Clarissa--Or the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  • • •

  Tuesday, eleven o’clock

  I am just returned from depositing my billet. How diligent is this man! It is plain he was in waiting: for I had walked but a few paces after I had deposited it, when, my heart misgiving me, I returned, to have taken it back, in order to reconsider it as I walked, and whether I should, or should not, let it go: but I found it gone.

  In all probability there was but a brick wall of a few inches thick between Mr Lovelace and me at the very time I put the letter under the brick.

  I am come back dissatisfied with myself. But I think, my dear, there can be no harm in meeting him: if I do not, he may take some violent measures: what he knows of the treatment I meet with in malice to him, and with a view to frustrate all his hopes, may make him desperate. His behaviour last time I saw him, under the disadvantages of time and place, and surprised as I was, gives me no apprehension of anything but discovery. What he requires is not unreasonable, and cannot affect my future choice and determination: it is only to assure him from my own lips that I will never be the wife of a man I hate. If I have not an opportunity to meet without hazard or detection, he must once more bear the disappointment. All his trouble, and mine too, is owing to his faulty character. This, although I hate tyranny and arrogance in all shapes, makes me think less of the risks he runs and the fatigues he undergoes, than otherwise I should do; and still less, as my sufferings (derived from the same source) are greater than his.

  Betty confirms the intimation that I must go to my uncle’s on Thursday. She was sent on purpose to direct me to prepare myself for going, and to help me to get up everything in order to it.

  Letter 64: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Wednesday morning, nine o’clock

  I am just returned from my morning walk, and already have received a letter from Mr Lovelace in answer to mine deposited last night. He must have had pen, ink, and paper, with him, for it was written in the coppice with this circumstance; on one knee, kneeling with the other. Not from reverence to the written-to, however, as you’ll find.

  This man has vexed me heartily. I see his gentleness was art; fierceness, and a temper like what I have been too much used to at home, are nature in him. In the mind I am in, nothing shall ever make me forgive him, since there can be no good reason for his impatience on an expectation given with reserve, and absolutely revocable. I so much to suffer through him; yet, to be treated as if I were obliged to bear insults from him!

  But here you will be pleased to read his letter; which I shall enclose.

  To Miss Clarissa Harlowe

  Good God!

  What is now to become of me! How shall I support this disappointment! No new cause! On one knee, kneeling with the other, I write! My feet benumbed with midnight wanderings through the heaviest dews that ever fell: my wig and my linen dripping with the hoar frost dissolving on them! Day but just breaking—sun not risen to exhale. May it never rise again!—unless it bring healing and comfort to a benighted soul!

  In proportion to the joy you had inspired (ever lovely promiser!), in such proportion is my anguish!

  And are things drawing towards a crisis between your friends and you? Is not this a reason for me to expect, the rather to expect, the promised interview?

  Oh the wavering, the changeable sex! But can Miss Clarissa Harlowe—

  Forgive me, madam! I know not what I write! Yet, I must, I do, insist upon your promise—or that you will condescend to find better excuses for the failure or convince me that stronger reasons are imposed upon you, than those you offer. A promise once given; upon deliberation given!—the promise-ed only can dispense with; or some very apparent necessity imposed upon the promise-er, which leaves no power to perform it.

  The first promise you ever made me! Life and death, perhaps, depending upon it. My heart desponding from the barbarous methods resolved to be taken with you, in malice to me!

  You would sooner choose death than Solmes. (How my soul spurns the competition!) Oh my beloved creature, what are these but words! Whose words?—sweet and ever-adorable. What?—promise-breaker must I call you? How shall I believe the asseveration (your supposed duty in the question! persecution so flaming! hatred to me so strongly avowed!) after this instance of your so lightly dispensing with your promise!

  If, my dearest life! you would prevent my distraction, or at least distracted consequences, renew the promised hope! My fate is indeed upon its crisis.

  Forgive me; dearest creature, forgive me! I know I have written in too much anguish of mind! Writing this, in the same moment that the just-dawning light has imparted to me the heavy disappointment!

  I dare not re-peruse what I have written. I must

  deposit it. It may serve to show you my distracted apprehensions that this disappointment is but a prelude to the greatest of all. Nor having here any other paper, am I able to write again if I would, on this gloomy spot. Gloomy is my soul; and all nature round me partakes of my gloom! I trust it, therefore, to your goodness! If its fervour excites your displeasure, rather than your pity, you wrong my passion; and I shall be ready to apprehend that I am intended to be the sacrifice of more miscreants than one! Have patience with me, dearest creature! I mean Solmes, and your brother only. But if, exerting your usual generosity, you will excuse and re-appoint, may that God, whom you profess to serve, and who is the God of truth and of promises, protect and bless you, for both; and for restoring to Himself, and to hope,

  Ivy-Cavern in the

  Coppice—day but

  just breaking.

  Your ever-adoring, yet

  almost desponding

  LOVELACE!

  • • •

  This is the answer I shall return.

  Wednesday morning

  I am amazed, sir, at the freedom of your reproaches. Pressed and teased against convenience and inclination to give you a private meeting, am I to be thus challenged and upbraided, and my sex reflected upon, because I thought it prudent to change my mind? A liberty I had reserved to myself when I made the appointment, as you call it. I wanted not instances of your impatient spirit to other people: yet may it be happy for me, that I have this new one; which shows that you can as little spare me, when I pursue the dictates of my own reason, as you do others for acting up to theirs. Two motives you must be governed by in this excess. The one my easiness; the other your own presumption. Since you think you have found out the first; and have shown so much of the last upon it, I am too much alarmed not to wish and desire, that your letter of this day may conclude all the trouble you have had from, or for,

  Your humble servant,

  CL. HARLOWE

  • • •

  I believe, my dear, I may promise myself your approbation, whenever I write or speak with spirit, be it to whom it will. Indeed, I find but too much reason to exert it, since I have to deal with people who measure their conduct to me, not by what is fit or decent, right or wrong, but by what they think my temper will bear. I have, till very lately, been praised for mine; but it has always been by those who never gave me opportunity to return the compliment to themselves. Some people have acted as if they thought forbearance on one side absolutely necessary for them and me to be upon good terms together; and in this case have ever taken care rather to owe that obligation than to lay it. You have hinted to me that resentment is not natural to my temper, and that therefore it must soon subside. It may be so, with respect to my relations: but not to Mr Lovelace, I assure you.

  Wednesday noon, March 29

  • • •

  We cannot always answer for what we can do: but to convince you that I can keep my above resolution, with regard to this Lovelace, angry as my letter is, and three hours as it is since it was written, I assure you that I repent it not, nor will soften it, although I find it is not taken away. And yet I hardly ever before did anything in anger and that I did not repent
in half an hour; and question myself in less than that time, whether I was right or wrong.

  In this respite till Tuesday, I have a little time to look about me, as I may say, and consider of what I have to do, and can do. And Mr Lovelace’s insolence will make me go very home with myself.

  But, with all my courage, I am exceedingly apprehensive about Tuesday next, and about what may result from my steadfastness; for steadfast I am sure I shall be. They are resolved, I am told, to try every means to induce me to comply with what they are determined upon. I am resolved to do the like, to avoid what they would force me to do.

  What can I do? Advise me, my dear!

  Be pleased to remember, my dear, that your last favour was dated on Saturday. This is Wednesday: and none of mine have been taken away since. My situation is extremely difficult. But I am sure you love me still: and not the less on that account. Adieu, my beloved friend.

  CL. HARLOWE

  Letter 70: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

  Thursday night, March 30

  The fruits of my inquiry after your abominable wretch’s behaviour and baseness at the paltry alehouse, which he calls an inn; prepare to hear.

  Wrens and sparrows are not too ignoble a quarry for this villainous goshawk! His assiduities; his watchings; his nightly risks; the inclement weather he travels in; must not be all placed to your account. He has opportunities of making everything light to him of that sort. A sweet pretty girl, I am told—innocent till he went thither. Now! Ah! poor girl!—who knows what?

  But just turned of seventeen! His friend and brother rake [Belford]; a man of humour and intrigue, as I am told, to share the social bottle with. And sometimes another disguised rake or two. No sorrow comes near their hearts. Be not disturbed, my dear, at his hoarsenesses. His pretty Betsy, his Rosebud, as the vile wretch calls her, can hear all he says.

  He is very fond of her. They say she is innocent even yet! Her father, her grandmother, believe her to be so. He is to fortune her out to a young lover! Ah! the poor young lover! Ah! the poor simple girl!

  Yet I wish I may be able to snatch the poor young creature out of his villainous paws. I have laid a scheme to do so; if indeed she is hitherto innocent and heart-free.

  He appears to the people as a military man, in disguise, secreting himself on account of a duel fought in town; the adversary’s life in suspense. They believe he is a great man. His friend passes for an inferior officer; upon a foot of freedom with him. He, accompanied by a third man, who is a sort of subordinate companion to the second. The wretch himself but with one servant. Oh my dear! How pleasantly can these devils, as I must call them, pass their time, while our gentle bosoms heave with pity for their supposed sufferings for us!

  • • •

  I am just now informed that, at my desire, I shall see this girl and her father: I will sift them thoroughly. I shall soon find out such a simple thing as this, if he has not corrupted her already. And if he has, I shall soon find that out too. But, depend upon it, the girl’s undone.

  He is said to be fond of her. He places her at the upper end of his table. He sets her a-prattling. He keeps his friend at a distance from her. She prates away. He admires for nature all she says. Anybody but Solmes and Lovelace be yours! So advises

  Your

  ANNA HOWE

  Letter 71: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Friday, three o’clock

  You incense, alarm and terrify me, at the same time! Hasten, my dearest friend, hasten to me, what further intelligence you can gather about this vilest of men!

  But never talk of innocence, of simplicity, and this unhappy girl together! Must she not know, that such a man as that, dignified in his very aspect; and no disguise able to conceal his being of condition—must mean too much, when he places her at the upper end of his table, and calls her by such tender names? Would a girl, modest as simple, above seventeen, be set a singing at the pleasure of such a man as that? A stranger, and professedly in disguise! Would her father and grandmother, if honest people, and careful of their simple girl, permit such freedoms?

  Keeps his friend at a distance from her! To be sure his designs are villainous, if they have not been already effected.

  Warn, my dear, if not too late, the unthinking father, of his child’s danger. There cannot be a father in the world, who would sell his child’s virtue. No mother!—the poor thing!

  Fine hopes of such a wretch’s reformation! I would not, my dear, for the world, have anything to say—but I need not make resolutions. I have not opened, nor will I open, his letter.

  To be already on a foot!—in his esteem, I mean, my dear. For myself, I despise him. I hate myself almost for writing so much about him, and of such a simpleton as this sweet pretty girl: but nothing can be either sweet or pretty, that is not modest, that is not virtuous.

  I think I hate him worse than I do Solmes himself. But I will not add one other word about him; after I have wished to know, as soon as possible, what further occurs from your inquiry; because I shall not open his letter till then; and because then, if it comes out, as I dare say it will, I’ll directly put the letter unopened into the place I took it from, and never trouble myself more about him. Adieu, my dearest friend.

  CL. HARLOWE

  Letter 72: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

  Friday noon, March 31

  Justice obliges me to forward this after my last, on the wings of the wind, as I may say. I really believe the man is innocent. Of this one accusation, I think, he must be acquitted; and I am sorry I was so forward in dispatching away my intelligence by halves.

  I have seen the girl. She is really a very pretty, a very neat, and what is still a greater beauty, a very innocent young creature. He who could have ruined such an undesigning home-bred must have been indeed infernally wicked. Her father is an honest simple man; entirely satisfied with his child, and with her new acquaintance.

  I am almost afraid for your heart, when I tell you that I find, now I have got to the bottom of this inquiry, something noble come out in this Lovelace’s favour.

  The girl is to be married next week; and this promoted and brought about by him. He is resolved, her father says, to make one couple happy, and wishes he could make more so. (There’s for you, my dear!) And having taken a liking also to the young fellow whom she professes to love, he has given her a hundred pounds: the grandmother actually has it in her hands, to answer to the like sum given to the youth by one of his own relations: while Mr Lovelace’s companion, attracted by the example, has presented twenty-five guineas to the father, who is poor, towards clothes to equip the pretty rustic.

  But what, my dear, will become of us now? Why, my sweet friend, your generosity is now engaged in his favour! Fie, upon this generosity! I think in my heart that it does as much mischief to the noble-minded, as love to the ignobler. What before was only a conditional liking, I am now afraid will turn to liking unconditional.

  I could not endure to turn my invective into panegyric all at once, and so soon. We, or such as I, at least, love to keep ourselves in countenance for a rash judgement, even when we know it to be rash. Everybody has not your generosity in confessing a mistake. It requires a greatness of soul to do it. So I made still farther inquiry after his life and manners, and behaviour there, in hopes to find something bad: but all uniform!

  Upon the whole, Mr Lovelace comes out with so much advantage from this inquiry, that were there the least room for it, I should suspect the whole to be a plot set on foot to wash a blackamoor white. Adieu, my dear.

  ANNA HOWE

  Letter 73: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Saturday, April 1

  Hasty censurers do indeed subject themselves to the charge of variableness and inconsistency in judgement: and so they ought; for, if you, even you, were really so loath to own a mistake, as, in the instance before us, you pretend to say you were, I b
elieve I should not have loved you so well as I really do love you. Nor could you, my dear, have so frankly thrown the reflection I hint at, upon yourself, had you not had one of the most ingenuous minds that ever woman boasted.

  Then the real generosity of the act—I protest, my beloved friend, if he would be good for the rest of his life from this time, I would forgive him a great many of his past errors, were it only for the demonstration he has given in this, that he is capable of so good and bountiful a manner of thinking.

  You may believe I made no scruple to open his letter, after the receipt of your second on this subject: nor shall I of answering it, as I have no reason to find fault with it. An article in his favour procured him, however, so much the easier (as I must own) by way of amends for the undue displeasure I took against him; though he knows it not.

  It is lucky enough that this matter was cleared up to me by your friendly diligence so soon: for had I wrote at all before that, it would have been to reinforce my dismission of him; and perhaps the very motive mentioned; for it had affected me more than I think it ought: and then, what an advantage would that have given him, when he could have cleared up the matter so happily for himself?

  When I send you this letter of his, you will see how very humble he is: what acknowledgements of natural impatience: what confession of faults, as you prognosticated.

  • • •

  Saturday, April 1

  I have written; and to this effect: ‘That I had never intended to write another line to a man who could take upon himself to reflect upon my sex and myself, for having thought fit to make use of my own judgement.