Pamela

by Samuel Richardson

  I begged I might be permitted to lie with her on nights; for I was afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she. ‘That was a silly excuse,’ she said; ‘for why was you not afraid of spirits before?’ [Indeed I did not think of that]. ‘But you shall be my bed-fellow with all my heart,’ added she, ‘let your reason be what it will; only come down to supper.’ I begged to be excused; for, said I, ‘I have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my fellow-servants as they come in and out; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs Jervis, when we are alone.’

  She was so good as to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and told the female servants, that I should lie with her, because she could not rest well, and she would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved reading, she said.

  When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for, ruminating on every thing, I thought, though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me. Was I right, my dear mother?

  Mrs Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me what to do; and I shewed her my dear father’s two letters, and she praised the honesty and inditing of them, and said pleasing things to me of you both.

  But she begged I would not think of leaving my service; ‘for,’ said she, ‘in all likelihood, as you behaved so virtuously, he will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you again: Though, my dear Pamela, I fear more for your prettiness than for any thing else; because the best man in the land might love you.’ So she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her power to live independent; then she would take a little private house, and I should live with her like her daughter.

  And so, (as you ordered me to take her advice), I resolved to stay to see how things went, except he was to turn me away. So, my dear father and mother, it is not disobedience, I hope, that I stay; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good fruits of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient.

  All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. He saw me writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs Jervis, ‘That girl is always scribbling; methinks she might find something else to do’; or to that purpose. And when I had finished my letter, I put it under the toilet,18 in my late lady’s dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and Mrs Jervis, besides my master; but when I came up again to seal it, to my great concern, it was gone; and Mrs Jervis knew nothing of it; and nobody knew of my master’s having been near the place in the time: So I have been sadly troubled about it: But Mrs Jervis, as well as I, thinks he has it, some how or other; and he appears cross and angry, and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did him. It had better be so than worse!

  But he has ordered Mrs Jervis to bid me not pass so much time in writing; which is a poor matter for such a gentleman as he to take notice of, as I am not idle other-ways, if he was not apprehensive of the subject I wrote upon. And this has no very good look.

  But I am a good deal easier since I sleep with Mrs Jervis; though after all, the fears I live in on one side, and his displeasure at what I do on the other, make me more miserable than enough.

  O that I had never left my little bed in your loft!19 To be thus exposed to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on the other! How happy was I a while ago! How contrary now! Pity and pray for

  Your afflicted PAMELA.

  LETTER XIII

  My dearest Child,

  Our hearts bleed for your distress, and the temptations you are exposed to. You have our hourly prayers; and we would have you flee this evil great house and man, if you find him in the least inclined to renew his freedoms. You ought to have done it at first, had you not had Mrs Jervis to advise with.

  We have, indeed, great comfort, when we reflect upon your past conduct, and that you have been bred to be more ashamed of dishonesty than poverty: But as we can’t see but your life must be a burden to you, through the great apprehensions always upon you; and as we consider that it may be presumptuous to trust too much to your own strength; and that you are but very young; and that the devil may put it into his head to use some stratagem, of which great men are full, to decoy you; I think you had better come home to share our poverty with safety, than live with so much discontent in a plenty, that itself may be dangerous.

  God direct you for the best! While you have Mrs Jervis for an adviser, and bed-fellow, (and O my dear child, that was prudently done of you!) we are easier than we should otherwise have been. And so committing you to the Divine Protection, remain,

  Your truly loving,

  and careful, Father and Mother.

  LETTER XIV

  Mrs Jervis and I, my dear father and mother, have lived very comfortably together for this fortnight past; for my master was all that time at his Lincolnshire estate, and at Lady Davers’s. But he came home yesterday. He had some talk with Mrs Jervis soon after, and mostly about me. He said to her, it seems, ‘Well, Mrs Jervis, I know Pamela has your good word; but do you think her of any use in the family?’ She told me, she was surprised at the question; but said, that I was one of the most virtuous and industrious creatures she ever knew. ‘Why that word virtuous?’ said he. ‘Was there any reason to suppose her otherwise? Or has any body taken it into their heads to try her?’ ‘Who, sir,’ said she, ‘dare to offer any thing to her in such an orderly and well-governed house as yours, and under a master of so good a character?’ ‘Your servant, Mrs Jervis; but pray, if any body did, do you think Pamela would let you know it?’ ‘she is,’ replied she, ‘an innocent young creature, and I believe has so much confidence in me, that she would take my advice as soon as she would her mother’s.’ ‘Innocent! again; and virtuous, I suppose! Well, Mrs Jervis, you abound with your epithets! But I will give you my opinion of her: I don’t think this same favourite of yours so very artless a girl, as you imagine.’ ‘I am not to dispute with your honour,’ replied Mrs Jervis; ‘but I dare say, if the men will let her alone, she’ll never trouble herself about them.’ ‘Why, Mrs Jervis,’ said he, ‘are there any men that will not let her alone, that you know of?’ ‘No, indeed, sir; she keeps herself so much to herself, and yet behaves so prudently, that they all esteem her, and shew her as great respect, as if she was a gentlewoman born.’

  ‘Ay,’ says he, ‘that’s her art, that I was speaking of: But let me tell you, the girl has vanity and conceit, and pride too, or I am mistaken; and, perhaps, I could give you an instance of it’ ‘sir,’ said she, ‘you can see further than such a poor silly20 woman as I can; but I never saw any thing but innocence in her.’ ‘And virtue too, I’ll warrant,’ said he. ‘But suppose I could give you an instance, where she has talked a little too freely of the kindnesses that have been shewed her from a certain quarter; and has had the vanity to impute a few kind words, uttered in mere compassion to her youth and circumstances, into a design upon her, and even dared to make free with names that she ought never to mention but with reverence and gratitude; what would you say to that?’ ‘Say, sir!’ replied she, ‘I cannot tell what I should say. But I hope Pamela is incapable of such ingratitude.’

  ‘Well, no more of this silly girl,’ said he; ‘you may only advise her, as you are her friend, not to give herself too much licence upon the favours she meets with; and if she stays here, that she will not write the affairs of my family purely for an exercise to her pen and her invention. I tell you, she is a subtle, artful little gypsey,21 and time will shew you that she is.’

  Was ever the like heard, my dear father and mother? It is plain he did not expect to meet with such a repulse, and mistrusts that I have told Mrs Jervis, and has my long letter too, that I intended for you; and so is vexed to the heart. But I can’t help it. I had better be thought artful and
subtle, than be so, in his sense; and as light as he makes of the words virtue and innocence in me, he would have made a less angry construction, had I less deserved that he should do so; for then, may be, my crime would have been my virtue with him; wicked gentleman as he is!

  I will soon write again; but must now end with saying, That I am, and will always be,

  Your honest Daughter.

  LETTER XV

  My dear Mother,

  I broke off abruptly my last letter; for I feared he was coming; and so it happened. I put the letter into my bosom, and took up my work, which lay by me; but I had so little of the artful, as he called it, that I looked as confused, as if I had been doing some great harm.

  ‘Sit still, Pamela,’ said he, ‘and go on with your work, for all me. You don’t tell me I am welcome home after my journey to Lincolnshire.’ ‘It would be hard, sir,’ said I, ‘if you were not always welcome to your honour’s own house.’

  I would have gone; but he said, ‘Don’t run away, I tell you. I have a word or two to say to you.’ O how my heart fluttered! ‘When I was a little kind to you,’ said he, ‘in the summer-house, and you behaved so foolishly upon it, as if I had intended to do you great harm, did I not tell you, you should take no notice of what passed to any creature? And yet you have made a common talk of the matter, not considering either my reputation, or your own.’ ‘I made a common talk of it, sir!’ said I: ‘I have nobody to talk to, hardly–’

  He interrupted me, ‘Hardly! you little equivocator! what do you mean by hardly? Let me ask you, Have you not told Mrs Jervis for one?’ ‘Pray your honour,’ said I, all in agitation, ‘let me go down; for it is not for me to hold an argument with your honour.’ ‘Equivocator, again!’ and took my hand, ‘why do you talk of an argument? Is it holding an argument with me, to answer a plain question? Answer me to what I asked.’ ‘O good sir,’ said I, ‘let me beg you will not urge me further, for fear I forget myself again, and be saucy.’

  ‘Answer me then, I bid you, Have you not told Mrs Jervis? It will be saucy in you, if you don’t directly answer my question.’ ‘Sir,’ said I (and fain would have pulled my hand from him), ‘perhaps I should be for answering you by another question, and that would not become me.’ ‘What is it you would say?’ replied he; ‘speak out.’

  ‘Then, sir,’ said I, ‘why should your honour be so angry I should tell Mrs Jervis, or any body else, what passed, if you intended no harm?’

  ‘Well said, pretty innocent and artless! as Mrs Jervis calls you,’ said he; ‘and is it thus, insolent as you are! you taunt and retort upon me! But still I will be answered directly to my question.’ ‘Why then, sir,’ said I, ‘I will not tell a lye for the world: I did tell Mrs Jervis; for my heart was almost broken; but I opened not my mouth to any other.’ ‘Very well, bold-face,’ said he, ‘and equivocator again! You did not open your mouth to any other; but did you not write to some other?’ ‘Why now, and please your honour,’ said I, (for I was quite courageous just then) ‘you could not have asked me this question, if you had not taken from me my letter to my father and mother, in which (I own it) I had broke my mind freely to them, and asked their advice, and poured forth my griefs!’

  ‘And so I am to be exposed, am I,’ said he, ‘in my own house, and out of my house, to the whole world, by such a saucebox?’ ‘No, good sir,’ said I, ‘and I pray your honour not to be angry with me; it is not I that expose you, if I say nothing but the truth.’ He was then very angry, and called me assurance; and bid me remember to whom I was talking.

  ‘Pray, sir,’ said I, ‘of whom can a poor girl take advice, if it must not be of her father and mother, and such a good woman as Mrs Jervis, who, for her sex-sake, should give it me when asked?’ ‘Insolence!’ he then called me, and stamped with his foot. I fell down on my knees, and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, your honour, pity a poor creature, that knows nothing, but how to cherish her virtue and good name: I have nothing else to trust to; and though poor and friendless here, yet I have always been taught to value honesty above my life.’ ‘Honesty, foolish girl!’ said he. ‘But is it not one part of honesty to be dutiful and grateful to your master?’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ said I, ‘it is impossible I should be ungrateful to your honour, or disobedient, or deserve the names of boldface and insolent, which you are pleased to call me, but when your commands are contrary to that first duty, which shall ever be the principle of my life!’

  He seemed to be moved, and rose up, and walked into the great chamber two or three turns, leaving me on my knees; and I threw my apron over my face, and laid my head on a chair, and cried as if my heart would break, but had no power to go from the place.

  At last he came in again, but with mischief in his heart! and raising me up, he said, ‘Rise, Pamela, rise; you are your own enemy. Your perverse folly will be your ruin: I am very much displeased with the freedoms you have taken with my name to my house-keeper, as also to your father and mother; and you may as well have real cause to take these freedoms with me, as to make my name suffer for imaginary ones.’ And saying so, he lifted me up, and offered to set me on his knee.

  O how I was terrified! I said, like as I had read in a book a night or two before, ‘Angels and saints, and all the host of heaven, defend me!22 And may I never survive one moment, that fatal one in which I shall forfeit my innocence!’ ‘Pretty fool!’ said he, ‘how will you forfeit your innocence, if you are obliged to yield to a force you cannot withstand? Be easy, for let the worst happen that can, you’ll have the merit, and I the blame; and it will be a good subject for letters to your father and mother, and a pretty tale moreover for Mrs Jervis.’

  He then, though I struggled against him, kissed me, and said, ‘Who ever blamed Lucretia?23 The shame lay on the ravisher only: and I am content to take all the blame upon myself; as I have already borne too great a share for what I have deserved.’ ‘May I,’ said I, ‘Lucretia like, justify myself by my death, if I am used barbarously?’ ‘O my good girl!’ replied he, tauntingly, ‘you are well read, I see; and we shall make out between us, before we have done, a pretty story for a romance.’

  He then offered to kiss my neck. Indignation gave me double strength, and I got from him by a sudden spring, and ran out of the room; and the door of the next chamber being open, I rushed into it, and threw-to the door, and it locked after me; but he followed me so close, he got hold of my gown, and tore a piece off, which hung without the door; for the key was on the inside.

  I just remember I got into the room. I knew nothing further till afterwards, having fallen down in a fit; and there I lay, till he, as I suppose, looking through the key-hole, ‘spied me upon the floor,24 and then he called Mrs Jervis, who, by his assistance, bursting open the door, he went away, seeing me coming to myself; and bid her say nothing of the matter, if she were wise.

  Poor Mrs Jervis thought it was worse, and cried over me as if she was my mother; and I was two hours before I came to myself; and just as I got on my feet, he coming in, I fainted away again; and so he withdrew: But he staid in the next room to hinder any body from coming near us, that his vile proceedings might not be known.

  Mrs Jervis gave me her smelling-bottle,25 and had cut my laces,26 and sat me in a great chair, and he called her to him: ‘How is the girl?’ said he: ‘I never saw such a fool in my life. I did nothing at all to her.’

  Mrs Jervis could not speak for crying. So he said, ‘she has told you, it seems, that I was kind to her in the summer-house, although I assure you, I was quite innocent then as well as now, and I desire you to keep this matter to yourself, and let not my name be freely used.’

  ‘O, sir,’ said she, ‘for your honour’s sake, and for Christ’s sake –’ But he would not hear her, and said, ‘For your own sake, I tell you, Mrs Jervis, say not a word more. I have done her no harm. And I will not have her stay in my house; prating, perverse fool, as she is! But since she is so apt to fall into fits, or at least to pretend to do so, prepare her to see me to-morrow after dinner, in my mother’s clo
set, and do you be with her as a witness to what shall pass between us.’

  And so he went out in a passion, and ordered his chariot27 to be got ready, and went a visiting somewhere.

  Mrs Jervis then came to me. I told her all that had happened, and said I was resolved not to stay in the house: And she replying, He seemed to threaten that I should not; ‘I am glad of that,’ said I; ‘then I shall be easy.’ So she told me all he had said to her, as above.

  Mrs Jervis is very loth I should go; and yet, poor woman! she begins to be afraid for herself; but would not have me ruined for the world. She says, To be sure he means no good; but may-be, now he sees me so resolute, he will give over all attempts: And that I shall better know what to do after to-morrow, when I am to appear before a very bad judge, I doubt.

  How I dread this to-morrow’s appearance! Would to heaven, I could tell how to get away before the time came! But be as assured, my dear parents, of the honesty of your poor child, as I am of your prayers for

  Your dutiful daughter.

  O this frightful to-morrow! how I dread it!

  LETTER XVI

  I know, my dear parents, that you longed to hear from me soon; and I sent to you as soon as I could.

  Well! you may believe how uneasily I passed the time, till his appointed hour came. Every minute, as it grew nearer, my terrors increased; and sometimes I had great courage, and sometimes none at all; and I thought I should faint, when it came to the time my master had dined. I could neither eat nor drink; and, do what I could, my eyes were swelled with crying.

  At last he went up to the closet, which was my good lady’s dressing-room; a room I once loved, but then dreaded.