I looked over my little stock of money; and found it to be no more than seven guineas and some silver. The rest of my stock was but fifty guineas, and that five more than I thought it was, when my sister challenged me as to the sum I had by me: and those I left in my escritoire, little thinking to be prevailed upon to go away with him.
Indeed my case abounds with a shocking variety of indelicate circumstances. Among the rest, I was forced to account to him, who knew I could have no clothes but what I had on, how I came to have linen with me (for he could not but know I sent for it); lest he should imagine I had an early design to go away with him, and made that a part of the preparation.
Mrs Greme came to pay her duty to me, as Mr Lovelace called it; and was very urgent with me to go to her lord’s house; letting me know what handsome things she had heard her lord, and his two nieces, and all the family, say of me; and what wishes, for several months past, they had put up for the honour she now hoped soon would be done them all.
This gave me some satisfaction, as it confirmed from the mouth of a very good sort of woman all that Mr Lovelace had told me.
Upon inquiry about a private lodging, she recommended me to a sister-in-law of hers, eight miles from thence—where I now am.
I should have mentioned that, before I set out for this place, I received your kind letter. Everything is kind from so dear a friend. I own you might well be surprised (I was myself; as by this time you will have seen)—after I had determined, too, so strongly against going away.
I have not the better opinion of Mr Lovelace for his extravagant volubility. He is too full of professions: he says too many fine things of me, and to me.
The man, to be sure, is, at times, all upon the ecstatic, one of his phrases; but, to my shame and confusion, I know too well what to attribute it to, in a great measure—To his triumph, my dear, in one word; it needs no further explanation; and, to give it that word, perhaps, equally exposes my vanity and condemns my folly.
We have been alarmed with notions of a pursuit, founded upon a letter from his intelligencer.
Most heavily, he says, they take it; but show not so much grief as rage—and he can hardly have patience to hear of the virulence and menaces of my brother against himself. Then a merit is made to me of his forbearance.
What a satisfaction am I robbed of, my dearest friend, by this rash action? I can now, too late, judge of the difference there is in being an offended rather than an offending person! What would I give to have it once more in my power to say I suffered wrong, rather than did wrong? That others were more wanting in their kindness to me, than I in duty (where duty is owing) to them?
What more concerns me is that every time I see this man, I am still at a greater loss than before what to make of him. I watch every turn of his countenance: and I think I see very deep lines in it. He looks with more meaning, I verily think, than he used to look; yet not more serious; not less gay. I don’t know how he looks. But with more confidence a great deal than formerly; and yet he never wanted that.
I shall send this, as my former, by a poor man who travels every day with pedlary matters, who will leave it at Mrs Knollys’s, as you direct.
If you hear anything of my father and mother, and of their health, and how my friends were affected by my unhappy step, pray be so good as to write me a few lines by the messenger, if his waiting for them can be known to you.
I am afraid to ask you whether, upon reading that part of my narrative already in your hands, you think any sort of extenuation lies for
Your unhappy
CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 99: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Tuesday, Wed. Apr. 11, 12
Thou claimest my promise that I will be as particular as possible in all that passes between me and my goddess. Indeed, I never had a more illustrious subject to exercise my pen upon: and, moreover, I have leisure; for by her good will my access would be as difficult to her as that of the humblest slave to an eastern monarch.
I told thee my reasons for not going in search of a letter of countermand. I was right; for, if I had, I should have found such a one; and had I received it, she would not have met me. Did she think that after I had been more than once disappointed, I would not keep her to her promise; that I would not hold her to it, when I had got her in so deeply?
The moment I heard the door unbolt, I was sure of her. That motion made my heart bound to my throat. But when that was followed with the presence of my charmer, flashing upon me all at once in a flood of brightness, sweetly dressed, though all unprepared for a journey, I trod air, and hardly thought myself a mortal.
Her wax-like flesh (for, after all, flesh and blood I think she is!) by its delicacy and firmness, answers for the soundness of her health. Thou hast often heard me launch out in praise of her complexion. But this lady is all alive, all glowing, all charming flesh and blood, yet so clear, that every meandering vein is to be seen in all the lovely parts of her which custom permits to be visible.
Her morning gown was a pale primrose-coloured paduasoy: the cuffs and robings curiously embroidered by the fingers of this ever charming Arachne in a running pattern of violets and their leaves; the light in the flowers silver; gold in the leaves. A pair of diamond snaps in her ears. A white handkerchief, wrought by the same inimitable fingers, concealed. Oh Belford! what still more inimitable beauties did it not conceal! And I saw, all the way we rode, the bounding heart; by its throbbing motions I saw it! dancing beneath the charming umbrage.
I have told thee what were my transports, when the undrawn bolt presented to me my long-expected goddess. Her emotions were more sweetly feminine, after the first moments; for then the fire of her starry eyes began to sink into a less dazzling languor. She trembled: nor knew she how to support the agitations of a heart she had never found so ungovernable. She was even fainting, when I clasped her in my supporting arms. What a precious moment that! How near, how sweetly near, the throbbing partners!
I’ll tell thee all, when I see thee: and thou shalt then judge of my difficulties, and of her perverseness. And thou wilt rejoice with me, at my conquest over such a watchful and open-eyed charmer.
But seest thou not now (as I think I do) the wind-outstripping fair one flying from her love to her love? Is there not such a game? Nay, flying from friends she was resolved not to abandon to the man she was determined not to go off with? The sex! the sex, all over!—charming contradiction! Hah, hah, hah, hah! I must here lay down my pen to hold my sides; for I must have my laugh out, now the fit is upon me!
• • •
Thou wilt not dare, methinks I hear thee say, to attempt to reduce such a goddess as this to a standard unworthy of her excellencies. It is impossible, Lovelace, that thou shouldst intend to break through oaths and protestations so solemn.
That I did not intend it, is certain. That I do intend it, I cannot (my heart, my reverence for her, will not let me) say. But knowest thou not my aversion to the state of shackles? And is she not IN MY POWER?
And wilt thou, Lovelace, abuse that power, which—
Which what, puppy?—which I obtained not by her own consent, but against it.
But which thou hadst never obtained, had she not esteemed thee above all men.
And which I had never taken so much pains to obtain, had I not loved her above all women. So far upon a par, Jack! And, if thou pleadest honour, ought not honour to be mutual? If mutual, does it not imply mutual trust, mutual confidence?—and what have I had of that from her to boast of? Thou knowest the whole progress of our warfare: for a warfare it has truly been; and far, very far, from an amorous warfare too.
Does she not deserve to pay for all this? To make an honest fellow look like an hypocrite; what a vile thing is that!
Then thou knowest what a false little rogue she has been! How little conscience she has made of disappointing me! Hast thou not been a witness of my ravin
gs on this score? Have I not, in height of them, vowed revenge upon the faithless charmer?
Then, I fancy, by her circumspection, and her continual grief, that she expects some mischief from me. I don’t care to disappoint anybody I have a value for.
How it swells my pride to have been able to outwit such a vigilant charmer! I am taller by half a yard, in my imagination, than I was! I look down upon everybody now! Last night I was still more extravagant. I took off my hat, as I walked, to see if the lace were not scorched, supposing it had brushed down a star; and, before I put it on again, in mere wantonness and heart’s-ease, I was for buffeting the moon. In short, my whole soul is joy. When I go to bed, I laugh myself asleep: and I awake either laughing or singing. Yet nothing nearly in view, neither. For why? I am not yet reformed enough!
I told thee at the time, if thou remembrest, how capable this restriction was of being turned upon the over scrupulous dear creature, could I once get her out of her father’s house; and were I disposed to punish her for her family’s faults, and for the infinite trouble she herself had given me. Little thinks she that I have kept an account of both; and that when my heart is soft, and all her own, I can but turn to my memoranda, and harden myself at once.
But, ah! Jack, when I see my angel, when I am admitted to the presence of this radiant beauty, what will become of all this vapouring?
But, be my end what it may, I am obliged by thy penetration, fair one, to proceed by the sap. Fair and softly—a wife at any time! that will be always in my power.
But how I ramble! This it is to be in such a situation that I know not what to resolve upon.
I’ll tell thee my inclinings, as I proceed. The pro’s and the con’s, I’ll tell thee. But being got too far from the track I set out in, I will close here. But, perhaps, may write every day something, and send it as opportunity offers.
Letter 100: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Wednesday night, April 12
I have your narrative, my dear. You are the same noble creature you ever were. Above disguise, above art, above extenuating a failing.
The only family in the world, yours, surely, that could have driven such a daughter into such extremities.
But you must not be so very much too good for them, and for the case.
I am not surprised, now I have read your narrative, that so bold and so contriving a man—I am forced to break off—
• • •
You stood it out much better and longer—Here again comes my bustling, jealous mother!
• • •
Thursday, April 13
I have this moment your continuation letter, and a little absence of my Argus-eyed mamma.
Dear creature!—I can account for all your difficulties. A person of your delicacy!—and with such a man! I must be brief—
Sometimes I think you should go to Lady Betty’s. I know not what to advise you to. I could, if you were not so intent upon reconciling yourself to your relations. But they are implacable, you can have no hopes from them.
You need not to have been afraid of asking me whether I thought upon reading your narrative, any extenuation could lie for what you have done. I have told you above my mind as to that. And I repeat that I think, your provocations and inducements considered, you are free from blame: at least, the freest, that ever young creature was who took such a step.
But you took it not. You were driven on one side, and possibly tricked on the other. If any young person on earth shall be circumstanced as you were, and shall hold out so long as you did against her persecutors on one hand, and her seducer on the other, I will forgive her for all the rest.
Your father is all rage and violence. He ought, I am sure, to turn his rage inward. All your family accuse you of acting with deep art; and are put upon supposing that you are actually every hour exulting over them, with your man, in the success of it.
They all pretend now, that your trial of Wednesday was to be the last.
How they took your flight, when they found it out, may be better supposed than described.
• • •
Plotting wretch as I doubt your man is, I wish to heaven that you were married, that you might brave them all; and not be forced to hide yourself, and be hurried from one inconvenient place to another. I charge you, omit not to lay hold on any handsome opportunity that may offer for that purpose.
Here again comes my mamma.
• • •
We look mighty glum upon each other, I can tell you. She had not best Harlowe me at this rate! I won’t bear it!
I have a vast deal to write. I know not what to write first. Yet my mind is full, and seems to run over.
I am got into a private corner of the garden to be out of her way. Lord help these mothers! Do they think they can prevent a daughter’s writing, or doing anything she has a mind to do, by suspicion, watchfulness and scolding?
You have a nice, a very nice part to act with this wretch—who yet has, I think, but one plain path before him. I pity you!—but you must make the best of the lot you have been forced to draw. Yet I see your difficulties—but if he do not offer to abuse your confidence, I would have you seem, at least, to place some in him.
If you think not of marrying soon, I approve of your resolution to fix somewhere out of his reach: and if he know not where to find you, so much the better. Yet I verily believe they would force you back, could they but come at you, if they were not afraid of him.
I think, by all means, you should demand of both your trustees to be put in possession of your own estate. Meantime I have sixty guineas at your service. I beg you will command them. Before they are gone I’ll take care you shall be further supplied. I don’t think you’ll have a shilling or a shilling’s worth of your own from your relations, unless you extort it from them.
As they believe you went off by your own consent, they are surprised, it seems, and glad that you have left your jewels and money behind you, and have contrived for clothes so ill. Very little likelihood, this shows, of their answering your requests.
And I will find a way to send you also any of my clothes and linen for present supply. I beg, my dearest Miss Harlowe, that you will not put your Anna Howe upon a foot with Lovelace, in refusing to accept of my offer. If you do not oblige me, I shall be apt to think that you rather incline to be obliged to him, than to favour me. And if I find this, I shall not know how to reconcile it with your delicacy in other respects.
Pray inform me of everything that passes between you and him. My cares for you (however needless, from your own prudence) make me wish you to continue to be very minute. A stander-by may see more of the game than one that plays. Great consequences, like great folks, are generally attended and even made great by small causes, and little incidents.
It is moonlight.
I hear, from where I sit, my mamma calling about her and putting everybody into motion. She will soon, I suppose, make me and my employment the subject of her inquiry.
Adieu, my dear. May heaven preserve you, and restore you with honour as unsullied as your mind, to
Your ever affectionate
ANNA HOWE
Letter 107: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Thursday night, April 13
I always loved writing, and my unhappy situation gives me now enough of it; and you, I fear, too much. I have had another very warm debate with Mr Lovelace. It brought on the subject which you advised me not to decline when it handsomely offered. And I want to have either your acquittal or blame, for having suffered it to go off without effect.
The impatient wretch sent up to me several times, while I was writing my last to you, to desire my company; yet his business nothing particular; only to hear him talk. The man seems pleased with his own volubility; and, whenever he has collected together abundance of smooth things, he wants me to find ears for them. Yet he need not: for I don?
??t often gratify him either with giving him the praise, or showing the pleasure in his verboseness, that he would be fond of.
When I had dispatched the letter, and given it to Mr Hickman’s friend [for delivery to Miss Howe], I was going up again: but he besought me to stop, and hear what he had to say.
We began presently our angry conference. He provoked me; and I repeated several of the plainest things I had said before; and particularly told him that I was every hour more and more dissatisfied with myself, and with him: that he was not a man who, in my opinion, improved upon acquaintance: and that I should not be easy till he had left me to myself.
He might be surprised at my warmth, perhaps. But really the man looked so like a simpleton; hesitating, and having nothing to say for himself, or that should excuse the peremptoriness of his demand upon me (when he knew I was writing a letter, which a gentleman waited for), that I flung from him, declaring that I would be mistress of my own time, and of my own actions, without being called to account for either.
He told me that he had, upon this occasion, been entering into himself, and had found a great deal of reason to blame himself for an impatiency and inconsideration which, although he meant nothing by it, must be very disagreeable to one of my delicacy. That having always aimed at a manly sincerity and openness of heart, he had not till now discovered that both were very consistent with that true politeness, which he feared he had too much disregarded while he sought to avoid the contrary extreme; knowing that in me he had to deal with a lady who despised a hypocrite, and who was above all flattery. But from this time forth, I should find such an alteration in his whole behaviour as might be expected from a man, who knew himself to be honoured with the presence and conversation of a person who had the most delicate mind in the world—that was his flourish.