Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  She wandered a good deal at first. She took notice that she did. And when she got into a little train, not pleasing herself, she apologized to Mrs Lovick for making her begin again and again; and said that third time should go, let it be as it would.

  She dictated the farewell part, without hesitation; and when she came to the blessing and subscription, she took the pen, and dropping on her knees, supported by Mrs Lovick, wrote the conclusion; but Mrs Lovick was forced to guide her hand.

  Letter 476: MR BELFORD

  (In continuation)

  The lady has been giving orders with great presence of mind about her body: directing her nurse and the maid of the house to put her into her coffin as soon as she was cold. Mr Belford, she said, would know the rest by her will.

  • • •

  She has just now given from her bosom, where she always wore it, a miniature picture set in gold of Miss Howe: she gave it to Mrs Lovick, desiring her to fold it up in white paper, and direct it To Charles Hickman, Esq.; and to give it to me, when she was departed, for that gentleman.

  She looked upon the picture before she gave it her. Sweet and ever-amiable friend—companion—sister—lover! said she, and kissed it four several times, once at each tender appellation.

  Thursday afternoon, 4 o’clock

  Letter 479: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

  Seven o’clock, Thursday even. Sept. 7

  I have only to say at present—Thou wilt do well to take a tour to Paris; or wherever else thy destiny shall lead thee!!!

  JOHN BELFORD

  Letter 481: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

  Thursday night

  I may as well try to write; since, were I to go to bed, I shall not sleep. I never had such a weight of grief upon my mind in my life, as upon the demise of this admirable woman; whose soul is now rejoicing in the regions of light.

  You may be glad to know the particulars of her happy exit. I will try to proceed; for all is hush and still; the family retired; but not one of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I dare say, to rest.

  At four o’clock, as I mentioned in my last, I was sent for down; and as thou usedst to like my descriptions, I will give thee the woeful scene that presented itself to me, as I approached the bed.

  The colonel was the first that took my attention, kneeling on the side of the bed, the lady’s right hand in both his, which his face covered, bathing it with his tears; although she had been comforting him, as the women since told him, in elevated strains but broken accents.

  On the other side of the bed sat the good widow; her face overwhelmed with tears, leaning her head against the bed’s head in a most disconsolate manner; and turning her face to me, as soon as she saw me: Oh Mr Belford, cried she, with folded hands—the dear lady—a heavy sob not permitting her to say more.

  Mrs Smith, with clasped fingers and uplifted eyes, as if imploring help from the only Power which could give it, was kneeling down at the bed’s feet, tears in large drops trickling down her cheeks.

  The lady had been silent a few minutes, and speechless as they thought, moving her lips without uttering a word; one hand, as I said, in her cousin’s. But when Mrs Lovick on my approach pronounced my name, Oh! Mr Belford, said she in broken periods; and with a faint inward voice, but very distinct nevertheless. Now! Now! (I bless God for His mercies to his poor creature) will all soon be over. A few—a very few moments—will end this strife—and I shall be happy!

  My dearest cousin, said she, be comforted. What is dying but the common lot? The mortal frame may seem to labour—but that is all! It is not so hard to die, as I believed it to be! The preparation is the difficulty. I bless God, I have had time for that—the rest is worse to beholders than to me! I am all blessed hope—hope itself.

  She was silent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes and the hand her cousin held not between his. Then, Oh death! said she, where is thy sting!

  Then turning her head towards me—Do you, sir, tell your friend that I forgive him! And I pray to God to forgive him! Let him know how happily I die—And that such as my own, I wish to be his last hour.

  After a short silence, in a more broken and faint accent—And you, Mr Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you and make you sensible of all your errors.

  And she spoke faltering and inwardly: Bless—bless—bless—you all—and now—and now (holding up her almost lifeless hands for the last time)—come—Oh come—blessed Lord—JESUS!

  Oh Lovelace! But I can write no more!

  Letter 486: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.

  Friday night, Sept. 8, past ten

  I unlocked the drawer in which (as I mentioned in a former) she had deposited her papers. I accused myself for having not done it overnight. But really I was then incapable of anything.

  I broke it open accordingly, and found in it no less than eleven letters, each sealed with her own seal and black wax, one of which was directed to me.

  • • •

  The other letters are directed to her father, to her mother, one to her two uncles, to her brother, to her sister, to her aunt Hervey, to her cousin Morden, to Miss Howe, to Mrs Norton, and lastly one to you, in performance of her promise that a letter should be sent you when she arrived at her Father’s house! I will withhold this last till I can be assured that you will be fitter to receive it than Tourville tells me you are at present.

  Copies of all these are sealed up and entitled, Copies of my ten posthumous letters, for J. Belford, Esq.; and put in among the bundle of papers left to my direction, which I have not yet had leisure to open.

  No wonder, while able, that she was always writing, since thus only of late could she employ that time which heretofore, from the long days she made, caused so many beautiful works to spring from her fingers. It is my opinion that there never was a lady so young, who wrote so much and with such celerity. Her thoughts keeping pace, as I have seen, with her pen, she hardly ever stopped or hesitated; and very seldom blotted out, or altered. It was a natural talent she was mistress of, among many other extraordinary ones.

  I gave the colonel his letter, and ordered Harry instantly to get ready to carry the others.

  Meantime (retiring into the next apartment) we opened the will. We were both so much affected in perusing it, that at one time the colonel, breaking off, gave it to me to read on; at another, I gave it back to him to proceed with; neither of us being able to read it through without such tokens of sensibility as affected the voices of each.

  The colonel and I have bespoke mourning for our selves and servants.

  Letter 497: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Uxbridge, Sat. Sept. 9

  Jack,

  I think it absolutely right that my ever-dear and beloved lady should be opened and embalmed. It must be done out of hand—this very afternoon. Your acquaintance Tomkins and old Anderson of this place, whom I will bring with me, shall be the surgeons. I have talked to the latter about it.

  I will see everything done with that decorum which the case, and the sacred person of my beloved require.

  Everything that can be done to preserve the charmer from decay shall also be done. And when she will descend to her original dust, or cannot be kept longer, I will then have her laid in my family vault between my own father and mother. Myself, as I am in my soul, so in person, chief mourner. But her heart, to which I have such unquestionable pretensions, in which once I had so large a share, and which I will prize above my own, I will have. I will keep it in spirits. It shall never be out of my sight.

  Surely nobody will dispute my right to her. Whose was she living? Whose is she dead, but mine? Her cursed parents, whose barbarity to her no doubt was the true cause of her death, have long since renounced her. She left them for me. She chose me therefore: and I was her husband. What though I treated her like a villain? Do I not pay for it now? Would she not have been
mine had I not? Nobody will dispute but she would. And has she not forgiven me? Whose then can she be but mine?

  I will free you from your executorship and all your cares.

  Take notice, Belford, that I do hereby actually discharge you, and everybody, from all cares and troubles relating to her. And as to her last testament I will execute it myself.

  Her bowels, if her friends are very solicitous about them, and very humble and sorrowful (and none have they of their own), shall be sent down to them—to be laid with her ancestors—unless she has ordered otherwise. For, except that she shall not be committed to the unworthy earth so long as she can be kept out of it, her will shall be performed in everything.

  I charge you stir not in any part of her will, but by my express direction. I will order everything myself. For am I not her husband? And being forgiven by her, am I not the chosen of her heart? What else signifies her forgiveness?

  What I write to you for is:

  1.To forbid you intermeddling with anything relating to her. To forbid Morden intermeddling also. If I remember right, he has threatened me, and cursed me, and used me ill. And let him be gone from her if he would avoid my resentments.

  2.To send me a lock of her hair instantly by the bearer.

  3.To engage Tomkins to have everything ready for the opening and embalming. I shall bring Anderson with me.

  4.To get her will and everything ready for my perusal and consideration.

  I will have possession of her dear heart this very night; and let Tomkins provide a proper receptacle and spirits, till I can get a golden one made for it.

  I will take her papers. And as no one can do her memory justice equal to myself, and I will not spare myself, who can better show the world what she was, and what a villain he that could use her ill? And the world shall also see, what implacable and unworthy parents she had.

  Although her will may in some respects cross mine, yet I expect to be observed. I will be the interpreter of hers.

  Next to mine, hers shall be observed, for she is my wife; and shall be to all eternity. I will never have another.

  Adieu, Jack. I am preparing to be with you. I charge you, as you value my life or your own, do not oppose me in anything relating to my Clarissa Lovelace.

  R. LOVELACE

  Letter 500: COLONEL MORDEN TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Sunday night, Sept. 10

  Dear sir,

  According to my promise, I send you an account of matters here.

  When we were within five miles of Harlowe Place, I put on a hand-gallop. I ordered the hearse to proceed more slowly still, the cross-road we were in being rough, and having more time before us than I wanted; for I wished not the hearse to be in till near dusk.

  I got to my cousin’s about 4 o’clock. You may believe I found a mournful house.

  At my entrance into the court, they were all in motion. Every servant whom I saw had swelled eyes, and looked with so much concern that at first I apprehended some new disaster had happened in the family.

  They all helped on one another’s grief, as they had before each other’s hardness of heart.

  My cousin James met me at the entrance of the hall. His countenance expressed a fixed concern; and he desired me to excuse his behaviour the last time I was there.

  My cousin Arabella came to me full of tears and grief. Oh cousin! said she, hanging upon my arm, I dare not ask you any questions! About the approach of the hearse, I suppose she meant.

  I myself was full of grief; and without going farther or speaking, sat down in the hall, in the first chair.

  The brother sat down on one hand of me, the sister on the other. Both were silent. The latter in tears.

  My cousin Harlowe, the dear creature’s father, as soon as he saw me said, Oh cousin, cousin, of all our family you are the only one who have nothing to reproach yourself with! You are a happy man!

  The poor mother bowing her head to me in speechless grief sat with her handkerchief held to her eyes with one hand.

  Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony as he walked in before me; and seemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced mother some words of comfort. But she was unable to utter them, and got behind her mother’s chair; and inclining her face over it on the unhappy lady’s shoulder, seemed to claim the consolation that indulgent parent used, but then was unable to afford her.

  Young Mr Harlowe with all his vehemence of spirit was now subdued. His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the cause of it.

  As I was the only person (grieved as I was myself) from whom any of them at that instant could derive comfort: Let us not, said I, my dear cousin, approaching the inconsolable mother, give way to a grief which however just can now avail us nothing. We hurt ourselves, and cannot recall the dear creature for whom we mourn. Nor would you wish it, if you knew with what assurances of eternal happiness she left the world. She is happy, madam! Depend upon it, she is happy! And comfort yourselves with that assurance.

  • • •

  One in the morning

  About six o’clock the hearse came to the outward gate. The parish church is at some distance; but the wind sitting fair, the afflicted family were struck, just before it came, into a fresh fit of grief on hearing the funeral bell tolled in a very solemn manner. A respect as it proved, and as they all guessed, paid to the memory of the dear deceased out of officious love, as the hearse passed near the church.

  Judge, when their grief was so great in expectation of it, what it must be when it arrived.

  A servant came in to acquaint us with what its lumbering heavy noise up the paved inner court-yard apprised us of before.

  He spoke not. He could not speak. He looked, bowed, and withdrew.

  I stepped out. No one else could then stir. Her brother, however, soon followed me.

  When I came to the door, I beheld a sight very affecting.

  You have heard, sir, how universally my dear cousin was beloved. By the poor and middling sort especially, no young lady was ever so much beloved. And with reason: she was the common patroness of all the honest poor in her neighbourhood.

  These, when the coffin was taken out of the hearse, crowding about it, hindered for a few moments its being carried in; the young people struggling who should bear it; and yet with respectful whisperings rather than clamorous contention. A mark of veneration I had never before seen paid, upon any occasion in all my travels, from the under-bred many, from whom noise is generally inseparable in all their emulations. At last six maidens were permitted to carry it in by the six handles.

  The corpse was thus borne, with the most solemn respect, into the hall, and placed for the present upon two stools there. The plates, and emblems, and inscription, set every one gazing upon the lid, and admiring. The more, when they were told that all was of her own ordering: They wished to be permitted a sight of the corpse; but rather mentioned this as their wish than their hope. When they had all satisfied their curiosity, and remarked upon the emblems, they dispersed, with blessings upon her memory, and with tears and lamentations; pronouncing her to be happy; and inferring that were she not so, what would become of them?

  Your faithful and obedient servant,

  WM. MORDEN

  Letter 515: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Tuesday, Sept. 26

  Your solicitude to get me out of this heavy changeable climate exactly tallies with everybody’s here. They all believe that travelling will establish me. Yet I think I am quite well.

  But wilt thou write often when I am gone? Wilt thou then piece the thread where thou brokest it off? Wilt thou give me the particulars of their distress, who were my auxiliaries in bringing on the event that affects me? Nay, principals rather: since, say what thou wilt, what did I do worth a woman’s breaking her heart for?

  Faith and troth, Jack, I have had very hard usage, as I have often said—to ha
ve such a plaguy ill name given me, pointed at, screamed out upon, run away from, as a mad dog would be; all my own friends ready to renounce me!

  Yet I think I deserve it all: for have I not been as ready to give up myself, as others are to condemn me?

  What madness, what folly, this! Who will take the part of a man that condemns himself? Who can? Out upon me for an impolitic wretch! I have not the art of the least artful of any of our Christian princes; who every day are guilty of ten times worse breaches of faith; and yet, issuing out a manifesto, they wipe their mouths, and go on from infraction to infraction, from robbery to robbery; commit devastation upon devastation; and destroy—for their glory! And are rewarded with the names of conquerors, and are dubbed Le Grand; praised, and even deified by orators and poets, for their butcheries and depredations.

  While I, a poor, single, harmless prowler; at least comparatively harmless; in order to satisfy my hunger, steal but one poor lamb; and every mouth is opened, every hand is lifted up against me.

  Nay, as I have just now heard, I am to be manifested against, though no prince: for Miss Howe threatens to have the case published to the whole world.

  • • •

  Upon the whole, Jack, had not the lady died, would there have been half so much said of it as there is? Was I the cause of her death? or could I help it? And have there not been, in a million of cases like this, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand that have not ended as this has ended? How hard, then, is my fate! Upon my soul, I won’t bear it as I have done; but, instead of taking guilt to myself, claim pity. And this (since yesterday cannot be recalled) is the only course I can pursue to make myself easy. Proceed anon.

  Letter 517: MR BELFORD TO COLONEL MORDEN

  Thursday, Sept. 21

  Give me leave, dear sir, to address myself to you in a very serious and solemn manner on a subject that I must not, cannot dispense with; as I promised the divine lady that I would do everything in my power to prevent that further mischief which she was so very apprehensive of.