Yet, on second thoughts, if you incline to that side of the question I would have you write your whole mind. Determined as I think I am, and cannot help it, I would at least give a patient hearing to what may be said on the other side. For my regards are not so much engaged (upon my word they are not; I know not myself if they be) to another person, as some of my friends suppose; and as you, giving way to your lively vein, upon his last visits affected to suppose. What preferable favour I may have for him to any other person is owing more to the usage he has received, and for my sake borne, than to any personal consideration.
I write a few lines of grateful acknowledgement to your mamma for her favours to me in the late happy period. I fear I shall never know such another! I hope she will forgive me that I did not write sooner.
Your affectionate
CLARISSA HARLOWE
Letter 10: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Feb. 27
What odd heads some people have! Miss Clarissa Harlowe to be sacrificed in marriage to Mr Roger Solmes! Astonishing!
I must not, you say, give my advice in favour of this man! You now half convince me, my dear, that you are allied to the family that could think of so preposterous a match, or you could never have had the least notion of my advising in his favour.
Ask me for his picture. You know I have a good hand at drawing an ugly likeness. But I’ll see a little farther first; for who knows what may happen since matters are in such a train, and since you have not the courage to oppose so overwhelming a torrent?
You ask me to help you to a little of my spirit. Are you in earnest? But it will not now, I doubt, do you service. It will not sit naturally upon you. You are your mamma’s girl, think what you will, and have violent spirits to contend with. Alas! my dear, you should have borrowed some of mine a little sooner—that is to say, before you had given the management of your estate into the hands of those who think they have a prior claim to it. What though a father’s? Has not that father two elder children? And do they not both bear his stamp and image more than you do?
But you are so tender of some people who have no tenderness for anybody but themselves, that I must conjure you to speak out. Remember that a friendship like ours admits of no reserves. You may trust my impartiality. It would be an affront to your own judgement if you did not; for do you not ask my advice? And have you not taught me that friendship should never give a bias against justice?
You are all too rich to be happy, child. For must not each of you by the constitutions of your family marry to be still richer? Is true happiness any part of your family-view? So far from it, that none of your family but yourself could be happy were they not rich. So let them fret on, grumble and grudge, and accumulate; and wondering what ails them that they have not happiness when they have riches, think the cause is want of more; and so go on heaping up till Death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, gathers them into his garner!
That they prohibit your corresponding with me is a wisdom I neither wonder at, nor blame them for, since it is an evidence to me that they know their own folly; and if they do, is it strange that they should be afraid to trust another’s judgement upon it?
You are pleased to say, and upon your word too!—that your regards (a mighty quaint word for affections) are not so much engaged, as some of your friends suppose, to another person. What need you give one to imagine, my dear, that the last month or two has been a period extremely favourable to that other person!—whom it has made an obliger of the niece for his patience with the uncles.
But, to pass that by. So much engaged! How much, my dear? Shall I infer? Some of your friends suppose a great deal. You seem to own a little.
Don’t be angry. It is all fair, because you have not acknowledged to me that little. People, I have heard you say, who affect secrets always excite curiosity.
But you proceed with a kind of drawback upon your averment, as if recollection had given you a doubt. You know not yourself, if they be (so much engaged). Was it necessary to say this to me?—and to say it upon your word too? But you know best. Yet you don’t neither, I believe. For a beginning love is acted by a subtle spirit; and oftentimes discovers itself to a bystander when the person possessed (why should I not call it possessed?) knows not it has such a demon.
But further you say, what PREFERABLE favour you may have for him to any other person is owing more to the usage he has received, and for your sake borne, than to any personal consideration.
This is generously said. It is in character. But, oh my friend, depend upon it you are in danger. Depend upon it, whether you know it or not, you are a little in for’t. Your native generosity and greatness of mind endanger you; all your friends by fighting against him with impolitic violence fight for him. And Lovelace, my life for yours, notwithstanding all his veneration and assiduities has seen further than that veneration and those assiduities (so well calculated to your meridian) will let him own he has seen—has seen, in short, that his work is doing for him more effectually than he could do it for himself. And have you not before now said that nothing is so penetrating as the vanity of a lover, since it makes the person who has it frequently see in his own favour what is not, and hardly ever fail of observing what is. And who says Lovelace wants vanity?
In short, my dear, it is my opinion, and that from the easiness of his heart and behaviour that he has seen more than I have seen; more than you think could be seen—more than I believe you yourself know, or else you would have let me know it.
Already, in order to restrain him from resenting the indignities he has received and which are daily offered him, he has prevailed upon you to correspond with him privately. I know he has nothing to boast of from what you have written. But is not his inducing you to receive his letters, and to answer them, a great point gained? By your insisting that he should keep this correspondence private, it appears that there is one secret that you do not wish the world should know; and he is master of that secret. He is indeed himself, as I may say, that secret! What an intimacy does this beget for the lover! How is it distancing the parent!
Yet who, as things are situated, can blame you? Your condescension has no doubt hitherto prevented great mischiefs. It must be continued for the same reasons while the cause remains. You are drawn in by a perverse fate against inclination; but custom, with such laudable purposes, will reconcile the inconveniency and make an inclination. And I would advise you (as you would wish to manage on an occasion so critical with that prudence which governs all your actions) not to be afraid of entering upon a close examination into the true springs and grounds of this your generosity to that happy man.
It is my humble opinion, I tell you frankly, that on inquiry it will come out to be LOVE. Don’t start, my dear!
To be sure Lovelace is a charming fellow. And were he only—But I will not make you glow as you read! Upon my word, I won’t. Yet, my dear, don’t you find at your heart somewhat unusual make it go throb, throb, throb, as you read just here? If you do, don’t be ashamed to own it. It is your generosity, my love! that’s all. But, as the Roman augur said, Caesar, beware of the ides of March!
Adieu, my dearest friend, and forgive; and very speedily by the new-found expedient tell me that you forgive
Your ever-affectionate
ANNA HOWE
Letter 11: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Wednesday, March 1
You both nettled and alarmed me, my dearest Miss Howe, by the concluding part of your last. At first reading it I did not think it necessary, said I to myself, to guard against a critic when I was writing to so dear a friend. But then recollecting myself, is there not more in it, said I, than the result of a vein so naturally lively? Surely I must have been guilty of an inadvertence. Let me enter into the close examination of myself which my beloved friend advises.
I did so, and cannot own any of the glow, any of the throbs you mention. Upon my word, I wil
l repeat, I cannot. And yet the passages in my letter upon which you are so humorously severe lay me fairly open to your agreeable raillery. I own they do. And I cannot tell what turn my mind had taken to dictate so oddly to my pen.
But pray now, is it saying so much, when one who has no very particular regard to any man says, there are some who are preferable to others? And is it blameable to say, those are the preferable who are not well used by one’s relations, yet dispense with that usage out of regard to one’s self, which they would otherwise resent? Mr Lovelace, for instance, I may be allowed to say, is a man to be preferred to Mr Solmes; and that I do prefer him to that man. But surely this may be said, without its being a necessary consequence that one must be in love with him.
Indeed I would not be in love with him, as it is called, for the world: first, because I have no opinion of his morals, and think it a fault in which our whole family, my brother excepted, has had a share, that he was permitted to visit us with a hope, which however being distant did not, as I have observed heretofore, entitle any of us to call him to account for such of his immoralities as came to our ears. Next, because I think him to be a vain man, capable of triumphing, secretly at least, over a person whose heart he thinks he has engaged. And, thirdly, because the assiduities and veneration which you impute to him seem to carry a haughtiness in them, as if his address had a merit in it that would be an equivalent for a lady’s favour. In short, he seems to me so to behave when most unguarded as if he thought himself above the very politeness which his birth and education (perhaps therefore more than his choice) oblige him to show. In other words, his very politeness appears to me to be constrained; and, with the most remarkably easy and genteel person, something seems to be behind in his manner that is too studiously kept in.
Indeed, my dear, THIS man is not THE man. I have great objections to him. My heart throbs not after him; I glow not, but with indignation against myself for having given room for such an imputation. But you must not, my dearest friend, construe common gratitude into love. I cannot bear that you should. But if ever I should have the misfortune to think it love, I promise you, upon my word, which is the same as upon my honour, that I will acquaint you with it.
You bid me to tell you very speedily and by the new-found expedient that I am not displeased with you for your agreeable raillery. I dispatch this therefore immediately, postponing to my next the account of the inducements which my friends have to promote with so much earnestness the address of Mr Solmes.
Be satisfied, my dear, meantime, that I am not displeased with you; indeed I am not. On the contrary, I give you my hearty thanks for your friendly premonitions. And I charge you, as I have often done, that if you observe anything in me so very faulty, as would require from you to others in my behalf the palliation of friendly and partial love, you acquaint me with it; for, methinks, I would so conduct myself as not to give reason even for an adversary to censure me; and how shall so weak and so young a creature avoid the censure of such, if my friend will not hold a looking-glass before me to let me see my imperfections?
Judge me then, my dear, as any indifferent person (knowing what you know of me) would do. I may at first be a little pained; may glow a little, perhaps, to be found less worthy of your friendship than I wish to be; but assure yourself that your kind correction will give me reflection that shall amend me. If it do not, you will have a fault to accuse me of that will be utterly in-excusable; a fault, let me add, that should you not accuse me of it, if in your opinion I am guilty, you will not be so much, so warmly my friend, as I am yours, who have never spared you, you know, my dear, on the like occasions.
Here I break off to begin another letter to you, with the assurance, meantime, that I am, and ever will be,
Your equally affectionate and grateful
CL. HARLOWE
Letter 12: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Thursday morn. March 2
Indeed you would not be in love with him for the world! Your servant, my dear. But let me congratulate you, however, on your being the first of our sex that ever I heard of who has been able to turn that lion, Love, at her own pleasure, into a lap-dog.
Well but, if you have not the throbs and the glows, you have not; and are not in love; good reason why—because you would not be in love, and there’s no more to be said. Only, my dear, I shall keep a good look out upon you; and so I hope you will upon yourself, for it is no manner of argument that because you would not be in love, you are not. But before I part entirely with this subject, a word in your ear, my charming friend. ‘Tis only by way of caution, and in pursuance of the general observation that a stander-by is often a better judge of the game than those that play. May it not be, that you have had, and have, such cross creatures and such odd heads to deal with as have not allowed you to attend to the throbs? Or, if you had them a little now and then, whether, having had two accounts to place them to, you have not by mistake put them to the wrong one?
• • •
Talk of the devil is an old saying. The lively wretch has made me a visit, and is but just gone away. He is all impatience and resentment at the treatment you meet with, and full of apprehensions too, that they will carry their point with you.
I told him my opinion, that you will never be brought to think of such a man as Solmes, but that it will probably end in a composition never to have either.
No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable ever had so little favour from a lady, for whose sake he had borne so much.
I told him my mind, as freely as I used to do. But who ever was in fault, self being judge? He complained of spies set upon his conduct, and to pry into his life and morals; and this by your brother and uncles.
I told him that this was very hard upon him, and the more so as neither the one nor the other, perhaps, would stand a fair inquiry.
He smiled, and called himself my servant. The occasion was too fair, he said, for Miss Howe, who never spared him, to let it pass. But, Lord help their shallow souls, would I believe it? they were for turning plotters upon him. They had best take care he did not pay them in their own coin. Their hearts were better turned for such works than their heads.
I asked him if he valued himself upon having a head better turned than theirs for such works, as he called them?
He drew off; and then ran into the highest professions of reverence and affection for you. The object so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his professions?
Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend! I love and admire you for the generous conclusion of your last more than I can express. Though I began this letter with impertinent raillery, knowing that you always loved to indulge my mad vein, yet never was there a heart that more glowed with friendly love than that of
Your own
ANNA HOWE
Letter 15: MISS HOWE TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
Friday, March 3
I have both your letters at once. It is very unhappy, my dear, since your friends will have you marry, that such a merit as yours should be addressed by a succession of worthless creatures, who have nothing but their presumption for their excuse.
Yet I am afraid all opposition will be in vain. You must, you will, I doubt, be sacrificed to this odious man [Solmes]! I know your family! There will be no resisting such baits as he has thrown out.
And now I am more than ever convinced of the propriety of the advice I formerly gave you, to keep in your own hands the estate bequeathed to you by your grandfather. Had you done so, it would have procured you at least an outward respect from your brother and sister, which would have made them conceal the envy and ill-will that now is bursting upon you from hearts so narrow.
I know your dutiful, your laudable motives, and one would have thought that you might have trusted to a father who so dearly loved you. But had you been actually in possession of that estate, and living up to it and upon it (your youth protected from bligh
ting tongues by the company of your prudent [nurse] Norton, as you had purposed), do you think that your brother, grudging it to you at the time as he did, and looking upon it as his right as an only son, would have been practising about it and aiming at it? I told you some time ago that I thought your trials but proportioned to your prudence. But you will be more than woman if you can extricate yourself with honour, having such violent spirits and sordid minds as in some, and such tyrannical and despotic wills as in others, to deal with. Indeed, all may be done, and the world be taught further to admire you, for your blind duty and will-less resignation, if you can persuade yourself to be Mrs Solmes!
I long for your next letter. Continue to be as particular as possible. I can think of no other subject but what relates to you and to your affairs; for I am, and ever will be, most affectionately,
All your own
ANNA HOWE
Letter 16: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE
Friday, March 3
Oh my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict! trial upon trial; conference upon conference! But what law, what ceremony, can give a man a right to a heart which abhors him more than it does any of God Almighty’s creatures?
I hope my mamma will be able to prevail for me. But I will recount all, though I sit up the whole night to do it, for I have a vast deal to write and will be as minute as you wish me to be.
I went down this morning when breakfast was ready with a very uneasy heart, from what Hannah had told me yesterday afternoon; wishing for an opportunity, however, to appeal to my mamma in hopes to engage her interest in my behalf, and purposing to try to find one, when she retired to her own apartment after breakfast. But, unluckily, there was the odious Solmes sitting asquat between my mamma and sister, with so much assurance in his looks! But you know, my dear, that those we love not cannot do anything to please us.