May there not be other Lovelaces, thou askest, who, attracted by her beauty, may endeavour to prevail with her?
No; there cannot, I answer, be such another man, person, mind, fortune and thy character, as above given, taken in. If thou imaginedst there could, such is thy pride, that thou wouldst think the worse of thyself.
And let me, for the utter confusion of thy poor pleas of this nature, ask thee: Would she, in thy opinion, had she willingly gone off with thee, have been entitled to better quarter? For a mistress indeed she might: but wouldst thou for a wife have had cause to like her half so well as now?
That she loves thee, wicked as thou art, and cruel as a panther, there is no reason to doubt.
Thou wilt perhaps think that I have departed from my proposition, and pleaded the lady’s sake more than thine in the above—but no such thing. All that I have written is more in thy behalf than in hers—since she may make thee happy. But it is next to impossible, I should think, if she preserves her delicacy that thou canst make her so. I need not give my reasons. Thou’lt have ingenuity enough, I dare say, were there occasion for it, to subscribe to my opinion.
I plead not for the [marriage] state from any great liking to it myself. Nor have I, at present, thoughts of entering into it. But as thou art the last of thy name; as thy family is of note and figure in thy country; and as thou thyself thinkest that thou shalt one day marry; is it possible, let me ask thee, that thou canst have such another opportunity as thou now hast, if thou lettest this slip?
And shall this admirable woman suffer for her generous endeavours to set on foot thy reformation; and for insisting upon proofs of the sincerity of thy professions before she will be thine?
Upon the whole matter let me wish thee to consider well what thou art about, before thou goest a step farther in the path which thou hast chalked out for thyself to tread, and art just going to enter into. Hitherto all is so far right, that if the lady mistrusts thy honour, she has no proofs. Be honest to her, then, in her sense of the word. None of thy companions, thou knowest, will offer to laugh at what thou dost. And if they should (on thy entering into a state which has been so much ridiculed by thee, and by all of us), thou hast one advantage: it is this; that thou canst not be ashamed.
I suppose you will soon be in town. Without the lady, I hope. Farewell.
Be honest, and be happy.
J. BELFORD
Letter 145: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Sat morn. April 22
I may go to London, I see, or where I will. No matter what becomes of me.
I was the willinger to suspend my journey thither, till I heard from Harlowe Place. I thought if I could be encouraged to hope for a reconciliation, I would let this man see that he should not have me in his power but upon my own terms, if at all.
But I find I must be his, whether I will or not; and perhaps through still greater mortifications than those great ones which I have already met with. And must I be so absolutely thrown upon a man with whom I am not at all satisfied!
Much did I consider, much did I apprehend, before my fault, supposing I were to be guilty of it: but I saw it not in all its shocking lights.
Although I never saw a man, whose person I could like, before this man; yet his faulty character allowed me but little merit from the indifference I pretended to on his account. But now I see him in nearer lights, I like him less than ever. Indeed, I never liked him so little as now. Upon my word, I think I could hate him (if I do not already hate him) sooner than any man I ever thought tolerably of—a good reason why: because I have been more disappointed in my expectations of him; although they never were so high as to have made him my choice in preference to the single life, had that been permitted me. Still, if the giving him up for ever will make my path to reconciliation easy, and if they will signify as much to me, they shall see that I never will be his: for I have the vanity to think my soul his soul’s superior.
Oh this artful, this designing Lovelace! Yet I must repeat that most ought I to blame myself for meeting him.
But far, far be banished from me fruitless recrimination! Far banished, because fruitless! Let me wrap myself about in the mantle of my own integrity, and take comfort in my unfaulty intention! Since it is now too late to look back, let me collect all my fortitude and endeavour to stand those shafts of angry providence which it will not permit me to shun! That whatever the trials may be which I am destined to undergo, I may not behave unworthily in them; but come out amended by them.
Join with me in this prayer, my beloved friend; for your own honour’s sake, as well as for love’s sake, join with me in it: lest a deviation on my side should, with the censorious, cast a shade upon a friendship which has no body, no levity in it, and whose basis is improvement as well in the greater as lesser duties.
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 146: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Saturday, p.m. April 23
Oh my best, my only friend! Now indeed is my heart broken! It has received a blow it never will recover! Think not of corresponding with a wretch who now seems absolutely devoted! How can it be otherwise, if a parent’s curses have the weight I always attributed to them and have heard so many instances of their being followed by! Yes, my dear Miss Howe, superadded to all my afflictions, I have the consequences of a father’s curse to struggle with! How shall I support this reflection!—my past and my present situation so much authorizing my apprehensions!
I have at last a letter from my unrelenting sister. I enclose the letter itself. Transcribe it I cannot. There is no bearing the thoughts of it: for (shocking reflection!) the curse extends to the life beyond this.
I am in the depth of vapourish despondency. I can only repeat: shun, fly, correspond not with a wretch so devoted as
Your CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 147: MISS ARABELLA HARLOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
To the most ungrateful and undutiful of daughters
Harlowe Place, Sat. April 15
Sister that was,
For I know not what name you are permitted or choose to go by.
You have filled us all with distraction. My father, in the first agitations of his mind on discovering your wicked, your shameful elopement, imprecated on his knees a fearful curse upon you. Tremble at the recital of it! No less, than ‘that you may meet your punishment, both here and hereafter, by means of the very wretch in whom you have chosen to place your wicked confidence.’
Your clothes will not be sent you. You seem, by leaving them behind you, to have been secure of them whenever you demanded them. But perhaps you could think of nothing but meeting your fellow—nothing but how to get off your forward self!—for everything seems to have been forgot but what was to contribute to your wicked flight. Yet you judged right, perhaps, that you would have been detected, had you endeavoured to get off your clothes! Cunning creature! not to make one step that we could guess at you by! Cunning to effect your own ruin and the disgrace of all the family!
But does the wretch put you upon writing for your things for fear you should be too expensive to him? That’s it, I suppose.
Was there ever a giddier creature? Yet this is the celebrated, the blazing Clarissa—Clarissa, what? Harlowe, no doubt!—and Harlowe it will be to the disgrace of us all!
Your drawings and your pieces are all taken down; as is also your own whole-length picture in the Vandyke taste, from your late parlour: they are taken down and thrown into your closet, which will be nailed up as if it were not a part of the house; there to perish together: for who can bear to see them?
My brother vows revenge upon your libertine—for the family’s sake he vows it—not for yours! For he will treat you, he declares, like a common creature, if ever he sees you: and doubts not that this will be your fate.
My uncle Harlowe renounces you for ever.
So does my uncle Antony.
So does my aunt Hervey.
So do I, base unworthy creature!—the disgrace of a good family and the property of an infamous rake, as questionless you will soon find yourself, if you are not already!
Your books, since they have not taught you what belongs to your family, to your sex and to your education, will not be sent you. Your money neither. Nor yet the jewels so undeservedly made yours! For it is wished you may be seen a beggar along London streets!
If all this is heavy, lay your hand to your heart and ask yourself why you have deserved it?
Everybody, in short, is ashamed of you: but none more than
ARABELLA HARLOWE
Letter 148: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Tuesday, April 25
Be comforted; be not dejected; do not despond, my dearest and best-beloved friend. God Almighty is just and gracious, and gives not His assent to rash and inhuman curses. If He did, malice, envy and the blackest passions in the blackest hearts would triumph, and the best (blasted by the malignity of the worst) would be miserable in both worlds.
This malediction shows only what manner of spirit they are of, and how much their sordid views exceed their parental love. ‘Tis all rage and disappointment, my dear; disappointment in designs proper to be frustrated; and all you have to grieve for is that their own rashness will turn upon their own hearts. God Almighty cannot succeed a curse so presumptuous as to be carried into His futurity!
My mother blames them for this wicked letter; and she pities you; and of her own accord wished me to write to comfort you, for this once. For she says, it is pity your heart which was so noble (and when the sense of your fault and the weight of a parent’s curse are so strong upon you) should be quite broken.
You will now see that you have nothing left but to overcome all scrupulousness, and marry as soon as you have opportunity. Determine upon this, my dear.
I will give you a motive for it, regarding myself. For this I have resolved, and this I have vowed (Oh friend, the best beloved of my heart, be not angry with me for it!): ‘That so long as your happiness is in suspense, I will never think of marrying.’ In justice to the man I shall have, I have vowed this: for, my dear, must I not be miserable if you are so? And what an unworthy wife must I be to any man, who cannot have interest enough in my heart to make his obligingness a balance for an affliction he has not caused?
I would show Lovelace your sister’s abominable letter, were it to me. I enclose it. It shall not have a place in this house.
I would not have you be too sure that their project to seize you is over. So it will be best, when you are at London, to be private and to let every direction be to a third place, for fear of the worst; for I would not for the world have you fall into the hands of such flaming and malevolent spirits by surprise.
I will myself be content to direct to you at some third place; and that I may have it to aver to my mother, or to any other if occasion be, that I know not where you are.
I would have you direct to Mr Hickman even your answer to this.
Come, my dear, when things are at worst they must mend. Good often comes when evil is expected. Happily improved upon, this very curse may turn to a blessing. But if you despond, there can be no hopes of cure. Don’t let them break your heart; for that, it is plain to me, is now what some people have in view to do.
I send fifty guineas by the bearer, enclosed in single papers in my Norris’s Miscellanies. I charge you, as you love me, return them not.
I have more at your service. So if you like not your lodging, or his behaviour, when you get to town, leave both out of hand.
I would advise you to write to Mr Morden without delay. If he intends for England, it may hasten him. And you’ll do very well till he can come. But surely Lovelace is bewitched if he takes not his happiness from your consent, before that of Mr Morden’s is made needful by his arrival.
Come, my dear, be comforted. All is hastening to be well. Nothing but words has passed, vehement and horrid as those are. The divine goodness will not let them be more. Manage with your usual prudence the stake before you, and all will be still happy.
This is the true light, as I humbly conceive, that this matter should appear to you in, and to everybody. If you let not despondency seize you, you will strengthen, you will add more day to this but glimmering light, from
Your ever affectionate and faithful
ANNA HOWE
Letter 149: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Wednesday morning, April 26
Your letter, my beloved Miss Howe, gives me great comfort.
Your messenger finds me just setting out for London: the chaise at the door. Already I have taken leave of the good widow, who has obliged me with the company of her eldest daughter, at Mr Lovelace’s request, while he rides by us. The young gentlewoman is to return in two or three days with the chaise, in its way to my Lord M.’s Hertfordshire seat.
I received this dreadful letter on Sunday when Mr Lovelace was out. He saw, on his return, my extreme anguish and dejection; and he was told how much worse I had been: for I had fainted away twice.
I think it has touched my head as well as my heart.
He would fain have seen it. But I would not permit that because of the threatenings he would have found in it against himself. As it was, the effect it had upon me made him break out into execrations and menaces. I was so ill, that he himself advised me to delay going to town on Monday, as I proposed to do.
He is extremely regardful and tender of me. All that you supposed would follow this violent letter, from him, has followed it. He has offered himself to my acceptance in so unreserved a manner that I am concerned I have written so freely and so diffidently of him. Pray, my dearest friend, keep to yourself everything that may appear disreputable of him from me.
I must own to you that this kind behaviour and my low-spiritedness, cooperating with your former advice and my unhappy situation, made me that very Sunday evening receive unreservedly his declarations: And now, indeed, I am more in his power than ever.
He presses me every hour for fresh tokens of my esteem for him, and confidence in him. He owns that he doubted the one, and was ready to despair of the other. And as I have been brought to some verbal concessions, if he should prove unworthy, I am sure I shall have great reason to blame this violent letter: for I have no resolution at all. Abandoned thus of all my natural friends, and only you to pity me; and you restrained as I may say; I have been forced to turn my desolate heart to such protection as I could find.
All my comfort is that your advice repeatedly given to the same purpose, in your kind letter before me, warrants me. Upon the strength of that, I now set out the more cheerfully to London: for, before, a heavy weight hung upon my heart, and although I thought it best and safest to go, yet my spirit sunk, I know not why, at every motion I made towards a preparation for it.
I hope no mischief will happen on the road. I hope these violent spirits will not meet.
I must add one thing more, notwithstanding my hurry; and that is: Mr Lovelace offered to attend me to Lord M.’s, or to send for his chaplain, yesterday: he pressed me to consent to this proposal most earnestly; and even seemed more desirous to have the ceremony pass here than at London: for when there, I had told him, it was time enough to consider of so weighty and important a matter. Now, upon the receipt of your kind, your consolatory letter, methinks I could almost wish it had been in my power to comply with his earnest solicitations. But this dreadful letter has unhinged my whole frame. Then some little punctilio surely is necessary. No preparation made. No articles drawn. No licence ready. Grief so extreme: no pleasure in prospect, nor so much as in wish. Oh my dear, who could think of entering into so solemn an engagement! Who, so unprepared, could seem to be so ready!
If I could flatter myself that my indifference to all the joys of this life proceeded from proper motives, and not rather from th
e disappointments and mortifications my pride has met with, how much rather, I think, should I choose to be wedded to my shroud than to any man on earth!
Indeed I have at present no pleasure but in your friendship. Continue that to me, I beseech you. If my heart rises hereafter to more, it must be built on that foundation.
My spirits sink again on setting out. Excuse this depth of vapourish dejection which forbids me even hope, the cordial that keeps life from stagnating, and which never was denied me till within these eight-and-forty hours.
But ‘tis time to relieve you.
Adieu, my best beloved and kindest friend! Pray for your
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 152: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Monday, April 24
Fate is weaving a whimsical web for thy friend; and I see not but I shall be inevitably manacled.
Thou wilt be still the more surprised, when I tell thee that there seems to be a coalition going forward between the black angels and the white ones; for here has hers induced her in one hour, and by one retrograde accident, to acknowledge what the charming creature never before acknowledged, a preferable favour for me. She even owns an intention to be mine: mine, without reformation conditions. She permits me to talk of love to her: of the irrevocable ceremony: yet, another extraordinary! postpones that ceremony; chooses to set out for London; and even to go to the widow’s in town.
Well, but how comes all this about, methinks thou askest? Thou, Lovelace, dealest in wonders, yet aimest not at the marvellous. How did all this come about?
I’ll tell thee—I was in danger of losing my charmer for ever. She was soaring upward to her native skies. She was got above earth, by means, too, of the earthborn: and something extraordinary was to be done to keep her with us sublunaries. And what so effectually as the soothing voice of love, and the attracting offer of matrimony from a man not hated, can fix the attention of the maiden heart aching with uncertainty; and before impatient of the questionable question?