Clarissa--Or the History of a Young Lady

by Samuel Richardson

  She is, in my eye, all mind: and were she to meet with a man all mind likewise, why should the charming qualities she is mistress of be endangered? Why should such an angel be plunged so low as into the vulgar offices of domestic life? Were she mine, I should hardly wish to see her a mother unless there were a kind of moral certainty that minds like hers could be propagated. For why, in short, should not the work of bodies be left to mere bodies? I know that you yourself have an opinion of this lady little less exalted than mine. Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, are all of my mind; are full of her praises; and swear it would be a million of pities to ruin a lady in whose fall none but devils can rejoice.

  And wouldst thou make her unhappy for her whole life, and thyself not happy for a single moment?

  Be honest, and marry; and be thankful that she will condescend to have thee. If thou dost not, thou’lt be the worst of men; and will be condemned in this world and the next: as I am sure thou oughtest, and shouldst too, wert thou to be judged by one who never before was so much touched in a woman’s favour, and whom thou knowest to be

  Thy partial friend,

  J. BELFORD

  Letter 170: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Wednesday, May 3

  When I have already taken pains to acquaint thee in full with my views, designs and resolutions, with regard to this admirable creature, it is very extraordinary that thou shouldst vapour as thou dost in her behalf, when I have made no trial, no attempt: and yet givest it as thy opinion in a former letter, that advantage may be taken of the situation she is in; and that she may be overcome.

  I own with thee, and with the poet, that sweet are the joys that come with willingness—but is it to be expected that a woman of education, and a lover of forms, will yield before she is attacked? And have I so much as summoned this to surrender? I doubt not but I shall meet with difficulty. I must therefore make my first effort by surprise. There may possibly be some cruelty necessary. But there may be consent in struggle; there may be yielding in resistance. But the first conflict over, whether the following may not be weaker and weaker, till willingness follow, is the point to be tried. I will illustrate what I have said by the simile of a bird new caught. We begin with birds as boys, and as men go on to ladies; and both perhaps, in turns, experience our sportive cruelty.

  Hast thou not observed the charming gradations by which the ensnared volatile has been brought to bear with its new condition? How at first, refusing all sustenance, it beats and bruises itself against its wires, till it makes its gay plumage fly about, and overspread its well-secured cage. Now it gets out its head; sticking only at its beautiful shoulders: then, with difficulty, drawing back its head, it gasps for breath, and erectedly perched, with meditating eyes, first surveys, and then attempts, its wired canopy. As it gets breath, with renewed rage it beats and bruises again its pretty head and sides, bites the wires, and pecks at the fingers of its delighted tamer. Till at last, finding its efforts ineffectual, quite tired and breathless, it lays itself down and pants at the bottom of the cage, seeming to bemoan its cruel fate and forfeited liberty. And after a few days, its struggles to escape still diminishing, as it finds it to no purpose to attempt it, its new habitation becomes familiar; and it hops about from perch to perch, resumes its wonted cheerfulness, and every day sings a song to amuse itself, and reward its keeper.

  Now let me tell thee that I have known a bird actually starve itself, and die with grief, at its being caught and caged. But never did I meet with a lady who was so silly. Yet have I heard the dear souls most vehemently threaten their own lives on such an occasion. But it is saying nothing in a woman’s favour, if we do not allow her to have more sense than a bird. And yet we must all own that it is more difficult to catch a bird than a lady.

  And now, Belford, were I to go no further, how shall I know whether this sweet bird may not be brought to sing me a fine song, and in time to be as well contented with her condition as I have brought other birds to be; some of them very shy ones?

  But another word or two, as to thy objection relating to my trouble and my reward.

  Does not the keen foxhunter endanger his neck and his bones in pursuit of a vermin which, when killed, is neither fit food for men nor dogs?

  Do not the hunters of the nobler game value the venison less than the sport?

  Why then should I be reflected upon, and the sex affronted, for my patience and perseverance in the most noble of all chases; and for not being a poacher in love, as thy question may be made to imply?

  Learn of thy master, for the future, to treat more respectfully a sex that yields us our principal diversions and delights.

  Letter 175: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

  Tuesday, May 9

  I am a very unhappy fellow. This lady is said to be one of the sweetest-tempered creatures in the world: and so I thought her. But to me, she is one of the most perverse. I never was supposed to be an ill-natured puppy neither. How can it be? I imagined for a long while that we were born to make each other happy: but, quite the contrary; we really seem to be sent to plague one another.

  I will write a comedy, I think. I have a title ready; and that’s half the work. The Quarrelsome Lovers. ‘Twill do. There’s something new and striking in it. Yet, more or less, all lovers quarrel. ‘Tis natural that it should be so. But with us, we fall out so often, without falling in once; and a second quarrel so generally happens before a first is made up; that it is hard to guess what event our loves will be attended with. No man living bears crosses better than myself: but then they must be of my own making: and even this is a great merit, and a great excellence, think what thou wilt: since most of the troubles which fall to the lot of mortals are brought upon themselves, either by their too large desires, or too little deserts. But I shall make myself a common man by-and-by: which is what no one yet ever thought me. I will now lead to the occasion of this preamble.

  I had been out. On my return, meeting Dorcas on the stairs—Your lady in her chamber, Dorcas? In the dining-room, sir: and if ever you hope for an opportunity to come at a letter, it must be now. For at her feet I saw one lie which, by its opened folds, she has been reading, with a little parcel of others she is now busied with. All pulled out of her pocket, as I believe: so, sir, you’ll know where to find them another time.

  I was ready to leap for joy, and instantly resolved to bring forward an expedient which I had held in petto; and entering into the dining-room with an air of transport, I boldly clasped my arms about her as she sat (she huddling up her papers in her handkerchief all the time, the dropped paper unseen).

  And clasping her closer to me, I gave her a more fervent kiss than ever I had dared to give her before: but still let not my ardour overcome my discretion; for I took care to set my foot upon the letter and scraped it farther from her, as it were behind her chair.

  She was in a passion at the liberty I took. Bowing low, I begged her pardon; and stooping still lower, in the same motion took it up and whipped it in my bosom.

  Pox on me for a puppy, a fool, a blockhead, a clumsy varlet, and a mere Jack Belford! I thought myself a much cleverer fellow than I am! Why could I not have been followed in by Dorcas; who might have taken it up while I addressed her lady?

  For here, the letter being unfolded, I could not put it into my bosom without alarming her ears, as my sudden motion did her eyes. Up she flew in a moment: Traitor! Judas! her eyes flashing lightning, and a perturbation in her eager countenance, so charming! What have you taken up? And then, what for both my ears I durst not to have done to her, she made no scruple to seize the stolen letter, though in my bosom.

  Beg-pardon apologies were all that now remained for me on so palpable a detection. I clasped her hand, which had hold of the ravished paper, between mine: Oh my beloved creature! can you think I have not some curiosity? Is it possible you can be thus for ever employed; and I, loving narrative letter-writing above every other species
of writing, and admiring your talent that way, should not (thus upon the dawn of my happiness, as I presume to hope) burn with a desire to be admitted into so sweet a correspondence?

  Let go my hand!—stamping with her pretty foot. How dare you, sir! At this rate, I see—too plainly I see—and more she could not say: but, gasping, was ready to faint with passion and affright; the devil a bit of her accustomed gentleness to be seen in her charming face, or to be heard in her musical voice.

  Having gone thus far, loath, very loath was I to lose my prize. Once more I got hold of the rumpled-up letter! Impudent man! were her words: stamping again: for God’s sake, then it was! I let go my prize, lest she should faint away: but had the pleasure first to find my hand within both hers, she trying to open my reluctant fingers. How near was my heart, at that moment, to my hand, throbbing to my fingers’ ends, to be thus familiarly, although angrily, treated by the charmer of my soul!

  When she had got it in her possession, she flew to the door. I threw myself in her way, shut it, and in the humblest manner besought her to forgive me: and yet do you think the Harlowe-hearted charmer would; notwithstanding the agreeable annunciation I came in with? No, truly! but pushing me rudely from the door, as if I had been nothing (yet do I love to try, so innocently to try, her strength too!); she gaining that force through passion, which I had lost through fear; and out she shot to her own apartment (thank my stars she could fly no further!); and as soon as she entered it, in a passion still, she double-locked and double-bolted herself in. This my comfort, on reflection, that upon a greater offence it cannot be worse!

  I retreated to my own apartment with my heart full. And my man Will not being near me, gave myself a plaguy knock on the forehead with my double fist.

  And now is my charmer shut up from me: refusing to see me; refusing her meals. Resolves not to see me, that’s more. Never again, if she can help it.

  But thinkest thou that I will not make it the subject of one of my first plots to inform myself of the reason why all this commotion was necessary on so slight an occasion as this would have been, were not the letters that pass between these ladies of a treasonable nature?

  Wednesday morning

  No admission to breakfast, any more than to supper.

  Repeated charges has she given for Wilson, by a particular messenger, to send any letter directed for her the moment it comes.

  I must keep a good look-out. She is not now afraid of her brother’s plot.

  But to own the truth, I have overplotted myself. To make my work secure, as I thought, I have frighted the dear creature with my four Hottentots, and I shall be a long time, I doubt, before I can recover my lost ground. And then these cursed folks at Harlowe Place have made her out of humour with me, with herself, and with all the world but Miss Howe, who no doubt is continually adding difficulties to my other difficulties. And then I am very unwilling to have recourse to measures which these demons below are continually urging me to take. And the rather, as I am sure that, at last, she must be legally mine. One complete trial over, and I think I will do her noble justice.

  • • •

  But now I hear the rusty hinges of my beloved’s door give me creaking invitation. My heart creaks and throbs with respondent trepidations. Whimsical enough though! For what relation has a lover’s heart to a rusty pair of hinges? But they are the hinges that open and shut the door of my beloved’s bed chamber! Relation enough in that!

  I hear not the door shut again. I shall have her commands I hope anon. What signifies her keeping me thus at a distance? She must be mine, let me do or offer what I will.

  Should I even make the grand attempt, and fail, and should she hate me for it, her hatred can be but temporary. She has already incurred the censure of the world. She must therefore choose to be mine for the sake of soldering up her reputation in the eye of that impudent world. For who that knows me and knows that she has been in my power, though but for twenty-four hours, will think her spotless as to fact, let her inclination be what it will? And then human nature is such a well-known rogue, that every man and woman judges by what each knows of themselves, that inclination is no more to be trusted, where an opportunity is given, than I am; especially where a woman young and blooming loves a man well enough to go off with him; for such will be the world’s construction in the present case.

  She calls her maid Dorcas. No doubt that I may hear her harmonious voice, and to give me an opportunity to pour out my soul at her feet; to renew all my vows; and to receive her pardon for the past offence: and then, with what pleasure shall I begin upon a new score; and afterwards wipe out that; and begin another, and another; till the last offence passes; and there can be no other. And once, after that, to be forgiven, will be to be forgiven for ever.

  • • •

  The door is again shut. Dorcas tells me that she denies to admit me to dine with her, as I had ordered her to request for me next time she saw her. Not uncivilly, however, denies. Coming to by degrees! Nothing but the last offence, the honest wench tells me in the language of her principals below, will do with her. The last offence is meditating.

  Letter 177: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE

  Wednesday, May 10

  I much approve of your resolution to leave this man, if you can have any encouragement from your uncle [Harlowe].

  I will have your uncle sounded, as you desire, and that out of hand. But yet I am afraid of the success; and this for several reasons. ‘Tis hard to say what the sacrifice of your estate would do with some people: and yet I must not, when it comes to the test, permit you to make it.

  As your Hannah continues ill, I would advise you to try to attach Dorcas to your interest. Have you not been impoliticly shy of her?

  You have exceedingly alarmed me by what you hint of his attempt to get one of my letters. I am assured by my new informant that he is the head of a gang of wretches (those he brought you among, no doubt, were some of them), who join together to betray innocent creatures, and to support one another, when they have done, by violence. And were he to come at the knowledge of the freedoms I take with him, I should be afraid to stir out without a guard.

  I wonder not at the melancholy reflections you so often cast upon yourself in your letters, for the step you have been forced upon on one hand, and tricked into on the other. A strange fatality! As if it were designed to show the vanity of all human prudence.

  But do not talk, as in one of your former, of being a warning only. You will be as excellent an example as ever you hoped to be, as well as a warning. And that will make your story, to all that shall come to know it, of double efficacy: for were it that such a merit as yours could not ensure to herself noble and generous usage from a libertine heart, who will expect any tolerable behaviour from men of his character?

  So, upon the whole, there seems as I have often said a kind of fate in your error, if an error; and this, perhaps, admitted for the sake of a better example to be collected from your sufferings than could have been given had you never erred: for, my dear, ADVERSITY is your SHINING-TIME: I see evidently that it must call forth graces and beauties that could not have been seen in a run of that prosperous fortune which attended you from your cradle till now; admirably as you became, and as we all thought greatly as you deserved, that prosperity.

  I will add no more at present, than that I am

  Your ever-faithful and affectionate

  ANNA HOWE

  Letter 178: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

  Sunday, May 14

  I have not been able to avoid a short debate with Mr Lovelace. I had ordered a coach to the door. When I had notice that it was come, I went out of my chamber to go to it; but met him dressed on the stairs head, with a book in his hand, but without his hat and sword. He asked with an air very solemn, yet respectful, if I were going abroad. I told him I was. He desired leave to attend me, if I were going to church. I refused him. And the
n he complained heavily of my treatment of him, and declared that he would not live such another week as the past, for the world.

  I owned to him very frankly, that I had made an application to my friends; and that I was resolved to keep myself to myself till I knew the issue of it.

  He coloured, and seemed surprised.

  He called to Dorcas to bring him his sword and hat; and following me down into the passage, placed himself between me and the door; and again besought me to permit him to attend me.

  Mrs Sinclair came out at that instant, and asked me if I did not choose a dish of chocolate?

  I wish, Mrs Sinclair, said I, you would take this man in with you to your chocolate. I don’t know whether I am at liberty to stir out without his leave or not. Then turning to him, I asked, if he kept me there his prisoner?

  Dorcas just then bringing him his sword and hat, he opened the street door, and taking my resisting hand led me, in a very obsequious manner, to the coach. People passing by, stopped, stared, and whispered. But he is so graceful in his person and dress, that he generally takes every eye.

  I was uneasy to be so gazed at; and he stepped in after me, and the coachman drove to St Paul’s.

  He was very full of assiduities all the way, while I was as reserved as possible: and when I returned, dined, as I had done the greatest part of the week, by myself.

  He told me, upon my resolving to do so, that although he would continue his passive observance till I knew the issue of my application, yet I must expect that then I should never rest one moment till I had fixed his happy day: for that his very soul was fretted with my slights, resentments, and delays.