimed the performance of my promise, the moment she saw me, of permitting her (haughtily she spoke the word) to go to Hampstead as soon as I were gone to Berkshire.

  Most cheerfully I renewed it.

  She desired me to give orders in her hearing.

  I sent for Dorcas and Will. They came. Do you both take notice (but, perhaps, sir, I may take you with me), that your lady is to be obeyed in all her commands. She purposes to return to Hampstead as soon as I am gone. My dear, will you not have a servant to attend you?

  I shall want no servant there.

  Will you take Dorcas?

  If I should want Dorcas, I can send for her.

  Shall I, my dear, call up Mrs Sinclair, and give her orders to the same effect, in your hearing?

  I desire not to see Mrs Sinclair; nor any that belong to her.

  As you please, madam.

  And then (the servants being withdrawn) I urged her again for the assurance that she would meet me at the altar on Thursday next. But to no purpose. May she not thank herself for all that may follow?

  One favour, however, I would not be denied; to be admitted to pass the evening with her.

  All sweetness and obsequiousness will I be on this occasion.

  This, Jack, however, shall be her last trial; and if she behave as nobly in and after this second attempt (all her senses about her), as she has done after the first, she will come out an angel upon full proof, in spite of man, woman, and devil: then shall there be an end of all her sufferings. I will then renounce that vanquished devil, and reform. And if any vile machination start up, presuming to mislead me, I will sooner stab it in my heart as it rises, than give way to it.

  A few hours will now decide all. But whatever be the event, I shall be too busy to write again, till I get to M. Hall.

  Meantime I am in strange agitations. I must suppress them, if possible before I venture into her presence. My heart bounces my bosom from the table. I will lay down my pen, and wholly resign to its impulses.

  Letter 281: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Fri. night, or rather Sat. morn. 1 o’clock

  I thought I should not have had either time or inclination to write another line before I got to M. Hall. But have the first; must find the last; since I can neither sleep, nor do anything but write, if I can do that. I am most confoundedly out of humour. The reason let it follow; if it will follow—no preparation for it, from me.

  I tried by gentleness and love to soften—What? Marble. A heart incapable either of love or gentleness. Her past injuries for ever in her head. Ready to receive a favour; the permission to go to Hampstead; but neither to deserve it, nor return any. So my scheme of the gentle kind was soon given over.

  I then wanted her to provoke me: like a coward boy who waits for the first blow before he can persuade himself to fight, I half challenged her to challenge or defy me: she seemed aware of her danger; and would not directly brave my resentment: but kept such a middle course that I neither could find a pretence to offend, nor reason to hope.

  She was very uneasy, upon the whole, in my company: wanted often to break from me: yet so held me to my promise of permitting her to go to Hampstead, that I knew not how to get off of it; although it was impossible, in my precarious situation with her, to think of performing it.

  In this situation; the women ready to assist; and, if I proceeded not, as ready to ridicule me; what had I left me but to pursue the concerted scheme, and seek a pretence to quarrel with her in order to revoke my promised permission; and to convince her that I would not be upbraided as the most brutal of ravishers for nothing?

  I had agreed with the women, that if I could not find a pretence in her presence to begin my operations, the note should lie in my way, and I was to pick it up soon after her retiring from me. But I began to doubt at near ten o’clock (so earnest was she to leave me, suspecting my over-warm behaviour to her, and eager grasping of her hand two or three times, with eye-strings, as I felt, on the strain, while her eyes showed uneasiness and apprehension), that if she actually retired for the night, it might be a chance, whether it would be easy to come at her again. Loath therefore to run such a risk, I stepped out at a little after ten, with intent to alter the preconcerted disposition a little; saying I would attend her again instantly. But as I returned, I met her at the door, intending to withdraw for the night. I could not persuade her to go back: nor had I presence of mind (so full of complaisancy as I was to her just before) to stay her by force: so she slid through my hands into her own apartment.

  She had hardly got into her chamber, but I found a little paper, as I was going into mine; which I took up; and, opening it (for it was carefully pinned in another paper), what should it be but a [planted] promissory note, given as a bribe, with a further promise of a diamond ring, to induce Dorcas to favour her mistress’s escape?

  How my temper changed in a moment! Ring, ring, ring, ring, my bell, with a violence enough to break the string, and as if the house were on fire.

  Every devil frighted into active life: the whole house in an uproar.

  Flash came out my sword immediately; for I had it ready on. Cursed, confounded, villainous, bribery and corruption!

  Up ran two or three of the sisterhood: What’s the matter! What’s the matter!

  The matter! (for still my beloved opened not her door; on the contrary, drew another bolt). This abominable Dorcas! (Call her aunt up! Let her see what a traitress she has placed about me! And let her bring the toad to answer for herself) has taken a bribe, a provision for life, to betray her trust; by that means to perpetuate a quarrel between a man and his wife, and frustrate for ever all hopes of reconciliation between us!

  • • •

  Up came the aunt puffing and blowing! As she hoped for mercy, she was not privy to it! She never knew such a plotting perverse lady in her life! Well might servants be at the pass they were, when such ladies as Mrs Lovelace made no conscience of
corrupting them. For her part, she desired no mercy for the wretch: no niece of hers, if she were not faithful to her trust! But what was the proof?

  She was shown the paper—

  But too evident! Cursed, cursed toad, devil, jade, passed from each mouth—and the vileness of the corrupted and the unworthiness of the corruptress were inveighed against.

  Up we all went, passing the lady’s door into the dining-room, to proceed to trial.

  Stamp, stamp, stamp up, each on her heels; rave, rave, rave, every tongue!

  Bring up the creature before us all, this instant!

  And would she have got out of the house, say you!

  These the noises and the speeches, as we clattered by the door of the fair briberess.

  Up was brought Dorcas (whimpering) between two, both bawling out. You must go! You shall go! ‘Tis fit you should answer for yourself! You are a discredit to all worthy servants!—as they pulled and pushed her upstairs—she whining, I cannot see his honour! I cannot look so good and so generous a gentleman in the face! Oh how shall I bear my aunt’s ravings!

  Come up, and be damned. Bring her forward, her imperial judge! What a plague, it is the detection, not the crime, that confounds you. You could be quiet enough for days together, as I see by the date, under the villainy. Tell me, ungrateful devil, tell me, who made the first advances.

  • • •

  But suppose, sir, said Sally, you have my lady and the wench face to face? You see she cares not to confess.

  Oh my carelessness! cried Dorcas. Don’t let my poor lady suffer! Indeed if you all knew what I know, you would say her ladyship has been cruelly treated.

  Your lady won’t, she dare not come out to save you, cried Sally, though it is more his honour’s mercy than your desert, if he does not cut your vile throat this instant.

  Say, repeated Polly, was it your lady that made the first advances, or was it you, you creature?