Pamela

by Samuel Richardson

  He presently began by squeezing my hand; and then, truly, all the way we walked, he would put his arm about my waist. I would have removed his arm: but he called me little fool! and bid me not mistrust his honour. Had he not told me, he said, that I might rely upon it? And it would be better for me if I did.

  He then said abundance of kind and praiseful things, enough to make me proud, had not his designs been so apparent.

  After walking about, he led me into a little alcove in the further part of the garden, which having a passage through it, I the less resisted; and still the less, as he had led me through once without stopping;192 but then stopping in it, he began to be very teazing. He made me sit on his knee; and still on my struggling against such a freedom, he bid me rely on his honour, solemnly assuring me that I might. But then kissing me very often, though I resisted every time, I told him, at last, and would have got from him, that I would not stay with him in this place. I would not be so freely used. And I wondered he could so demean himself. I told him, moreover, that he would level all distance between us, and I should lose all reverence for him; though he was the son of my ever-honoured lady.

  He held me fast notwithstanding, professing honour all the time with his mouth, though his actions did not correspond. I begged and prayed he would let me go: and had I not appeared quite regardless of all he said, and resolved not to stay, if I could help it, I know not how far he would have proceeded: for I was forced at last to fall down upon my knees.

  He then walked out with me, still bragging of his honour, and his love. ‘Yes, yes, sir,’ said I, ‘your honour is to destroy mine, and your love is to ruin me, I see it too plainly. But, indeed, I will not walk out with you, sir, any more.’

  ‘Do you know,’ said he, ‘whom you talk to, and where you are?’

  You may believe I had reason to think him not so decent as he should be; for I said, ‘As to where I am, sir, I know it too well, and that I have no creature to befriend me: and, as to whom I talk to, sir, let me ask you, what you would have me answer?’

  He put his arm round me, and his other hand on my neck; which made me more angry and bold; and he said, ‘Who then am I?’ ‘Why,’ said I, (struggling from him, and in a great passion) ‘to be sure, you are Lucifer himself in the shape of my master, or you could not use me thus.’ ‘These are too great liberties,’ said he, in anger; ‘and I desire, that you will not repeat them, for your own sake: for if you have no decency towards me, I’ll have none towards you.’

  I was running from him; and had got at a little distance, when he in a haughty tone, called out, ‘Come back! Pamela, come back when I bid you!’ Too well I knew, as I told you before, that every place was alike dangerous to me; and that I had nobody to run to for safety: and I stopped at his call; for he stopped too, as if to see if I would obey him, and perhaps to have a pretence against me if I did not; or in disdain to run after such a girl as me. ‘How can I, sir,’ said I, throwing abroad my supplicating arms, ‘how can I go back, to a gentleman who has so demeaned himself to his poor servant girl?’ ‘Come back,’ repeated he, in a still more haughty tone, throwing out in a threatening manner one arm, and looking taller than usual, as I thought, and he is a tall, and very majestic man. ‘Come back, when I bid you’; still not moving a pace towards me.

  What could I do? With unwilling feet, and slow, I went back; and seeing him look angry, I held my hands together, and wept, and said, ‘Pray, sir, forgive me.’ ‘No,’ said he, ‘rather say, pray, Lucifer, forgive me. You have given me a character, Pamela, and blame me not if I act up to it.’

  ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘let me beg you to forgive me. I am really sorry for my boldness; but indeed, you don’t use me like a gentleman; and how can I express my resentments, if I mince the matter, while you are indecent?’

  ‘Precise fool!’ said he, ‘what indecencies have I offered you? I was bewitched I had not gone through my purpose last Sunday night; and then your licentious tongue had not given the worst interpretation to little puny freedoms, that shew my love and my folly at the same time. But begone,’ said he, taking my hand, and tossing it from him, ‘and learn more wit. I will lay aside my foolish regard for you, and assert myself. Be gone,’ said he, again, with a haughty air.

  ‘If, sir,’ said I, ‘I am not to go for good, I cannot quit your presence till you pardon me. On my knees I beg you will’: and I kneeled to him. ‘I am truly sorry for my boldness. But I see how you go on: now you soothe me, and now threaten me: and have you not as good as avowed my ruin? What then is left me but words? And can these words be other than such strong ones as shall shew the detestation, which, from the bottom of my heart, I have for every attempt upon my virtue? Judge for me, sir, I hope you are not the most hard-hearted of men! judge for me, and pardon me.’

  ‘Pardon you,’ said he, ‘what! when you have the boldness to justify yourself in your fault? Why don’t you say, you never will again offend me?’ ‘I will endeavour, sir,’ said I, ‘always to preserve that decency towards you, that veneration for you, which is due from me to the son of that ever-honoured lady, who taught me to prefer my honesty to my life. Command from me, sir, that life, and I will lay it down with pleasure, to shew my obedience to you. But I cannot be patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is in danger. For God’s sake, sir, seek not to destroy the fabric which your good mother took so much pleasure in building up.’

  He seemed affected, yet angrily said, he never saw such a fool in his life! And walking by the side of me some yards without saying a word, he at last went in, bidding me attend him in the garden after dinner.

  WEDNESDAY Night

  I have now, my dear parents, such a scene to open to you, that I know will alarm both your hopes and your fears, as it does mine. And this it is:

  After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables, to look at his stud of horses; and afterwards, when he came in, he opened the house-keeper’s parlour-door, where Mrs Jewkes and I sat at dinner. At his entrance, we both rose up; but he said, ‘Sit still, sit still: proceed with your dinner. Mrs Jewkes has told me, that you have but a poor appetite.’ ‘A poor one, indeed,’ said Mrs Jewkes. ‘A pretty good one, sir,’ said I, ‘considering.’ ‘None of your considerings!’ said he, ‘pretty-face’; and tapped me on the cheek. I blushed, but was glad he was so good-humoured; though I could not tell how to sit before him, nor how to behave myself. ‘I know, Pamela,’ said he, ‘you are a carver: my mother used to say so.’ ‘My lady, sir,’ said I, ‘was very good to me, in every thing; and would always make me do the honours of her table, when she was with her few select friends that she loved.’ He bid me carve that chicken. I did so. ‘Now,’ said he, taking a fork, and putting a wing upon my plate, ‘let me see you eat that.’ I obeyed; but was much abashed at his freedom and condescension. And you can’t imagine how Mrs Jewkes looked, and how respectful she seemed to me, and called me good madam, I assure you, urging me to take a little bit of tart.

  My master took two or three turns about the room, musing and more thoughtful than ever before I had seen him; and at last he went out, saying, ‘I am going into the garden: you know, Pamela, what I said to you before dinner.’ I stood up, and court’sied, saying, I would attend his honour. ‘Do, good girl,’ said he.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Jewkes, ‘I see how things will go. O madam,’ as she called me again, ‘I am sure you are to be our mistress; and then I know what will become of me.’ ‘Ah! Mrs Jewkes,’ said I, ‘if I can but keep myself virtuous, ’tis the most of my ambition; and I hope no temptation shall make me otherwise.’

  Notwithstanding I had no reason to be pleased with his treatment of me before dinner, yet I made haste to attend him.

  I found him walking by the side of that very pond, which, through a sinful despondence, had like to have been so fatal to me. And it was by the side of this pond, and not far from the place where I had that dreadful conflict, that my present hopes, if I am not to be betrayed by them, began to dawn. And sometimes I have the presumption to
hope for an happy omen from hence; as if the Almighty would shew your poor daughter, how well she did, to put her affiance193 in his goodness, and not to throw away herself, because her ruin, in her short-sighted apprehension, seemed at the time to be inevitable.

  ‘Well, Pamela,’ he was pleased to say, ‘I am glad you wanted not intreaty, or a new command, to come to me. I love to be obliged. Give me your hand.’ I did so; and he looked at me very steadily, and pressing my hand all the time, at last said, ‘I will now talk to you in a serious manner.

  ‘You have a good deal of prudence, and a penetration beyond your years, and, as I thought, beyond your opportunities. You seem to me to have an open, frank, and generous mind; and in person you are so lovely, that in my eyes, you excel all your sex. All these accomplishments have engaged my affections so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live without you; and I would divide, with all my soul, my estate with you, to make you mine upon my own terms.’ Here he paused. ‘Ah, sir,’ said I, offering gently to withdraw my hand; but he held it the faster. ‘Hear me out,’ said he. ‘These terms you have absolutely rejected; yet in such a manner as makes me admire you more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs Jewkes the last Sunday night, so full of beautiful simplicity, half disarmed my resolution, before I approached your bed. And I see you on all occasions so watchful for your virtue, that though I hoped to find it otherwise, I cannot but confess, my passion for you is increased by it. But now what shall I say further, Pamela? I will make you my adviser in this matter; though not, perhaps, my definitive judge.

  ‘You cannot believe,’ proceeded he, ‘that I am a very abandoned man. I have hitherto been guilty of no very enormous actions. The causing you to be carried off to this house, and confining you here, may, perhaps, be one of the most violent actions of my life. Had I been utterly given up to my passions, I should before now have gratified them, and not have shewn that remorse and compassion for you, which have reprieved you more than once when absolutely in my power.

  ‘But, what can I do? Consider the pride of my condition. I cannot endure the thought of marriage, even with a person of equal or superior degree to myself; and have declined several proposals of that kind: how, then, with the distance between us, in the world’s judgment, can I think of making you my wife? Yet I must have you; I cannot bear the thoughts of any other man’s supplanting me in your affections. And the very apprehension of that has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him in a manner unworthy of my nature.

  ‘Now, Pamela, judge for me; and, since I have told you thus candidly my mind, and I see yours is big with some important meaning, by your eyes, your blushes, and that sweet confusion which I behold struggling in your bosom, tell me with like openness and candour, what you think I ought to do, and what you would have me do.’

  It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my mind on this unexpected declaration, and made in so condescending a manner; for, alas for me! I found I had need of all my poor discretion, to ward off the blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded thoughts. I threw myself at his feet; for I trembled, and could hardly stand. ‘O sir,’ said I, ‘spare your poor servant’s confusion! O spare the poor Pamela!’ ‘Speak out,’ said he, ‘and tell me, what you think I ought to do?’ ‘I cannot say what you ought to do,’ answered I: ‘but I only beg you will not seek to ruin me; and if you think me virtuous, if you think me sincerely honest, let me go to my poor parents. I will vow to you, that I will never suffer myself to be engaged without your approbation.’

  Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his question, of what I thought he ought to do. And I said, ‘As to my poor thoughts, of what you ought to do, I must needs say, that, indeed, I think you ought to regard the world’s opinion, and avoid doing any thing disgraceful to your birth and fortune; and therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela with your favour, a little time, absence, and the conversation of worthier persons of my sex, will effectually enable you to overcome a regard so unworthy of your condition: and this, sir, is the best advice I can offer.’

  ‘Charming creature! lovely Pamela! ’ said he, (with an ardour that was never before so agreeable to me) ‘this generous manner is of a piece with all the rest of your conduct. But tell me still more explicitly, what you would advise me to in the case.’

  ‘O sir,’ said I, ‘take not advantage of my credulity, and of my free and open heart: but were I the first lady in the land, instead of the poor abject Pamela Andrews, I would, I could tell you. But I can say no more.’ And I held down my face, all covered over with confusion.

  O my dear father and mother! now I know you will indeed be concerned for me, since now I am concerned for myself: for now I begin to be afraid, I know too well the reason why all his hard trials of me, and my black apprehensions, would not let me hate him.

  But be assured still, by the Divine Aid, that I shall do nothing unworthy of your Pamela; and if I find that this appearance of true love is only assumed to delude me, I shall think nothing in this world so vile and so odious; and nothing, if he be not the worst of his kind, (as he says, and I hope, he is not) so desperately guileful as the heart of man.

  He generously said, ‘I will spare your confusion, Pamela, but I hope, I may promise myself, that you can love me preferably to any other man; and that no one in the world has had any share in your affections; for I am very jealous in my love, and if I thought you had a secret whispering in your soul, though it had not yet come up to a wish, for any other man breathing, I should not forgive myself for persisting in my affection for you; nor, you, if you did not frankly acquaint me with it.’

  As I still continued on my knees, on the grass border by the pond-side, he sat himself down on the grass by me, and putting his arm round me, ‘Why hesitates my Pamela?’ said he. ‘Can you not answer me with truth, as I wish? If you cannot, speak, and I will forgive you.’

  ‘O sir,’ said I, ‘it is not that I cannot most readily answer your question; indeed it is not: but what you once said to Mrs Jewkes, when you thought I was not in hearing, comes across my mind; and makes me dread, that I am in more danger than ever I was in my life.’

  ‘I will not answer, too fearful and foolish Pamela,’ said he, ‘how long I may hold in my present mind; for my pride struggles hard within me; and if you doubt me, I have no obligation to your confidence or opinion. But at present I am sincere in what I say: and I expect you will be so too; and answer directly my question.’

  ‘I find, sir,’ said I, ‘I know not myself; and your question is of such a nature, that I only want to tell you what I heard, and to have your kind answer to it; or else, what I can truly say to your question, may pave the way to my ruin.’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘you may say what you have over-heard; for, in not answering me directly, you put my soul upon the rack; and half the trouble I have had with you, would have brought to my arms some one of the finest ladies in England.’

  ‘O sir,’ said I, ‘my virtue is as dear to me, as if I was of the highest quality; you know, that I have had but too much reason for apprehensions. But I will tell you what I heard.

  ‘You talked to Mrs Jewkes of having begun wrong with me, in trying to subdue me with terror; and of frost, and such-like; and that you would, for the future, change your conduct, and try to melt me, that was your word, by kindness. I fear not, sir, the grace of God supporting me, that any acts of kindness will make me forget what I owe to my virtue; but, sir, I may, I find, be made more miserable by such acts, than by terror; because my nature is frank, and I cannot be ungrateful, and if I should be taught a lesson I never yet learnt, with what regret should I descend to the grave, to think, that I could not hate my worst enemy! And that, at the last great day, I must stand up as an accuser of the unhappy soul, that I could wish it in my power to save! ’

  ‘Exalted girl!’ said he, ‘what a thought is that! Why, now, Pamela, you excel yourself. You have given me a hint that will hold me long. But, sweet creature, tell me what is this lesson, which you never
yet learnt, and which you are so afraid of being taught? ’

  ‘If, sir, you will again generously spare my confusion, I need not speak it: but this I will say, in answer to the question you seem most solicitous about, that I never yet saw the man to whom I wished to be married. I hoped for nothing but to return to my poor parents; and to employ myself in serving God, and comforting them; and you know not, sir, how you disappointed me in my proposed honest pleasures, when you sent me hither.’

  ‘Well then,’ said he, ‘I may promise myself, that neither regard for the parson, nor for any other man, is any the least secret motive of your stedfast refusal of my offers?’ ‘Indeed, sir, you may; and, as you was pleased to ask, I answer, that I have not the least shadow of a wish or thought in favour of any man living.’

  ‘But,’ said he, ‘(for I am foolishly jealous, and yet my jealousy shews my fondness for you) have you not encouraged Williams to think you will be his?’ ‘Indeed, sir, I have not; but the very contrary.’ ‘And would you not have had him,’ said he, ‘if you had got away by his means?’ ‘I had resolved, sir,’ said I, ‘in my mind, otherwise; and he knew it, and the poor man–’ ‘I charge you,’ said he, ‘say not a word in his favour! You will excite a whirlwind in my soul, if you name him with kindness; and then you will be borne away with the tempest.’

  ‘I have done, sir.’ ‘Nay, but do not have done; let me know the whole. If you have any regard for him, speak out; for it would end dreadfully for you, for me, and for him, if I found, that you disguised any secret of your soul from me, in this nice particular.’

  ‘If ever, sir, I have given you cause to think me sincere–’ ‘Say then,’ said he, interrupting me with great vehemence, and taking both my hands between his, ‘declare, as if you were in the presence of God, that you have not any the least shadow of regard for Williams, or any other man.’