It is placed near the window like a harpsichord, though covered over to the ground: and when she is so ill that she cannot well go to her closet, she writes and reads upon it, as others would upon a desk or table. But (only as she was so ill last night) she chooses not to see anybody in that apartment.
I went to Edgware; and returning in the evening, attended her again.
She had spent great part of the day in intense devotions; and tomorrow morning she is to have with her the same clergyman who has often attended her; from whose hands she will again receive the Sacrament.
Thou seest, Lovelace, that all is preparing, that all will be ready; and I am to attend her tomorrow afternoon to take some instructions from her in relation to my part in the office to be performed for her.
I shall dispatch Harry tomorrow morning early with her letter to Miss Howe: an offer she took very kindly; as she is extremely solicitous to lessen that young lady’s apprehensions for her on not hearing from her by Saturday’s post: and yet, to write the truth, how can her apprehensions be lessened?
Letter 458: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Saturday, Sept. 2
I write, my beloved Miss Howe, though very ill still: but I could not by the return of your messenger; for I was then unable to hold a pen.
What, I wonder, has again happened between you and Mr Hickman? Although I know it not, I dare say it is owing to some pretty petulance, to some half-ungenerous advantage taken of his obligingness and assiduity. Will you never, my dear, give the weight you and all our sex ought to give to the qualities of sobriety and regularity of life and manners in that sex? Must bold creatures and forward spirits, for ever, and by the best and wisest of us, as well as by the indiscreetest, be the most kindly used?
I must lay down my pen. I am very ill. I believe I shall be better by and by. The bad writing would betray me, although I had a mind to keep from you what the event must soon—
Now I resume my trembling pen. Excuse the unsteady writing. It will be so—
I have wanted no money: so don’t be angry about such a trifle as money. Yet am I glad of what you incline me to hope, that my friends will give up the produce of my grandfather’s estate since it has been in their hands: because, knowing it to be my right and that they could not want it, I had already disposed of a good part of it: and could only hope they would be willing to give it up at my last request. And now how rich shall I think myself in this my last stage! And yet I did not want before—indeed I did not—for who, that has many superfluities, can be said to want?
Do not, my dear friend, be concerned that I call it my last stage; for what is even the long life which in high health we wish for? And at last, when arrived at the old age we covet, one heavy loss or deprivation having succeeded another, we see ourselves stripped, as I may say, of everyone we loved; and find ourselves exposed as uncompanionable poor creatures, to the slights, to the contempts, of jostling youth, who want to push us off the stage, in hopes to possess what we have—and, superadded to all, our own infirmities every day increasing: of themselves enough to make the life we wished for the greatest disease of all!
In the disposition of what belongs to me, I have endeavoured to do everything in the justest and best manner I could think of; putting myself in my relations’ places, and in the greater points ordering my matters as if no misunderstanding had happened.
I hope they will not think much of some bequests where wanted, and where due from my gratitude: but if they should, what is done, is done; and I cannot now help it. For I would not, on any account, have it thought that, in my last disposition, anything undaughterly, unsisterly, or unlike a kinswoman, should have had place in a mind that is so truly free (as I will presume to say) from all resentment that it now overflows with gratitude and blessings for the good I have received, although it be not all that my heart wished to receive. Were it even an hardship that I was not favoured with more, what is it but an hardship of half a year, against the most indulgent goodness of eighteen years and an half that ever was shown to a daughter?
My cousin, you tell me, thinks I was off my guard, and that I was taken at some advantage. Indeed, my dear, I was not. Indeed I gave no room for advantage to be taken of me. I hope, one day, that will be seen, if I have the justice done me which Mr Belford assures me of.
I should hope that my cousin has not taken the liberties which you, by an observation (not unjust), seem to charge him with. For it is sad to think that the generality of that sex should make so light of crimes which they justly hold so unpardonable in their own most intimate relations of ours—Yet cannot commit them without doing such injuries to other families and individuals as they think themselves obliged to resent unto death, when offered to their own families.
I am very glad you gave my cous—
• • •
Sunday morning (Sept. 3) six o’clock
Hither I had written, and was forced to quit my pen. And so much weaker and worse I grew, that had I resumed it to have closed here, it must have been with such trembling unsteadiness that it would have given you more concern for me, than the delay of sending it away by last night’s post can do: so I deferred it, to see how it would please God to deal with me. And I find myself after a better night than I expected, lively and clear; and hope to give you a proof that I do, in the continuation of my letter, which I will pursue as currently as if I had not left off.
I am glad you so considerately gave my cousin Morden favourable impressions of Mr Belford; since, otherwise, some misunderstanding might have happened between them: for although I hope this gentleman is an altered man, and in time will be a reformed one, yet is he one of those high spirits that has been accustomed to resent imaginary indignities to himself, when I believe he has not been studious to avoid giving real offences to others; men of this cast acting as if they thought all the world was made to bear with them, and they with nobody in it.
All my apprehension is what may happen when I am gone; lest then my cousin, or any other of my family, should endeavour to avenge me and risk their own more precious lives on that account.
Yet one comfort it is in your power to give me; and that is, let me know, and very speedily it must be if you wish to oblige me, that all matters are made up between you and Mr Hickman; to whom, I see, you are resolved with your bravery of spirit to owe a multitude of obligations for his patience with your flightiness.
May you, my dear Miss Howe, have no discomforts but what you make to yourself! Those, as it will be in your own power to lessen them, ought to be your own punishment if you do not. As there is no such thing as perfect happiness here, since the busy mind will make to itself evils were it to find none, you will pardon this limited wish, strange as it may appear till you consider it: for to wish you no infelicities, either within or without you, were to wish you what can never happen in this world; and what perhaps ought not to be wished for, if by a wish one could give one’s friend such an exemption; since we are not to live here always.
I must conclude—
God for ever bless you, and all you love and honour, and reward you here and hereafter for your kindness to
Your ever obliged and affectionate
CLARISSA HARLOWE!
Letter 460: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Monday, Sept. 4
When I was admitted to her presence, I have received, said she, a long and not very pleasing letter from my dear Mrs Norton: it will soon be in your hands. I am advised aginst appointing you to the office you have so kindly accepted; but you must resent nothing of these things. My choice will have an odd appearance to them; but it is now too late to alter it, if I would.
Mrs Smith, as well as Mrs Lovick, was with her. They were both in tears; nor had I, any more than they, power to say a word in answer: yet she spoke all this, as well as what follows, with a surprising composure of mind and countenance.
But, Mr Belford,
said she, assuming a still spritelier air and accent, let me talk a little to you while I am thus able to say what I have to say.
Mrs Lovick, don’t leave us; for the women were rising to go. Pray sit down; and do you, Mrs Smith, sit down too. Dame Shelburne, take this key and open that upper drawer. I will move to it.
She did, with trembling knees. Here, Mr Belford, is my will. It is witnessed by three persons of Mr Smith’s acquaintance.
I dare to hope that my cousin Morden will give you assistance, if you request it of him. My cousin Morden continues his affection for me: but as I have not seen him, I leave all the trouble upon you, Mr Belford.
She then took up a parcel of letters enclosed in one cover, sealed with three seals of black wax: this, said she, I sealed up last night. The cover, sir, will let you know what is to be done with what it encloses. This is the superscription (holding it close to her eyes, and rubbing them): As soon as I am certainly dead, this to be broke open by Mr Belford. Here, sir, I put it (placing it by the will). These folded papers are letters and copies of letters, disposed according to their dates. Miss Howe will do with those as you and she shall think fit. If I receive any more, or more come when I cannot receive them, they may be put into this drawer (pulling out and pushing in the looking-glass drawer), you’ll be so kind as to observe that, Mrs Lovick and Dame Shelburne, to be given to Mr Belford be they from whom they will.
Here, sir, proceeded she, I put the keys of my apparel (putting them into the drawers with her papers). All is in order, and the inventory upon them, and an account of what I have disposed of: so that nobody need to ask Mrs Smith any questions.
There will be no immediate need to open or inspect the trunks which contain my wearing apparel. Mrs Norton will open them, or order somebody to do it for her, in your presence, Mrs Lovick; for so I have directed in my will. They may be sealed up now: I shall never more have occasion to open them.
After this, she locked the drawer where were her papers; first taking out her book of Meditations, as she called it; saying she should perhaps have use for that; and then desired me to take the key of that drawer; for she should have no further occasion for that neither.
All this in so composed and cheerful a manner, that we were equally surprised and affected with it.
I shall leave the world in perfect charity, proceeded she. And turning towards the women, Don’t be so much concerned for me, my good friends. This is all but needful preparation; and I shall be very happy.
Then again rubbing her eyes, which she said were misty, and looking more intently round upon each, particularly on me—God bless you all, said she! how kindly are you concerned for me! Who says I am friendless? Who says I am abandoned and among strangers? Good Mr Belford, don’t be so generously humane. Indeed (putting her handkerchief to her charming eyes) you will make me less happy than I am sure you wish me to be.
Will engages to reach you with this (late as it will be) before you go to rest. It is just half an hour after ten.
J. BELFORD
Letter 466: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Wed. morn. Sept. 6, half an hour after three
I am not the savage which you and my worst enemies think me.
I could quarrel with all the world; with thee as well as the rest; obliging as thou supposest thyself for writing to me hourly. How daredst thou (though unknown to her) to presume to take an apartment under the same roof with her? I cannot bear to think that thou shouldst be seen at all hours passing to and repassing from her apartments, while I, who have so much reason to call her mine, and once was preferred by her to all the world, am forced to keep aloof and hardly dare to enter the city where she is!
I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep. I am sick of all the world.
Surely it will be better when all is over—when I know the worst the Fates can do against me. Yet how shall I bear that worst? Oh Belford, Belford! write it not to me; but if it must happen, get somebody else to write; for I shall curse the pen, the hand, the head, and the heart, employed in communicating to me the fatal tidings. But what is this saying, when already I curse the whole world except her—myself most?
Thy LOVELACE
Letter 472: MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
Kensington, Wednesday noon
Will neither vows nor prayers save her? I never prayed in my life, put all the years of it together, as I have done for this fortnight past: and I have most sincerely repented of all my baseness to her. And will nothing do?
But after all, if she recover not, this reflection must be my comfort; and it is truth; that her departure will be owing rather to wilfulness, to downright female wilfulness, than to any other cause.
It is difficult for people who pursue the dictates of a violent resentment to stop where first they designed to stop.
To bring these illustrations home; this lady, I suppose, in her resentment intended only at first to vex and plague me; and finding she could do it to purpose, her desire of revenge became stronger in her than the desire of life; and now she is willing to die as an event which she supposes will cut my heart-strings asunder. And still the more to be revenged puts on the Christian, and forgives me.
But I’ll have none of her forgiveness! My own heart tells me I do not deserve it; and I cannot bear it!—And what is it but a mere verbal forgiveness, as ostentatiously as cruelly given with a view to magnify herself, and wound me deeper? A little, dear, specious—but let me stop—lest I blaspheme!
Reading over the above, I am ashamed of my ramblings: but what wouldst have me do? Seest thou not that I am but seeking to run out of myself in hope to lose myself; yet, that I am unable to do either?
If ever thou lovedst but half so fervently as I love—but of that thy heavy soul is not capable.
Send me word by thy next, I conjure thee, in the names of all her kindred saints and angels, that she is living, and likely to live! If thou sendest ill news; thou wilt be answerable for the consequence, whether it be fatal to the messenger or to
Thy LOVELACE
Letter 473: MR BELFORD TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
Wednesday, 11 o’clock
This moment a man is come from Miss Howe with a letter. Perhaps I shall be able to send you the contents.
• • •
Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe
Tuesday, Sept. 5
Oh my dearest friend!
What will become of your poor Anna Howe! I see by your writing, as well as read by your own account (which, were you not very, very ill, you would have touched more tenderly), how it is with you! Why have I thus long delayed to attend you! Could I think that the comfortings of a faithful friend were as nothing to a gentle mind in distress, that I could be prevailed upon to forbear visiting you so much as once in all this time! I, as well as everybody else, to desert and abandon my dear creature to strangers! What will become of me if you be as bad as my apprehensions make you!
I will set out this moment, little as the encouragement is that you give me to do so! My mother is willing I should! Why, oh why, was she not before willing!
Yet she persuades me too (lest I should be fatally affected were I to find my fears too well justified) to wait the return of this messenger, who rides our swiftest horse. God speed him with good news to me—else—but, oh! my dearest, dearest friend, what else! One line from your hand by him! Send me but one line to bid me attend you! I will set out the moment, the very moment, I receive it. I am now actually ready to do so! And if you love me, as I love you, the sight of me will revive you to my hopes. But why, why, when I can think this, did I not go up sooner?
Blessed Heaven! deny not to my prayers, my friend, my monitress, my adviser, at a time so critical to myself!
But methinks your style and sentiments are too well connected, too full of life and vigour to give cause for so much despair as the staggering pen seems to threaten.
I
am sorry I was not at home (I must add thus much though the servant is ready mounted at the door) when Mr Belford’s servant came with your affecting letter. I was at Miss Lloyd’s. My mamma sent it to me; and I came home that instant. But he was gone. He would not stay, it seems. Yet I wanted to ask him an hundred thousand questions. But why delay I thus my messenger? I have a multitude of things to say to you. To advise with you about! You shall direct me in everything. I will obey the holding up of your finger. But, if you leave me—what is the world, or anything in it, to
Your ANNA HOWE?
• • •
The effect this letter had on the lady, who is so near the end which the fair writer so much apprehends and deplores, obliged Mrs Lovick to make many breaks in reading it, and many changes of voice.
This is a friend, said the divine lady (taking the letter in her hand, and kissing it), worth wishing to live for. Oh my dear Anna Howe! How uninterruptedly sweet and noble has been our friendship! But we shall one day, I hope (and that must comfort us both), meet, never to part again! Then, divested of the shades of body, shall we be all light and all mind. Then how unalloyed, how perfect, will be our friendship! Our love then will have one and the same adorable object, and we shall enjoy it and each other to all eternity!
She said her dear friend was so earnest for a line or two, that she would fain write if she could: and she tried; but to no purpose. She could dictate, however, she believed, and desired Mrs Lovick would take pen and paper. Which she did, and then she dictated to her. I would have withdrawn; but at her desire stayed.