He prefaced and paraded on; and then out came, with great diffidence and many apologies, and a bashfulness which sat very awkwardly upon him, a proposal of speedy solemnization: which, he said, would put all right: would make my first three or four months which otherwise must be passed in obscurity and apprehension, a round of visits and visitings to and from all his relations; to Miss Howe; to whom I pleased: and would pave the way to the reconciliation I had so much at heart.
Your advice had great weight with me just then, as well as his reasons, and the consideration of my unhappy situation. But what could I say? I wanted somebody to speak for me: I could not, all at once, act as if I thought that all punctilio was at an end. I was unwilling to suppose it was so soon.
The man saw I was not angry at his motion. I only blushed up to the ears; that I am sure I did: looked silly, and like a fool.
Would he have had me catch at his first, at his very first word? I was silent too! How was it possible I could encourage with very ready signs of approbation such an early proposal? especially so soon after the free treatment he had provoked from me. If I were to die, I could not.
He looked at me with great confidence; as if (notwithstanding his contradictory bashfulness) he would look me through, while my eye but now and then could glance at him. He begged my pardon with great obsequiousness: he was afraid I would think he deserved no other answer, but that of a contemptuous silence. True love was fearful of offending—(Take care, Lovelace, thought I, how yours is tried by that rule.) Indeed so sacred a regard (foolish man!) would he have to all my declarations made before I honoured him.
I would hear him no further; but withdrew in too visible confusion, and left him to make his nonsensical flourishes to himself.
I will only add that, if he really wishes for a speedy solemnization, he never could have had a luckier time to press for my consent to it. But he let it go off; and indignation has taken place of it; and now it shall be my point to get him at a distance from me.
I am, my dearest friend,
Your ever faithful and obliged servant,
CL. H.
Letter 108: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
What can be done with a woman who is above flattery, and despises all praise but that which flows from the approbation of her own heart?
But why will this admirable creature urge her destiny? Why will she defy the power she is absolutely dependent upon? Why will she still wish to my face that she had never left her father’s house? Why will she deny me her company, till she makes me lose my patience, and lay myself open to her resentment? And why, when she is offended, does she carry her indignation to the utmost length that a scornful beauty in the very height of her power and pride can go?
Is it prudent, thinkst thou, in her circumstances, to tell me, repeatedly to tell me that she is every hour more and more dissatisfied with herself and me? That I am not one who improve upon her in my conversation and address? (Couldst thou, Jack, bear this from a captive!) That she shall not be easy while she is with me? That she was thrown upon me by a perverse fate? That she knew better than to value herself upon my volubility? That she would take care of herself; and since her friends thought it not worth while to pursue her, she would be left to that care? That I should make Mrs Sorlings’s house more agreeable by my absence? and go to Berks, to town, or wherever I would (to the devil, I suppose), with all her heart?
But she took me down with a vengeance! She made me look about me. So much advantage had she over me; such severe turns upon me; by my soul, Jack, I had hardly a word to say for myself. I am ashamed to tell thee what a poor creature she made me look like! But I could have told her something that would have humbled her pretty pride at the instant, had she been in a proper place, and proper company about her.
To such a place then—and where she cannot fly me. And then to see how my will works, and what can be done by the amorous see-saw; now humble; now proud; now expecting, or demanding; now submitting, or acquiescing—till I have tired resistance. But these hints are at present enough.
Letter 109: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
(In continuation)
These angry commands to leave her. What shall we say, if all were to mean nothing but MATRIMONY? And what if my forbearing to enter upon that subject come out to be the true cause of her petulance and uneasiness?
I had once before played about the skirts of the irrevocable obligation; but thought myself obliged to speak in clouds, and to run away from the subject as soon as she took my meaning, lest she should imagine it to be ungenerously urged, now she was in some sort in my power, as she had forbid me, beforehand, to touch upon it, till I were in a state of visible reformation, and till a reconciliation with her friends were probable.
Charming creature, thought I (but I charge thee, that thou let not any of the sex know my exultation), is it so soon come to this? Am I already lord of the destiny of a Clarissa Harlowe! Am I already the reformed man thou resolvedst I should be, before I had the least encouragement given me? And can art and design enter into the breast so celestial; To banish me from thee, to insist so rigorously upon my absence, in order to bring me closer to thee, and make the blessing dear? Well do thy arts justify mine; and encourage me to let loose my plotting genius upon thee.
Letter 110: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
(In continuation)
And what! (methinks thou askest with surprise): dost thou question this most admirable of women? The virtue of a Clarissa dost thou question?
I do not, I dare not question it. My reverence for her will not let me, directly, question it. But let me, in my turn, ask thee—Is not, may not her virtue be founded rather in pride than principle? Whose daughter is she? And is she not a daughter? If impeccable, how came she by her impeccability? The pride of setting an example to her sex has run away with her hitherto, and may have made her till now invincible. But is not that pride abated? What may not both men and women be brought to do in a mortified state? What mind is superior to calamity? Pride is perhaps the principal bulwark of female virtue. Humble a woman, and may she not be effectually humbled?
Then who says Miss Clarissa Harlowe is the paragon of virtue? Is virtue itself?
Has her virtue ever been proved? Who has dared to try her virtue?
It was her character that drew me to her: and it was her beauty and good sense that rivetted my chains; and now, all together make me think her subject worthy of my attempts; worthy of my ambition.
But has she not, as above, already taken steps which she herself condemns? Steps which the world, and her own family, did not think her capable of taking? And for which her own family will not forgive her?
May not then the success of him who could carry her thus far be allowed to be an encouragement for him to try to carry her farther? ‘Tis but to try, Jack. Who will be afraid of a trial for this divine lady? Thou knowest that I have more than once, twice or thrice been tempted to make this trial upon young ladies of name and character: but never yet found one of them to hold me out for a month; nor so long as could puzzle my invention. I have concluded against the whole sex upon it. And now, if I have not found a virtue that cannot be corrupted, I will swear that there is not one such in the whole sex. Is not then the whole sex concerned that this trial should be made?—and who is it that knows her, that would not stake upon her head the honour of the whole? Let her who would refuse it, come forth and desire to stand in her place.
What must that virtue be which will not stand a trial? What that woman, who would wish to shun it?
Well then, a trial seems necessary for the further establishment of the honour of so excellent a creature.
And who shall put her to this trial? Who but the man who has, as she thinks, already induced her in lesser points to swerve? And this for her own sake, in a double sense—not only as he has been able to make some impression, but as she regrets the impression made; and so
may be presumed to be guarded against his further attempts.
The situation she is at present in, it must be confessed, is a disadvantageous one to her: but if she overcome, that will redound to her honour.
Nor is one effort, one trial, to be sufficient. Why? Because a woman’s heart may be at one time adamant, at another wax—as I have often experienced. And so, no doubt, hast thou.
But what, methinks thou askest, is to become of the lady if she fail?
What? Why will she not if once subdued be always subdued? another of our libertine maxims. And what an immense pleasure to a marriage-hater, what rapture to thought, to be able to prevail upon such a lady as Miss Clarissa Harlowe to live with him without real change of name!
But if she resist—if nobly she stand her trial—
Why then I will marry her, to be sure; and bless my stars for such an angel of a wife.
But will she not hate thee? Will she not refuse—
No, no, Jack! Circumstanced and situated as we are, I am not afraid of that. And hate me! Why should she hate the man who loves her upon proof?
And then for a little hint at reprisal. Am I not justified in my resolutions of trying her virtue, who is resolved, as I may say, to try mine?—who has declared that she will not marry me till she has hopes of my reformation?
And now, to put an end to this sober argumentation, wilt thou not thyself (whom I have supposed an advocate for the lady, because I know that Lord M. has put thee upon using the interest he thinks thou hast in me to persuade me to enter the pale; wilt thou not thyself) allow me to try if I cannot awaken the woman in her?—to try if she, with all that glowing symmetry of parts and that full bloom of vernal graces, by which she attracts every eye, be really inflexible as to the grand article?
Let me begin then, as opportunity presents—I will—and watch her every step to find one sliding one; her every moment to find the moment critical. And the rather, as she spares not me but takes every advantage that offers to puzzle and plague me; nor expects, nor thinks me to be a good man.
Now, Belford, all is out. The lady is mine; shall be more mine. Marriage, I see, is in my power, now she is so (else perhaps it had not). If I can have her without, who can blame me for trying? If not, great will be her glory, and my future confidence—and well will she merit the sacrifice I shall make her of my liberty; and from all her sex honours next to divine, for giving a proof that there was once a woman whose virtue no trials, no stratagems, no temptations, even from the man she hated not, could overpower.
Now wilt thou see all my circulation: as in a glass wilt thou see it.
Letter 111: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Don’t be so much concerned, my dearest friend, at the bickerings between my mamma and me. We love one another dearly notwithstanding. If my mamma had not me to find fault with, she must find fault with somebody else. And as to me, I am a very saucy girl; and were there not this occasion, there would be some other to show it.
You have heard me say that this was always the case between us. You could not otherwise have known it. For when you was with us, you harmonized us both; and indeed I was always more afraid of you than of my mamma. But then that awe is accompanied with love. Your reproofs (as I have always found) are so charmingly mild and instructive! so evidently calculated to improve, and not to provoke, that a generous temper must be amended by them.
Don’t advise me, my dear, to obey my mamma in her prohibition of corresponding with you. She has no reason for it. Nor would she of her own judgement have prohibited me. If your talent is scribbling, as you call it; so is mine. And I will scribble on, at all opportunities; and to you; let ‘em say what they will. Nor let your letters be filled with the self-accusations you mention: there is no cause for them. I wish that your Anna Howe, who continues in her mother’s house, were but half so good as Miss Clarissa Harlowe, who has been driven out of her father’s.
I cannot, however, but say that I am charmed with your spirit. So much sweetness, where sweetness is requisite; so much spirit, where spirit is called for—what a true magnanimity!
But I doubt, in your present circumstances, you must endeavour after a little more of the reserve, and palliate a little. That humility which he puts on when you rise upon him is not natural to him.
Methinks I see the man hesitating, and looking like the fool you paint him, under your corrective superiority! But he is not a fool. Don’t put him upon mingling resentment with his love.
I have only to add (and yet that is needless to tell you) that I am, and will ever be,
Your affectionate friend and servant,
ANNA HOWE
Letter 116: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Friday, April 14
I will now give you the particulars of a conversation that has just passed between Mr Lovelace and me; which I must call agreeable.
It began with his telling me that he had just received intelligence, that my friends were of a sudden come to a resolution to lay aside all thoughts of pursuing me, or of getting me back: and that therefore, he attended me, to know my pleasure; and what I would do, or have him do?
I told him that I would have him leave me directly; and that, when it was known to everybody that I was absolutely independent of him, it would pass that I had left my father’s house because of my brother’s ill-usage of me: which was a plea that I might make with justice, and to the excuse of my father, as well as of myself.
He mildly replied that if he could be certain that my relations would adhere to this their new resolution, he could have no objection, since such was my pleasure: but that, as he was well assured that they had taken it only from apprehensions that a more active one might involve my brother (who had breathed nothing but revenge) in some fatal misfortune, there was too much reason to believe that they would resume their former purpose, the moment they should think they safely might.
This, madam, said he, is a risk I cannot run. You would think it strange, if I could.
Let me hear, said I, willing to try if he had any particular view, what you think most advisable?
I will only propose what I think will be most agreeable to you. Suppose, if you choose not to go to Lady Betty’s, that you take a turn cross the country to Windsor?
Why to Windsor?
Because it is a pleasant place: because it lies in the way either to Berkshire, to Oxford, or to London. Berkshire, where Lord M. is at present: Oxford, in the neighbourhood of which lives Lady Betty: London, whither you may retire at your pleasure: or, if you will have it so, whither I may go, you staying at Windsor; and yet be within an easy distance of you, if anything should happen, or if your friends should change their pacific resolution.
This displeased me not. But I said my only objection was the distance from Miss Howe, of whom I should be glad to be always within two or three hours’ reach by a messenger, if possible.
If I had thoughts of any other place than Windsor, or nearer to Miss Howe, he wanted but my commands and would seek for proper accommodations: but, fix as I pleased, farther or nearer, he had servants, and they had nothing else to do but to obey me.
A grateful thing then he named to me—to send for my Hannah as soon as I should be fixed; unless I would choose one of the young gentlewomen here to attend me, both of whom, as I had acknowledged, were very obliging; and he knew I had generosity enough to make it worth either of their whiles.
Not to be off of my caution: Have you any acquaintance at Windsor? said I. Know you of any convenient lodgings there?
Except with the forest, replied he, where I have often hunted, I know the least of Windsor of any place so noted and so pleasant. Indeed, I have not a single acquaintance there.
Upon the whole, I told him, that I thought his proposal of Windsor not amiss; and that I would remove thither if I could get a lodging only for myself, and an upper chamber for Hannah; for that my stock of money w
as but small, as was easy to be conceived; and I should be very loath to be obliged to anybody. I added that the sooner I removed the better; for that then he could have no objection to go to London or Berkshire, as he pleased: and I should let everybody know my independence.
He again proposed himself, in very polite terms, for my banker. But I, as civilly, declined his offers.
This conversation was to be, all of it, in the main, agreeable.
Adding, with a very serious air—I am but a young man, madam; but I have run a long course: let not your purity of mind incline you to despise me for the acknowledgement. It is high time to be weary of it, and to reform.
I was agreeably surprised. I looked at him, I believe, as if I doubted my ears and my eyes! His features and aspect, however, became his words.
I expressed my satisfaction in terms so agreeable to him, that he said he found a delight in this early dawning of a better day to him, and in my approbation, which he had never received from the success of the most favoured of his pursuits.
Surely, my dear, the man must be in earnest. He could not have said this; he could not have thought it, had he not.
Nevertheless, you may depend upon it, my dear, that these agreeable assurances and hopes of his begun reformation shall not make me forget my caution. Not that I think, at worst, any more than you, that he dare to harbour a thought injurious to my honour: but he is very various, and there is an apparent, and even an acknowledged unfixedness in his temper, which at times gives me some uneasiness. I am resolved therefore to keep him at distance from my person and my thoughts as much as I can: for whether all men are, or are not, encroachers, I am sure Mr Lovelace is one.
Mr Lovelace is gone to Windsor, having left two servants to attend me. He purposes to be back tomorrow.
Here I close for the present, with the assurance that I am
Your ever obliged and affectionate
Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady Page 20