Adieu, my dearest friend! This shall lie ready for an exchange, as I hope for one tomorrow from you that will decide, as I may say, the destiny of
Your CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 181: MISS HOWE TO MRS JUDITH NORTON
Saturday evening, May 13
Dear good Woman,
Could I have had hope of a reconciliation, all my view was, that she should not have had this man! All that can be said now is, she must run the risk of a bad husband: she of whom no man living is worthy.
You pity her mother!—so don’t I! I pity nobody that puts it out of their power to show maternal love and humanity, in order to patch up for themselves a precarious and sorry quiet, which every blast of wind shall disturb!
I hate tyrants in every form and shape. But paternal and maternal tyrants are the worst of all: for they can have no bowels.
I repeat, that I pity none of them! My beloved and your beloved only deserves pity. She had never been in the hands of this man, but for them. She is quite blameless. You don’t know all her story. Were I to tell you she had no intention to go off with this man, it would avail her nothing. It would only condemn those who drove her to extremities; and him, who now must be her refuge. I am
Your sincere friend and servant,
ANNA HOWE
Letter 183: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Sunday, May 14
How it is now, my dear, between you and Mr Lovelace, I cannot tell. But wicked as the man is, I am afraid he must be your lord and master.
Upon the whole, it is now evident to me, and so it must be to you when you read this letter, that you have but one choice. And the sooner you make it the better. Shall we suppose that it is not in your power to make it? I cannot have patience to suppose that.
I am concerned, methinks, to know how you will do to condescend, now you see you must be his, after you have kept him at such a distance; and for the revenge his pride may put him upon taking for it. But let me tell you, that if my going up and sharing fortunes with you will prevent such a noble creature from stooping too low, much more were it likely to prevent your ruin, I would not hesitate a moment about it. What’s the whole world to me, weighed against such a friendship as ours. Think you that any of the enjoyments of this life could be enjoyments to me, were such a friend as you to be involved in calamities which I could either relieve her from, or alleviate, by giving them up? And what in saying this, and acting up to it, do I offer you, but the fruits of a friendship your worth has created?
Excuse my warmth of expression. The warmth of my heart wants none. I am enraged at your relations. I am angry at my own mother’s narrowness of mind and adherence to old notions indiscriminately. And I am exasperated against your foolish, your low-vanitied Lovelace! But let us stoop to take the wretch as he is, and make the best of him, since you are destined to stoop to keep grovellers and worldlings in countenance. He has not been guilty of direct indecency to you. Nor dare he. Not so much of a devil as that comes to neither! Had he such villainous intentions, so much in his power as you are, they would have shown themselves before now to such a penetrating and vigilant eye, and to such a pure heart as yours. Let us save the wretch then, if we can, though we soil our fingers in lifting him up from his dirt.
There is yet, to a person of your fortune and independence, a good deal to do, if you enter upon those terms which ought to be entered upon. I don’t find that he has once talked of settlements; much less of the licence. It is hard! But as your evil destiny has thrown you out of all other protection and mediation, you must be father, mother, uncle to yourself; and enter upon the requisite points for yourself. Indeed you must. Your situation requires it. What room for delicacy now? Or would you have me write to the wretch? Yet that would be the same thing as if you were to write yourself. Yet write you should, I think, if you cannot speak. But speaking is certainly best: for words leave no traces; they pass as breath; and mingle with air, and may be explained with latitude. But the pen is a witness on record.
Twice already have you, my dear, if not oftener, modestied away such opportunities as you ought not to have slipped. As to settlements, if they come not in naturally, e’en leave them to his own justice, and to the justice of his family. And there’s an end of the matter.
This is my advice. Mend it as circumstances offer, and follow your own. But indeed, my dear, this, or something like it, would I do. As witness
Your ANNA HOWE
Letter 184: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Monday, p.m. May 15
Now indeed is it evident, my best, my only friend, that I have but one choice to make. And now do I find that I have carried my resentment against this man too far; since now I am to appear as if under an obligation to his patience with me for conduct that perhaps he will think, if not humoursome and childish, plainly demonstrative of my little esteem of him; of but a secondary esteem at least, where before his pride rather than his merit had made him expect a first.
You give me, my dear, good advice as to the peremptory manner in which I ought to treat him: but do you consider to whom it is that you give that advice?
The occasion for it should never have been given by me, of all creatures; for I am unequal, utterly unequal to it! What, I, to challenge a man for a husband! I, to exert myself to quicken the delayer in his resolutions! And, having lost an opportunity, to begin to try to recall it, as from myself, and for myself!—to threaten him, as I may say, into the marriage-state! Oh my dear! if this be right to be done, how difficult is it, where modesty and self (or where pride, if you please) is concerned to do that right? Or, to express myself in your words, to be father, mother, uncle, to myself! Especially where one thinks a triumph over one is intended. Do, my dear, advise me, persuade me, to renounce the man for ever: and then I will for ever renounce him!
You say you have tried Mrs Norton’s weight with my mamma. ‘My uncle, you say, believes me ruined: he declares that he can believe everything bad of a creature who could run away with a man: and they have all made a resolution not to stir an inch in my favour; no, not to save my life.’
• • •
I was forced to quit my pen.
Well, but now to look forward: you are of opinion that I must be his; and that I cannot leave him with reputation to myself, whether with or without his consent. I must, if so, make the best of the bad matter.
He went out in the morning; intending not to return to dinner, unless (as he sent me word) I would admit him to dine with me.
I excused myself. The man whose anger is now to be of such high importance to me was, it seems, displeased.
As he, as well as I, expected that I should receive a letter from you this day by Collins, I suppose he will not be long before he returns; and then, possibly, he is to be mighty stately, mighty mannish, mighty coy, if you please! And then must I be very humble, very submissive, and try to whine myself into his good graces: with downcast eye, if not by speech, beg his forgiveness for the distance I have so perversely kept him at! Yes, I warrant you! But I’ll see how this behaviour will sit upon me! You have always rallied me upon my meekness, I think! Well then, I’ll try if I can be still meeker, shall I! Oh my dear!
But let me sit with my hands before me, all patience, all resignation; for I think I hear him coming up. Or shall I roundly accost him, in the words, in the form, you, my dear, have prescribed?
He is come in. He has sent to me, all impatience in his aspect, Dorcas says. But I cannot, cannot see him!
Monday night
• • •
The contents of your letter, and my own heavy reflections, rendered me incapable of seeing this expecting man! The first word he asked Dorcas was, If I had received a letter since he had been out? She told me this; and her answer, That I had; and was fasting, and had been in tears ever since.
He sent to desire an interview with me.
I answered
by her, That I was not very well. In the morning, if better, I would see him as soon as he pleased.
Very humble! was it not, my dear? Yet he was too royal to take it for humility; for Dorcas told me he rubbed one side of his face impatiently; and said a rash word, and was out of humour; stalking about the room.
Half an hour after, he sent again; desiring very earnestly that I would admit him to supper with me. He would enter upon no subjects of conversation but what I should lead to.
So I should have been at liberty, you see, to court him!
I again desired to be excused.
Indeed, my dear, my eyes were swelled: I was very low-spirited; and could not think of entering all at once, after several days’ distance, into the freedom of conversation which my friends’ utter rejection of me, as well as your opinion, have made necessary.
He sent up to tell me, that as he heard I was fasting, if I would promise to eat some chicken which Mrs Sinclair had ordered for supper, he would acquiesce. Very kind in his anger! Is he not?
I promised him. Can I be more preparatively condescending? How happy, I’ll warrant you, if I may meet him in a kind and forgiving humour!
I hate myself! But I won’t be insulted. Indeed I won’t! for all this.
Letter 185: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Tuesday, May 16
I think once more we seem to be in a kind of train; but through a storm. I will give you the particulars.
I heard him in the dining-room at five in the morning. I had rested very ill, and was up too: but opened not my door till six: when Dorcas brought me his request for my company.
He approached me, and taking my hand as I entered the dining-room, I went not to bed, madam, till two, yet slept not a wink. For God’s sake, torment me not, as you have done for a week past.
He paused. I was silent.
I acknowledge that I have a proud heart, madam. I cannot but hope for some instances of previous and preferable favour from the lady I am ambitious to call mine; and that her choice of me should not appear, not flagrantly appear, directed by the perverseness of her selfish persecutors, and my irreconcilable enemies.
You know, my dear, the room he had given me to recriminate upon him in twenty instances. I did not spare him: but I need not repeat those instances to you. Every one of these instances, I told him, convinced me of his pride, indeed, but not of his merit. I confessed that I had as much pride as himself; although I hoped it was of another kind than that he so readily avowed.
Let me ask you, madam... what sort of pride must his be, which could dispense with inclination and preference in his lady’s part of it? What must be that love—
Love, sir! Who talks of love? Was not merit the thing we were talking of? Have I ever professed, have I ever required of you professions of a passion of that nature? But there is no end of these debatings, sir; each so faultless, each so full of self—
I do not think myself faultless, madam. But—
Well, well, sir (impatiently) I need only to observe that all this vast difference in sentiments shows how unpaired our minds are—So let us—
Let us what, madam! My soul is rising into tumults! And he looked so wildly, that it startled me a good deal. Let us what, madam—
Why, sir, let us resolve to quit every regard for each other. Nay, flame not out. I am a poor weak-minded creature in some things: but where what I should be, or not deserve to live if I am not, is in the question; I have great and invincible spirit, or my own conceit betrays me. Let us resolve to quit every regard for each other that is more than civil. This you may depend upon; you may, if it will fuel your pride, gratify it with this assurance; that I will never marry any other man. I have seen enough of your sex; at least of you. A single life shall ever be my choice—while I will leave you at liberty to pursue your own.
Indifference, worse than indifference! said he, in a passion—
Interrupting him—Indifference let it be.
Dearest, dearest creature! (snatching my hand with wildness), let me beseech you to be uniformly noble! Civil regards, madam! Civil regards! Can you so expect to narrow and confine such a passion as mine!
Such a passion as yours, Mr Lovelace, deserves to be narrowed and confined. It is either the passion you do not think it; or I do not. I question whether your mind is capable of being so narrowed and so widened, as is necessary to make it be what I wish it to be. Lift up your hands and your eyes, sir, in that emphatical silent wonder, as you please: But what does it express, what does it convince me of, but that we are not born for one another?
By his soul, he said, and grasped my hand with an eagerness that hurt it, we were born for one another. I must be his. I should be his (and put his other arm round me), although his damnation were to be the purchase!
Hope what you will, interrupted I; I must insist upon it that our minds are by no means suited to each other. You have brought me into difficulties. I am deserted of every friend but Miss Howe. My true sentiments I will not conceal... Yet I will owe to you this protection, if it be necessary, in the earnest hope that you will shun rather than seek mischief, if any further inquiry after me be made. But what hinders you from leaving me? If you leave me, I will take a civil leave of these people, and retire to some one of the neighbouring villages, and there, secreting myself, wait my cousin Morden’s arrival with patience.
He presumed, he told me, from what I said, that my application to my relations was unsuccessful: that therefore he hoped I would give him leave now to mention the terms in the nature of settlements, which he had long intended to propose to me; and which having till now delayed to do, through accidents not proceeding from himself, he had thoughts of urging to me the moment I entered upon my new house; and upon finding myself as independent in appearance as I was in fact. Permit me, madam, to propose these matters to you. Not with an expectation of your immediate answer; but for your consideration.
Were not hesitation, a self-felt glow, a downcast eye, more than enough? Your advice was too much in my head: I hesitated.
He urged on upon my silence: he would call God to witness to the justice, nay to the generosity of his intentions to me, if I would be so good as to hear what he had to propose to me, as to settlements.
Could not the man have fallen into the subject without this parade? Many a point, you know, is refused, and ought to be refused, if leave be asked to introduce it; and when once refused, the refusal must in honour be adhered to—whereas, had it been slid in upon one, as I may say, it might have merited further consideration. If such a man as he knows not this, who should?
I thought myself obliged, though not to depart from this subject entirely, yet to give it a more diffuse turn; in order, on the one hand, to save myself the mortification of appearing too ready in my compliance, after such a distance as had been between us; and on the other, to avoid (in pursuance of your advice) the necessity of giving him such a repulse as might again throw us out of the course.
A cruel alternative to be reduced to!
You talk of generosity, Mr Lovelace, said I; and you talk of justice; perhaps without having considered the force of the words, in the sense you use them on this occasion. Let me tell you what generosity is, in my sense of the word. TRUE GENEROSITY is not confined to pecuniary instances: it is more than politeness: it is more than good faith: it is more than honour: it is more than justice: since all these are but duties, and what a worthy mind cannot dispense with. But TRUE GENEROSITY is greatness of soul: it incites us to do more by a fellow-creature, than can be strictly required of us: it obliges us to hasten to the relief of an object that wants relief, anticipating even hope or expectation. Generosity, sir, will not surely permit a worthy mind to doubt of its honourable and beneficent intentions: much less will it allow itself to shock, to offend anyone; and, least of all, a person thrown by adversity, mishap, or accident, into its protection.
• • •<
br />
His divine monitress, he called me! He would endeavour to form his manners, as he had often promised, by my example. But he hoped I would now permit him to mention briefly the justice he proposed to do me, in the terms of the settlement.
I have no spirits just now, sir, to attend to such weighty points. What you have a mind to propose, write to me: and I shall know what answer to return.
He looked as if he would choose rather to speak than write: but had he said so, I had a severe return to have made upon him; as possibly he might see by my looks.
• • •
In this way are we now: a sort of calm, as I said, succeeding a storm. What may happen next, whether a storm or a calm, with such a spirit as I have to deal with, who can tell?
But be that as it will, I think, my dear, I am not meanly off: and that is a great point with me; and which I know you’ll be glad to hear: if it were only that I can see this man without losing any of that dignity (what other word can I use, speaking of myself, that betokens decency and not arrogance?) which is so necessary to enable me to look up, or rather, with the mind’s eye, I may say, to look down upon a man of this man’s cast.
Be pleased then to allow me to think that my motives on this occasion arise not altogether from maidenly niceness; nor yet from the apprehension of what my present tormentor, and future husband, may think of a precipitate compliance, on such a disagreeable behaviour as his. But they arise principally from what offers to my own heart, respecting, as I may say, its own rectitude, its own judgement of the fit and the unfit; as I would without study answer for myself to myself, in the first place; to him and to the world, in the second only.
I hope, my dear, I do not deceive myself, and instead of setting about rectifying what is amiss in my heart, endeavour to find excuses for habits and peculiarities which I am unwilling to cast off or overcome. The heart is very deceitful: do you, my dear friend, lay mine open (but surely it is always open before you!) and spare me not, if you find or think it culpable.
Clarissa, Or, the History of a Young Lady Page 28