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CLARISSA HARLOWE
or the
HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY
By Samuel Richardson
Nine Volumes
Volume I.
Comprehending
The most Important Concerns of Private Life.
And
particularly shewing,
The Distresses that may attend the Misconduct
Both of Parents and Children,
In Relation to Marriage.
PREFACE
The following History is given in a series of letters, written Principally in a double yet separate correspondence;
The following history is presented as a series of letters, primarily written in a dual but separate correspondence;
Between two young ladies of virtue and honor, bearing an inviolable friendship for each other, and writing not merely for amusement, but upon the most interesting subjects; in which every private family, more or less, may find itself concerned; and,
Between two young women of integrity and respect, who share an unbreakable friendship for each other and are writing not just for fun but on the most engaging topics; in which every household, to some extent, can find itself involved; and,
Between two gentlemen of free lives; one of them glorying in his talents for stratagem and invention, and communicating to the other, in confidence, all the secret purposes of an intriguing head and resolute heart.
Between two gentlemen living freely; one of them proud of his skills in strategy and invention, and sharing with the other, in confidence, all the secret plans of a clever mind and determined heart.
But here it will be proper to observe, for the sake of such as may apprehend hurt to the morals of youth, from the more freely-written letters, that the gentlemen, though professed libertines as to the female sex, and making it one of their wicked maxims, to keep no faith with any of the individuals of it, who are thrown into their power, are not, however, either infidels or scoffers; nor yet such as think themselves freed from the observance of those other moral duties which bind man to man.
But it's important to point out, for those who might be concerned about the impact on young people's morals from the more openly written letters, that the men, despite being known as libertines when it comes to women, and making it one of their twisted beliefs to not keep any promises to any women who are under their influence, are not, however, either disbelievers or mockers. Nor do they believe they are exempt from the other moral duties that connect one person to another.
On the contrary, it will be found, in the progress of the work, that they very often make such reflections upon each other, and each upon himself and his own actions, as reasonable beings must make, who disbelieve not a future state of rewards and punishments, and who one day propose to reform—one of them actually reforming, and by that means giving an opportunity to censure the freedoms which fall from the gayer pen and lighter heart of the other.
On the other hand, as the work progresses, it will become clear that the characters frequently reflect on each other and on themselves and their actions, just as rational beings would, especially those who believe in a future of rewards and punishments, and who intend to change—one of them actually making a change, which allows the other to criticize the liberties taken by the more carefree and lighthearted one.
And yet that other, although in unbosoming himself to a select friend, he discovers wickedness enough to entitle him to general detestation, preserves a decency, as well in his images as in his language, which is not always to be found in the works of some of the most celebrated modern writers, whose subjects and characters have less warranted the liberties they have taken.
And yet that other person, even though he reveals his true self to a close friend, shows enough wickedness to deserve widespread dislike, maintains a level of decency in both his imagery and language that is not always present in the works of some of the most famous modern writers, whose subjects and characters have less justification for the liberties they take.
In the letters of the two young ladies, it is presumed, will be found not only the highest exercise of a reasonable and practicable friendship, between minds endowed with the noblest principles of virtue and religion, but occasionally interspersed, such delicacy of sentiments, particularly with regard to the other sex; such instances of impartiality, each freely, as a fundamental principle of their friendship, blaming, praising, and setting right the other, as are strongly to be recommended to the observation of the younger part (more specially) of female readers.
In the letters of the two young women, you can find not only the best example of a sensible and achievable friendship between two people with the highest values of virtue and faith, but also a delicate touch of feelings—especially about the opposite sex. They freely call each other out, give praise, and help correct each other as a key part of their friendship, which is something that should definitely be noted by younger female readers.
The principle of these two young ladies is proposed as an exemplar to her sex. Nor is it any objection to her being so, that she is not in all respects a perfect character. It was not only natural, but it was necessary, that she should have some faults, were it only to show the reader how laudably she could mistrust and blame herself, and carry to her own heart, divested of self-partiality, the censure which arose from her own convictions, and that even to the acquittal of those, because revered characters, whom no one else would acquit, and to whose much greater faults her errors were owing, and not to a weak or reproachable heart. As far as it is consistent with human frailty, and as far as she could be perfect, considering the people she had to deal with, and those with whom she was inseparably connected, she is perfect. To have been impeccable, must have left nothing for the Divine Grace and a purified state to do, and carried our idea of her from woman to angel. As such is she often esteemed by the man whose heart was so corrupt that he could hardly believe human nature capable of the purity, which, on every trial or temptation, shone out in her's [sic].
The principle of these two young women is presented as a model for her gender. It’s not a problem that she isn’t a perfect person in every way. In fact, it was not only natural but necessary for her to have some flaws, if only to demonstrate how admirably she could doubt and criticize herself. She faced the criticism that came from her own beliefs without any bias, even forgiving those whom everyone else condemned because of their respected status. Their greater faults were the reasons for her mistakes, not because she had a weak or blameworthy character. As much as is possible given human imperfections, and considering the people she dealt with and the relationships she couldn’t escape, she is perfect. To have been flawless would have meant that there was nothing left for Divine Grace and a state of purity to achieve, and it would elevate her from being a woman to an angel. This is how she is often regarded by the man whose heart was so tainted that he could hardly believe human nature capable of the purity that consistently radiated from her.
Besides the four principal person, several others are introduced, whose letters are characteristic: and it is presumed that there will be found in some of them, but more especially in those of the chief character among the men, and the second character among the women, such strokes of gayety, fancy, and humour, as will entertain and divert, and at the same time both warn and instruct.
Besides the four main characters, several others are introduced, whose letters are distinctive; it is expected that some of them, particularly those from the main male character and the second female character, will include elements of cheerfulness, creativity, and humor that will entertain and amuse, while also offering warnings and lessons.
All the letters are written while the hearts of the writers must be supposed to be wholly engaged in their subjects (the events at the time generally dubious): so that they abound not only in critical situations, but with what may be called instantaneous descriptions and reflections (proper to be brought home to the breast of the youthful reader;) as also with affecting conversations; many of them written in the dialogue or dramatic way.
All the letters are written while the hearts of the writers are fully invested in their subjects (the events at the time are generally questionable): so they are filled not only with critical situations, but also with what can be called immediate descriptions and reflections (meant to resonate with the young reader); as well as touching conversations, many of them written in a dialogue or dramatic style.
'Much more lively and affecting,' says one of the principal character, 'must be the style of those who write in the height of a present distress; the mind tortured by the pangs of uncertainty (the events then hidden in the womb of fate;) than the dry, narrative, unanimated style of a person relating difficulties and danger surmounted, can be; the relater perfectly at ease; and if himself unmoved by his own story, not likely greatly to affect the reader.'
"Much more lively and moving," says one of the main characters, "must be the style of those who write during a time of great distress; the mind tormented by the pains of uncertainty (the events still hidden in the womb of fate); than the dry, narrative, unfeeling style of someone recounting challenges and dangers they've already overcome, perfectly at ease; and if he's unmoved by his own story, he's not likely to greatly affect the reader."
What will be found to be more particularly aimed at in the following work is—to warn the inconsiderate and thoughtless of the one sex, against the base arts and designs of specious contrivers of the other—to caution parents against the undue exercise of their natural authority over their children in the great article of marriage—to warn children against preferring a man of pleasure to a man of probity upon that dangerous but too-commonly-received notion, that a reformed rake makes the best husband—but above all, to investigate the highest and most important doctrines not only of morality, but of Christianity, by showing them thrown into action in the conduct of the worthy characters; while the unworthy, who set those doctrines at defiance, are condignly, and, as may be said, consequentially punished.
What will be specifically addressed in the following work is to warn the careless and thoughtless of one gender about the deceitful tactics of the other—to advise parents against improperly exercising their natural authority over their children concerning marriage—to caution children against choosing a pleasure-seeker over a man of integrity based on the dangerously common belief that a reformed rake makes the best husband—but most importantly, to explore the highest and most significant principles not only of morality but of Christianity, by demonstrating these principles in the actions of virtuous characters, while the unvirtuous, who ignore these principles, are justly and inevitably punished.
From what has been said, considerate readers will not enter upon the perusal of the piece before them as if it were designed only to divert and amuse. It will probably be thought tedious to all such as dip into it, expecting a light novel, or transitory romance; and look upon story in it (interesting as that is generally allowed to be) as its sole end, rather than as a vehicle to the instruction.
Considering what has been stated, thoughtful readers won’t approach the work before them thinking it’s just meant to entertain. It will likely seem dull to those who pick it up expecting a light novel or a fleeting romance, viewing the story (as generally agreed upon to be interesting) as its only purpose, rather than as a means to convey deeper lessons.
Different persons, as might be expected, have been of different opinions, in relation to the conduct of the Heroine in particular situations; and several worthy persons have objected to the general catastrophe, and other parts of the history. Whatever is thought material of these shall be taken notice of by way of Postscript, at the conclusion of the History; for this work being addressed to the public as a history of life and manners, those parts of it which are proposed to carry with them the force of an example, ought to be as unobjectionable as is consistent with the design of the whole, and with human nature.
Different people, as you might expect, have had varying opinions about the Heroine's actions in certain situations; and several respectable individuals have criticized the overall outcome and other aspects of the story. Any significant points on these will be addressed in a Postscript at the end of the History. Since this work is meant for the public as a portrayal of life and behavior, the sections intended to serve as examples should be as acceptable as possible while still aligning with the overall design and the nature of humanity.
NAMES OF THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, a young lady of great beauty and merit. ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. her admirer. JAMES HARLOWE, ESQ. father of Clarissa. MRS. HARLOWE, his lady. JAMES HARLOWE, their only son. ARABELLA, their elder daughter. JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. elder brother of James Harlowe, sen. ANTONY HARLOWE, third brother. ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. an admirer of Clarissa, favoured by her friends. MRS. HERVEY, half-sister of Mrs. Harlowe. MISS DOLLY HERVEY, her daughter. MRS. JUDITH NORTON, a woman of great piety and discretion, who had a principal share in the education of Clarissa. COL. WM. MORDEN, a near relation of the Harlowes. MISS HOWE, the most intimate friend, companion, and correspondent of Clarissa. MRS. HOWE, her mother. CHARLES HICKMAN, ESQ. an admirer of Miss Howe. LORD M., uncle to Mr. Lovelace. LADY SARAH SADLEIR, LADY BETTY LAWRANCE, half-sisters of Lord M. MISS CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE, MISS PATTY MONTAGUE, nieces of the same nobleman. DR. LEWEN, a worthy divine. MR. ELIAS BRAND, a pedantic young clergyman. DR. H. a humane physician. MR. GODDARD, an honest and skilful apothecary. JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. Mr. Lovelace's principal intimate and confidant. RICHARD MOWBRAY, THOMAS DOLEMAN, JAMES TOURVILLE, THOMAS BELTON, ESQRS. libertine friends of Mr. Lovelace. MRS. MOORE, a widow, keeping a lodging-house at Hampstead. MISS RAWLINS, a notable young gentlewoman there. MRS. BEVIS, a lively young widow of the same place. MRS. SINCLAIR, the pretended name of a private brothel-keeper in London. CAPTAIN TOMLINSON, the assumed name of a vile pander to the debaucheries of Mr. Lovelace. SALLY MARTIN, POLLY HORTON, assistants of, and partners with, the infamous Sinclair. DORCAS WYKES, an artful servant at the vile house.
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, a young lady of great beauty and merit. ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ. her admirer. JAMES HARLOWE, ESQ. father of Clarissa. MRS. HARLOWE, his wife. JAMES HARLOWE, their only son. ARABELLA, their older daughter. JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. older brother of James Harlowe, sr. ANTONY HARLOWE, their third brother. ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. an admirer of Clarissa, supported by her friends. MRS. HERVEY, half-sister of Mrs. Harlowe. MISS DOLLY HERVEY, her daughter. MRS. JUDITH NORTON, a woman of great faith and wisdom, who had a major role in Clarissa's upbringing. COL. WM. MORDEN, a close relative of the Harlowes. MISS HOWE, the closest friend, companion, and correspondent of Clarissa. MRS. HOWE, her mother. CHARLES HICKMAN, ESQ. an admirer of Miss Howe. LORD M., uncle to Mr. Lovelace. LADY SARAH SADLEIR, LADY BETTY LAWRANCE, half-sisters of Lord M. MISS CHARLOTTE MONTAGUE, MISS PATTY MONTAGUE, nieces of the same nobleman. DR. LEWEN, a respectable clergyman. MR. ELIAS BRAND, a pedantic young minister. DR. H. a compassionate physician. MR. GODDARD, an honest and skilled pharmacist. JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. Mr. Lovelace's close friend and confidant. RICHARD MOWBRAY, THOMAS DOLEMAN, JAMES TOURVILLE, THOMAS BELTON, ESQRS. libertine friends of Mr. Lovelace. MRS. MOORE, a widow running a boarding house in Hampstead. MISS RAWLINS, a remarkable young woman living there. MRS. BEVIS, a lively young widow from the same area. MRS. SINCLAIR, a false name for a private brothel owner in London. CAPTAIN TOMLINSON, a false name for a despicable person who profits from Mr. Lovelace's excesses. SALLY MARTIN, POLLY HORTON, partners and assistants of the infamous Sinclair. DORCAS WYKES, a cunning servant at the deplorable establishment.
LETTERS OF VOLUME I
LETTER I. Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.—Desires from her the particulars of the rencounter between Mr. Lovelace and her brother; and of the usage she receives upon it: also the whole of her story from the time Lovelace was introduced as a suitor to her sister Arabella. Admires her great qualities, and glories in the friendship between them.
LETTER I. Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.—Asks her for the details of the encounter between Mr. Lovelace and her brother, and how she is being treated because of it. Also wants to know her whole story from the moment Lovelace was introduced as a suitor to her sister Arabella. Compliments her remarkable qualities and takes pride in their friendship.
LETTER II. III. IV. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Gives the requested particulars. Together with the grounds of her brother's and sister's ill-will to her; and of the animosity between her brother and Lovelace.—Her mother connives at the private correspondence between her and Lovelace, for the sake of preventing greater evils. Character of Lovelace, from an enemy.—Copy of the preamble to her grandfather's will.
LETTER II. III. IV. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Shares the details you asked for. It includes the reasons for her brother's and sister's dislike towards her, as well as the feud between her brother and Lovelace. Her mother overlooks the private communication between her and Lovelace to avoid bigger problems. A description of Lovelace, from an adversary's perspective. A copy of the introduction to her grandfather's will.
LETTER V. From the same.—Her father, mother, brother, briefly characterized. Her brother's consequence in the family. Wishes Miss Howe had encouraged her brother's address. Endeavors to find excuses for her father's ill temper, and for her mother's passiveness.
LETTER V. From the same.—Her dad, mom, and brother are briefly described. Her brother's importance in the family. Wishes Miss Howe had been supportive of her brother's attempts. Tries to justify her dad's bad temper and her mom's passivity.
LETTER VI. From the same.—Mr. Symmes, Mr. Mullins, Mr. Wyerley, in return, proposed to her, in malice to Lovelace; and, on their being rejected, Mr. Solmes. Leave given her to visit Miss Howe for a few days. Her brother's insolent behaviour upon it.
LETTER VI. From the same.—Mr. Symmes, Mr. Mullins, and Mr. Wyerley, in spite of Lovelace, proposed to her; and when they were turned down, Mr. Solmes stepped up. She was allowed to visit Miss Howe for a few days. Her brother's rude behavior about it.
LETTER VII. From the same.—The harsh reception she meets with on her return from Miss Howe. Solmes's first visit.
LETTER VII. From the same.—The cold welcome she gets upon her return from Miss Howe. Solmes's first visit.
LETTER VIII. From the same.—All her family determined in Solmes's favour. Her aversion to him. She rejects him, and is forbid going to church, visiting, receiving visits, or writing to any body out of the house.
LETTER VIII. From the same.—Her entire family decided to support Solmes. She doesn't like him. She turns him down and is banned from going to church, visiting anyone, receiving visitors, or writing to anyone outside of the house.
LETTER IX. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Her expedient to carry on a private correspondence with Miss Howe. Regrets the necessity she is laid under to take such a clandestine step.
LETTER IX. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Her plan to maintain a private correspondence with Miss Howe. She expresses regret about the necessity of taking such a secretive action.
LETTER X. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Inveighs against the Harlowe family for proposing such a man as Solmes. Characterizes them. Is jealous of Antony Harlowe's visits to her mother. Rallies her friend on her supposed regard to Lovelace.
LETTER X. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Criticizes the Harlowe family for suggesting someone like Solmes. Describes their character. Feels jealous of Antony Harlowe's visits to her mother. Teases her friend about her supposed feelings for Lovelace.
LETTER XI. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Is nettled and alarmed at her raillery. Her reasons for not giving way to a passion for Lovelace.
LETTER XI. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—She feels irritated and worried by her teasing. Her reasons for resisting a passion for Lovelace.
LETTER XII. Miss Howe in reply.—Continues her raillery. Gives Lovelace's character from Mrs. Fortescue.
LETTER XII. Miss Howe in reply.—Continues her teasing. Gives Lovelace's character according to Mrs. Fortescue.
LETTER XIII. XIV. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—The views of her family in favouring the address of Solmes. Her brother's and sister's triumph upon the difficulties into which they have plunged her.
LETTER XIII. XIV. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—The perspective of her family supporting Solmes's proposal. Her brother's and sister's victory over the challenges they have created for her.
LETTER XV. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—She accounts for Arabella's malice. Blames her for having given up the power over the estate left her by her grandfather.
LETTER XV. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—She explains Arabella's spite. She blames her for giving up control over the estate left to her by her grandfather.
LETTER XVI. XVII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Offends her father by her behaviour to Solmes in his presence. Tender conversation between her mother and her.—Offers to give up all thoughts of Lovelace, if she may be freed from Solmes's address. Substance of one of Lovelace's letters, of her answer, and of his reply. Makes a proposal. Her mother goes down with it.
LETTER XVI. XVII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—She upsets her father by how she acts towards Solmes when he’s around. She has a heartfelt talk with her mother. She offers to let go of any thoughts of Lovelace if she can be free from Solmes's advances. The gist of one of Lovelace's letters, her response, and his reply. He makes a proposal. Her mother takes it down.
LETTER XVIII. From the same.—The proposal rejected. Her mother affects severity to her. Another interesting conversation between them.
LETTER XVIII. From the same.—The proposal was turned down. Her mother is acting strict with her. Another engaging conversation takes place between them.
LETTER XIX. From the same.—Her dutiful motives for putting her estate into her father's power. Why she thinks she ought not to have Solmes. Afflicted on her mother's account.
LETTER XIX. From the same.—Her responsible reasons for putting her estate in her father's hands. Why she believes she shouldn't marry Solmes. Upset about her mother's situation.
LETTER XX. XXI. From the same.—Another conference with her mother, who leaves her in anger.—She goes down to beg her favour. Solmes comes in. She offers to withdraw; but is forbid. What follows upon it.
LETTER XX. XXI. From the same.—Another talk with her mom, who leaves her angry.—She goes downstairs to ask for her favor. Solmes comes in. She offers to leave; but is told not to. What happens next.
LETTER XXII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Substance of a letter from Lovelace. She desires leave to go to church. Is referred to her brother, and insultingly refused by him. Her letter to him. His answer.
LETTER XXII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Summary of a letter from Lovelace. She asks for permission to go to church. She is directed to her brother, who disrespectfully denies her request. Her letter to him. His response.
LETTER XXIII. XXIV. XXV. From the same.—Her faithful Hannah disgracefully dismissed. Betty Barnes, her sister's maid, set over her. A letter from her brother forbidding her to appear in the presence of any of her relations without leave. Her answer. Writes to her mother. Her mother's answer. Writes to her father. His answer.
LETTER XXIII. XXIV. XXV. From the same.—Her loyal Hannah was shamefully let go. Betty Barnes, her sister's maid, was put in charge of her. A letter from her brother, prohibiting her from seeing any of her relatives without permission. Her response. She writes to her mother. Her mother's reply. She writes to her father. His response.
LETTER XXVI. From the same.—Is desirous to know the opinion Lord M.'s family have of her. Substance of a letter from Lovelace, resenting the indignities he receives from her relations. She freely acquaints him that he has nothing to expect from her contrary to her duty. Insists that his next letter shall be his last.
LETTER XXVI. From the same.—Wants to know what Lord M.'s family thinks of her. Summary of a letter from Lovelace, expressing his anger about the disrespect he faces from her relatives. She honestly tells him that he shouldn't expect anything from her that goes against her values. She insists that his next letter will be his last.
LETTER XXVII. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Advises her to resume her estate. Her satirical description of Solmes. Rallies her on her curiosity to know what opinion Lord M. and his family have of her. Ascribes to the difference in each of their tempers their mutual love. Gives particulars of a conversation between her mother and her on Clarissa's case. Reflects on the Harlowe family, and particularly on Mrs. Harlowe, for her passiveness.
LETTER XXVII. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—Advises her to take back her estate. Her sarcastic description of Solmes. Teases her about her curiosity regarding what Lord M. and his family think of her. Attributes their mutual love to their different personalities. Shares details of a conversation between her mother and herself about Clarissa's situation. Ponders the Harlowe family and especially criticizes Mrs. Harlowe for her passiveness.
LETTER XXVIII. Clarissa. In answer.—Chides her for the liberties she takes with her relations. Particularly defends her mother. Chides her also for her lively airs to her own mother. Desires her to treat her freely; but wishes not that she should impute love to her; and why.
LETTER XXVIII. Clarissa. In response.—She reprimands her for the freedoms she takes with her family. She particularly defends her mother. She also criticizes her for her playful behavior towards her own mother. She wants her to speak openly; however, she doesn't want her to mistake it for love, and she explains why.
LETTER XXIX. From the same.—Her expostulatory letter to her brother and sister. Their answers.
LETTER XXIX. From the same.—Her letter to her brother and sister, expressing her concerns. Their replies.
LETTER XXX. From the same.—Exceedingly angry with Lovelace, on his coming to their church. Reflections on pride, &c.
LETTER XXX. From the same.—Really furious with Lovelace for showing up at their church. Thoughts on pride, etc.
LETTER XXXI. Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq.—Pride, revenge, love, ambition, or a desire of conquest, his avowedly predominant passions. His early vow to ruin as many of the fair sex as he can get into his power. His pretences for it. Breathes revenge against the Harlowe family. Glories in his contrivances. Is passionately in love with Clarissa. His high notions of her beauty and merit. Yet is incensed against her for preferring her own relations to him. Clears her, however, of intentional pride, scorn, haughtiness, or want of sensibility. What a triumph over the sex, and over her whole family, if he can carry off a lady so watchful and so prudent! Is resolved, if he cannot have the sister, to carry off the brother. Libertine as he is, can have no thoughts of any other woman but Clarissa. Warns Belford, Mowbray, Tourville, and Belton, to hold themselves in readiness to obey his summons, on the likelihood there is of room for what he calls glorious mischief.
LETTER XXXI. Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq.—Pride, revenge, love, ambition, or a desire for conquest are his openly dominant passions. He made an early vow to ruin as many women as he can get his hands on. He has his excuses for it. He seethes with revenge against the Harlowe family. He takes pride in his schemes. He is passionately in love with Clarissa. He has high opinions of her beauty and worth. Still, he is angry with her for choosing her family over him. However, he clears her of being intentionally proud, disdainful, arrogant, or lacking in sensitivity. What a victory over women and her entire family it would be if he can win over such a cautious and careful lady! He is determined that if he can’t have her sister, he will take her brother. Despite being a libertine, he has no thoughts of any woman but Clarissa. He warns Belford, Mowbray, Tourville, and Belton to be ready to follow his orders, considering the chance for what he calls glorious mischief.
LETTER XXXII. XXXIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Copies of her letters to her two uncles; and of their characteristic answer.—Her expostulatory letter to Solmes. His answer.—An insolent letter from her brother, on her writing to Solmes.
LETTER XXXII. XXXIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Copies of her letters to her two uncles; and of their typical response.—Her letter to Solmes expressing her concerns. His reply.—A disrespectful letter from her brother regarding her communication with Solmes.
LETTER XXXIV. Lovelace to Belford.—He directs him to come down to him. For what end. Description of the poor inn he puts up at in disguise; and of the innocent daughter there, whom he calls his Rosebud. He resolves to spare her. Pride and policy his motives, and not principle. Ingenuous reflections on his own vicious disposition. He had been a rogue, he says, had he been a plough-boy. Resolves on an act of generosity for his Rosebud, by way of atonement, as he calls it, for some of his bad actions; and for other reasons which appear in the sequel.
LETTER XXXIV. Lovelace to Belford.—He tells him to come visit him. For what reason? A description of the shabby inn where he is staying incognito; and of the innocent daughter there, whom he calls his Rosebud. He decides to protect her. His motivations are pride and strategy, not ethics. Honest reflections on his own corrupt nature. He claims he would have been a criminal, even if he were a farmer. He plans a generous act for his Rosebud as a way to make amends for some of his wrongdoings; and for other reasons that become clear later.
LETTER XXXV. From the same.—His artful contrivances and dealings with Joseph Leman. His revenge and his love uppermost by turns. If the latter succeeds not, he vows that the Harlowes shall feel the former, although for it he become an exile from his country forever. He will throw himself into Clarissa's presence in the woodhouse. If he thought he had no prospect of her favour, he would attempt to carry her off: that, he says, would be a rape worthy of a Jupiter. The arts he is resolved to practise when he sees her, in order to engage her future reliance upon his honour.
LETTER XXXV. From the same.—His clever schemes and dealings with Joseph Leman. His revenge and his love taking turns at the forefront. If love doesn't work out, he promises that the Harlowes will experience his revenge, even if it means becoming an exile from his country forever. He plans to confront Clarissa in the woodhouse. If he believed he had no chance of winning her favor, he would try to abduct her: he claims that would be a crime worthy of Jupiter. The strategies he intends to use when he sees her to ensure her future trust in his honor.
LETTER XXXVI. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Lovelace, in disguise, surprises her in the woodhouse. Her terrors on first seeing him. He greatly engages her confidence (as he had designed) by his respectful behaviour.
LETTER XXXVI. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Lovelace, in disguise, surprises her in the woodhouse. She is terrified when she first sees him. He gains her trust (just as he intended) with his respectful behavior.
LETTER XXXVII. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—After rallying her on her not readily owning the passion which she supposes she has for Lovelace, she desires to know how far she thinks him eligible for his best qualities, how far rejectable for his worst.
LETTER XXXVII. Miss Howe to Clarissa.—After teasing her about not easily admitting the feelings she thinks she has for Lovelace, she wants to know how much she considers him suitable for his best qualities and how much she finds him unacceptable for his worst.
LETTER XXXVIII. XXXIX. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—She disclaims tyranny to a man who respects her. Her unhappy situation to be considered, in which the imputed love is held by her parents to be an undutiful, and therefore a criminal passion, and where the supposed object of it is a man of faulty morals. Is interrupted by a visit from Mrs. Norton, who is sent up to her to influence her in Solmes's favour. An affecting conversation between them. What passes upon it, and after it.
LETTER XXXVIII. XXXIX. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—She rejects any idea of being tyrannical toward a man who respects her. Her unfortunate situation needs to be considered, where her parents view the alleged love as disrespectful and therefore sinful, especially since the supposed object of her affection is a man with questionable morals. She is interrupted by a visit from Mrs. Norton, who has been sent to persuade her in favor of Solmes. An emotional conversation takes place between them, leading to further developments.
LETTER XL. From the same.—Resumes the requested subject. What sort of man she could have preferred to Mr. Lovelace. Arguments she has used to herself in his favour, and in his disfavour. Frankly owns that were he now a moral man, she would prefer him to all the men she ever saw. Yet is persuaded, that she could freely give up the one man to get rid of the other, as she had offered to her friends. Her delicacy affected by Miss Howe's raillery; and why. Gives her opinion of the force which figure or person may be allowed to have upon her sex.
LETTER XL. From the same.—Continues the requested topic. What kind of man she might have chosen over Mr. Lovelace. Arguments she's considered for and against him. She openly admits that if he were a decent man now, she would choose him over any man she's ever met. Still, she believes that she could easily let go of one man to be rid of the other, just as she had suggested to her friends. Her sensitivity affected by Miss Howe's teasing; and the reasons why. She shares her thoughts on the influence that appearance or character can have on women.
LETTER XLI. From the same.—A letter from her mother (with patterns of rich silks) in which she entreats her to comply with all their wishes. What ought to be the principal view of a good wife in adorning her person. Her distress. Begs leave to wait upon her mother alone. Her father's angry letter, ordering her to prepare for her wedding-day. Solmes requests to see her. She refuses. All in tumults below upon it. Her brother and her sister desire that she may be left to their management.
LETTER XLI. From the same.—A letter from her mother (with samples of luxurious fabrics) in which she pleads with her to meet all their expectations. What should be the main focus of a good wife in beautifying herself. Her distress. She asks to visit her mother alone. Her father's upset letter, instructing her to get ready for her wedding day. Solmes asks to see her. She declines. There's chaos below because of it. Her brother and sister want her to be left in their care.
LETTER XLII. From the same.—A very warm dialogue between her sister and her. Her sister's envy, unnatural behaviour, and violence. Clarissa sends down proposals in writing to her friends, and a letter to her brother. His insolent answer; in which he tells her, that her proposal will be considered in full assembly next morning; but that, if they shall be complied with, he will retire to Scotland, and never more return to Harlowe-place.
LETTER XLII. From the same.—A very intense conversation between her sister and her. Her sister's jealousy, strange behavior, and aggression. Clarissa sends written proposals to her friends and a letter to her brother. His rude reply; in which he tells her that her proposal will be discussed in full assembly the next morning; but if they agree to her terms, he will leave for Scotland and never come back to Harlowe-place.
LETTER XLIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—Hardly doubts but her proposals will be accepted. Paints to herself, as her relations arrive one by one, what their deliberations, and the result of them will be, when they are all assembled. Her proposals rejected. Her sister's cruel insults on the occasion produce another warm dialogue between them. Her sister leaves her in a fury. She is greatly disturbed at the contents of a letter from Lovelace.
LETTER XLIII. Clarissa to Miss Howe.—She hardly doubts that her proposals will be accepted. She imagines what her family's discussions and their outcome will be as each member arrives one by one. Her proposals are rejected. Her sister's harsh insults in response lead to another heated argument between them. Her sister storms out in anger. Clarissa is deeply unsettled by the contents of a letter from Lovelace.
LETTER XLIV. From the same.—Her aunt Hervey, accompanied by her sister, makes her a visit. Farther insults from her sister. Her aunt's fruitless pleas in Solmes's favour.
LETTER XLIV. From the same.—Her aunt Hervey, along with her sister, pays her a visit. More insults from her sister. Her aunt's unsuccessful attempts to support Solmes.
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE
LETTER I
MISS ANNA HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE JAN 10.
I am extremely concerned, my dearest friend, for the disturbances that have happened in your family. I know how it must hurt you to become the subject of the public talk: and yet, upon an occasion so generally known, it is impossible but that whatever relates to a young lady, whose distinguished merits have made her the public care, should engage every body's attention. I long to have the particulars from yourself; and of the usage I am told you receive upon an accident you could not help; and in which, as far as I can learn, the sufferer was the aggressor.
I'm really worried, my dear friend, about the troubles your family has been facing. I can only imagine how painful it must be for you to be the topic of public gossip. Still, with an event that has become so widely known, it's impossible for everyone not to focus on a young lady whose remarkable qualities have made her a public concern. I can't wait to hear the details from you, especially about the treatment you're receiving after an incident you couldn’t control, where, from what I understand, the person who got hurt was actually the one who started it.
Mr. Diggs, the surgeon, whom I sent for at the first hearing of the rencounter, to inquire, for your sake, how your brother was, told me, that there was no danger from the wound, if there were none from the fever; which it seems has been increased by the perturbation of his spirits.
Mr. Diggs, the surgeon, whom I called as soon as I heard about the encounter to find out, for your sake, how your brother was doing, told me that there was no danger from the wound as long as there was no risk from the fever; which seems to have worsened due to his emotional distress.
Mr. Wyerley drank tea with us yesterday; and though he is far from being partial to Mr. Lovelace, as it may well be supposed, yet both he and Mr. Symmes blame your family for the treatment they gave him when he went in person to inquire after your brother's health, and to express his concern for what had happened.
Mr. Wyerley had tea with us yesterday, and while he definitely isn’t a fan of Mr. Lovelace, both he and Mr. Symmes criticize your family for how they treated him when he personally went to check on your brother's health and showed his concern about what had happened.
They say, that Mr. Lovelace could not avoid drawing his sword: and that either your brother's unskilfulness or passion left him from the very first pass entirely in his power.
They say that Mr. Lovelace couldn't help but draw his sword, and that either your brother's lack of skill or his anger left him completely at Mr. Lovelace's mercy from the very first move.
This, I am told, was what Mr. Lovelace said upon it; retreating as he spoke: 'Have a care, Mr. Harlowe—your violence puts you out of your defence. You give me too much advantage. For your sister's sake, I will pass by every thing:—if—'
This, I hear, was what Mr. Lovelace said about it, backing away as he spoke: 'Be careful, Mr. Harlowe—your anger makes you vulnerable. You're giving me too much of an advantage. For your sister's sake, I'll overlook everything:—if—'
But this the more provoked his rashness, to lay himself open to the advantage of his adversary—who, after a slight wound given him in the arm, took away his sword.
But this only made him more reckless, exposing himself to his opponent's advantage—who, after inflicting a minor wound on his arm, took away his sword.
There are people who love not your brother, because of his natural imperiousness and fierce and uncontroulable temper: these say, that the young gentleman's passion was abated on seeing his blood gush plentifully down his arm; and that he received the generous offices of his adversary (who helped him off with his coat and waistcoat, and bound up his arm, till the surgeon could come,) with such patience, as was far from making a visit afterwards from that adversary, to inquire after his health, appear either insulting or improper.
There are people who don’t like your brother because of his natural arrogance and his fierce, uncontrollable temper. They say that the young man's anger faded when he saw his blood flowing down his arm, and that he accepted the help of his opponent (who took off his coat and vest and wrapped up his arm until the surgeon arrived) with such patience that it didn’t seem rude or inappropriate for that opponent to check on his health afterward.
Be this as it may, every body pities you. So steady, so uniform in your conduct: so desirous, as you always said, of sliding through life to the end of it unnoted; and, as I may add, not wishing to be observed even for your silent benevolence; sufficiently happy in the noble consciousness which attends it: Rather useful than glaring, your deserved motto; though now, to your regret, pushed into blaze, as I may say: and yet blamed at home for the faults of others—how must such a virtue suffer on every hand!—yet it must be allowed, that your present trial is but proportioned to your prudence.
Despite this, everyone feels sorry for you. You're so steady and consistent in your behavior; so eager, as you've always said, to glide through life unnoticed until the end; and, I might add, not wanting to be recognized even for your quiet kindness; you're content with the noble awareness that comes with it. Rather practical than showy, that's your well-deserved motto; though now, unfortunately, you've been thrust into the spotlight, so to speak: and yet, at home, you're blamed for the mistakes of others—how must such a virtue struggle in every way!—still, it must be acknowledged that your current challenge fits your level of discretion.
As all your friends without doors are apprehensive that some other unhappy event may result from so violent a contention, in which it seems the families on both sides are now engaged, I must desire you to enable me, on the authority of your own information, to do you occasional justice.
As all your friends without doors are worried that another unfortunate event might come from such a fierce disagreement, which both families are currently involved in, I ask you to help me, based on what you’ve told me, to do you some justice when needed.
My mother, and all of us, like the rest of the world, talk of nobody but you on this occasion, and of the consequences which may follow from the resentments of a man of Mr. Lovelace's spirit; who, as he gives out, has been treated with high indignity by your uncles. My mother will have it, that you cannot now, with any decency, either see him, or correspond with him. She is a good deal prepossessed by your uncle Antony; who occasionally calls upon us, as you know; and, on this rencounter, has represented to her the crime which it would be in a sister to encourage a man who is to wade into her favour (this was his expression) through the blood of her brother.
My mom and the rest of us, like everyone else, can’t stop talking about you right now and the potential fallout from the anger of someone like Mr. Lovelace, who claims he’s been deeply wronged by your uncles. My mom believes that you can’t, with any sense of decency, either meet him or even communicate with him. She’s pretty influenced by your uncle Antony, who visits us sometimes, as you know, and during one of those visits, he pointed out how wrong it would be for a sister to support a guy who’s trying to win her favor at the expense of her brother.
Write to me therefore, my dear, the whole of your story from the time that Mr. Lovelace was first introduced into your family; and particularly an account of all that passed between him and your sister; about which there are different reports; some people scrupling not to insinuate that the younger sister has stolen a lover from the elder: and pray write in so full a manner as may satisfy those who know not so much of your affairs as I do. If anything unhappy should fall out from the violence of such spirits as you have to deal with, your account of all things previous to it will be your best justification.
Write to me, my dear, the entire story from when Mr. Lovelace was first introduced to your family, especially everything that happened between him and your sister. There are different stories going around; some people aren’t shy about suggesting that the younger sister has taken a lover from the elder. Please write in such a detailed way that it will satisfy those who don’t know as much about your situation as I do. If anything unfortunate happens because of the intense personalities you’re dealing with, your account of everything that happened before will be your best defense.
You see what you draw upon yourself by excelling all your sex. Every individual of it who knows you, or has heard of you, seems to think you answerable to her for your conduct in points so very delicate and concerning.
You can see what you bring upon yourself by outshining everyone of your gender. Every person from that group who knows you or has heard about you seems to think you owe them an explanation for your behavior in matters that are quite sensitive and important.
Every eye, in short, is upon you with the expectation of an example. I wish to heaven you were at liberty to pursue your own methods: all would then, I dare say, be easy, and honourably ended. But I dread your directors and directresses; for your mother, admirably well qualified as she is to lead, must submit to be led. Your sister and brother will certainly put you out of your course.
Everyone is watching you, hoping you'll set a good example. I wish you could just do things your own way; then everything would probably be easier and turn out well. But I'm worried about your directors and the people in charge; even though your mom is perfectly capable of leading, she has to follow others. Your sister and brother will definitely steer you off track.
But this is a point you will not permit me to expatiate upon: pardon me therefore, and I have done.—Yet, why should I say, pardon me? when your concerns are my concerns? when your honour is my honour? when I love you, as never woman loved another? and when you have allowed of that concern and of that love; and have for years, which in persons so young may be called many, ranked in the first class of your friends,
But this is a point you won't let me go on about: forgive me for that, and I'll stop. —Yet, why should I say sorry? when your issues are my issues? when your honor is my honor? when I love you like no woman has ever loved another? and when you've accepted that concern and that love; and have for years, which is quite a long time for people as young as we are, placed me among your closest friends,
Your ever grateful and affectionate, ANNA HOWE.
Your ever grateful and loving, ANNA HOWE.
Will you oblige me with a copy of the preamble to the clauses in your grandfather's will in your favour; and allow me to send it to my aunt Harman?—She is very desirous to see it. Yet your character has so charmed her, that, though a stranger to you personally, she assents to the preference given you in that will, before she knows the testator's reasons for giving you that preference.
Could you please provide me with a copy of the preamble to the clauses in your grandfather's will that favor you? I'd like to send it to my aunt Harman, as she's very eager to see it. Your character has impressed her so much that, even though she's never met you, she agrees with the preference you were given in that will before knowing your grandfather's reasons for it.
LETTER II
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE HARLOWE-PLACE, JAN. 13.
How you oppress me, my dearest friend, with your politeness! I cannot doubt your sincerity; but you should take care, that you give me not reason from your kind partiality to call in question your judgment. You do not distinguish that I take many admirable hints from you, and have the art to pass them upon you for my own: for in all you do, in all you say, nay, in your very looks (so animated!) you give lessons to one who loves you and observes you as I love you and observe you, without knowing that you do—So pray, my dear, be more sparing of your praise for the future, lest after this confession we should suspect that you secretly intend to praise yourself, while you would be thought only to commend another.
How you overwhelm me, my dear friend, with your politeness! I can’t doubt your sincerity; but you should be careful not to give me a reason to question your judgment because of your kind favoritism. You don’t realize that I take many great ideas from you and manage to present them as my own. In everything you do, everything you say, and even in your very expressive looks, you teach lessons to someone who loves and observes you as I do, without you even knowing it. So please, my dear, be a bit more reserved with your praise in the future, so that after this confession, we don't find ourselves thinking you secretly mean to praise yourself while pretending to compliment someone else.
Our family has indeed been strangely discomposed.—Discomposed!—It has been in tumults, ever since the unhappy transaction; and I have borne all the blame; yet should have had too much concern from myself, had I been more justly spared by every one else.
Our family has definitely been quite unsettled.—Unsettled!—It has been in chaos ever since that unfortunate incident; and I’ve taken all the blame; yet I would have felt too much guilt for myself if everyone else had been more fair.
For, whether it be owing to a faulty impatience, having been too indulgently treated to be inured to blame, or to the regret I have to hear those censured on my account, whom it is my duty to vindicate; I have sometimes wished, that it had pleased God to have taken me in my last fever, when I had every body's love and good opinion; but oftener that I had never been distinguished by my grandfather as I was: since that distinction has estranged from me my brother's and sister's affections; at least, has raised a jealousy with regard to the apprehended favour of my two uncles, that now-and-then overshadows their love.
Because whether it's due to my impatience, having been spoiled enough to not handle criticism well, or the regret I feel when I hear people being blamed for my sake—people I should defend—I’ve sometimes wished that God had taken me during my last illness when I had everyone’s love and good opinion. More often, I wish that my grandfather had never singled me out as he did, since that distinction has pushed my brother's and sister's affection away from me, or at least created jealousy regarding the perceived favoritism of my two uncles, which occasionally overshadows their love for me.
My brother being happily recovered of his fever, and his wound in a hopeful way, although he has not yet ventured abroad, I will be as particular as you desire in the little history you demand of me. But heaven forbid that any thing should ever happen which may require it to be produced for the purpose you mention!
My brother has happily recovered from his fever, and his wound is healing well, although he hasn't gone out yet. I will be as detailed as you want in the little story you asked for. But please, let's hope nothing ever happens that would need it to be brought up for the reason you mentioned!
I will begin, as you command, with Mr. Lovelace's address to my sister; and be as brief as possible. I will recite facts only; and leave you to judge of the truth of the report raised, that the younger sister has robbed the elder.
I’ll start, as you requested, with Mr. Lovelace's speech to my sister; and I’ll keep it short. I’ll stick to the facts and let you decide if the claim that the younger sister has taken advantage of the older one is true.
It was in pursuance of a conference between Lord M. and my uncle Antony, that Mr. Lovelace [my father and mother not forbidding] paid his respect to my sister Arabella. My brother was then in Scotland, busying himself in viewing the condition of the considerable estate which was left him there by his generous godmother, together with one as considerable in Yorkshire. I was also absent at my Dairy-house, as it is called,* busied in the accounts relating to the estate which my grandfather had the goodness to devise to me; and which once a year was left to my inspection, although I have given the whole into my father's power.
It was following a meeting between Lord M. and my uncle Antony that Mr. Lovelace, with my father and mother not objecting, paid his respects to my sister Arabella. My brother was in Scotland at the time, occupied with checking on the significant estate left to him by his generous godmother, along with another substantial one in Yorkshire. I was also away at my Dairy-house, as it’s called, busy with the accounts related to the estate my grandfather generously passed down to me; it was reviewed once a year, although I had given full control to my father.
* Her grandfather, in order to invite her to him as often as
her other friends would spare her, indulged her in erecting
and fitting up a dairy-house in her own taste. When
finished, it was so much admired for its elegant simplicity
and convenience, that the whole seat (before, of old time,
from its situation, called The Grove) was generally known by
the name of The Dairy-house. Her grandfather in particular
was fond of having it so called.
* Her grandfather, to encourage her to visit him as often as her friends allowed, let her design and decorate a dairy house to her liking. Once it was done, it was so admired for its beautiful simplicity and practicality that everyone started referring to the whole area (previously known as The Grove due to its location) as The Dairy-house. Her grandfather especially liked it being called that.
My sister made me a visit there the day after Mr. Lovelace had been introduced; and seemed highly pleased with the gentleman. His birth, his fortune in possession, a clear 2000L. a year, as Lord M. had assured my uncle; presumptive heir to that nobleman's large estate: his great expectations from Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrence; who with his uncle interested themselves very warmly (he being the last of his line) to see him married.
My sister came to visit the day after Mr. Lovelace was introduced and seemed really impressed with him. His background, his wealth—about £2,000 a year, as Lord M. told my uncle—and his potential inheritance from the nobleman's vast estate made quite an impression. He also had strong support from Lady Sarah Sadleir and Lady Betty Lawrence, along with his uncle, who were all very eager to see him married since he’s the last of his family line.
'So handsome a man!—O her beloved Clary!' (for then she was ready to love me dearly, from the overflowings of her good humour on his account!) 'He was but too handsome a man for her!—Were she but as amiable as somebody, there would be a probability of holding his affections!—For he was wild, she heard; very wild, very gay; loved intrigue—but he was young; a man of sense: would see his error, could she but have patience with his faults, if his faults were not cured by marriage!'
'What a handsome man! — Oh, her beloved Clary!' (because she was then ready to love me dearly, thanks to her good spirits because of him!) 'He was way too handsome for her! — If only she were as charming as someone, there might be a chance of winning his affection! — She heard he was wild, really wild, very carefree; loved excitement — but he was young; a sensible guy: would recognize his mistakes, if she could just be patient with his flaws, unless those flaws disappeared with marriage!'
Thus she ran on; and then wanted me 'to see the charming man,' as she called him.—Again concerned, 'that she was not handsome enough for him;' with, 'a sad thing, that the man should have the advantage of the woman in that particular!'—But then, stepping to the glass, she complimented herself, 'That she was very well: that there were many women deemed passable who were inferior to herself: that she was always thought comely; and comeliness, let her tell me, having not so much to lose as beauty had, would hold, when that would evaporate or fly off:—nay, for that matter,' [and again she turned to the glass] 'her features were not irregular; her eyes not at all amiss.' And I remember they were more than usually brilliant at that time.—'Nothing, in short, to be found fault with, though nothing very engaging she doubted—was there, Clary.'
So she kept going, wanting me to "see the charming man," as she called him. She was worried again, thinking she wasn't pretty enough for him, and lamented, "It’s a sad thing that the guy has the upper hand in that area!" But then, stepping in front of the mirror, she praised herself, saying she looked good: there were plenty of women who were considered decent-looking but were below her level. She believed she was always seen as attractive, and attractiveness, let her tell me, had less to lose than beauty, which would eventually fade away. "Besides," she added, looking in the mirror again, "her features were fine; her eyes were pretty good." And I remember they were especially bright at that moment. "In short, there was nothing to criticize, although she doubted there was anything particularly captivating—right, Clary?"
Excuse me, my dear, I never was thus particular before; no, not to you. Nor would I now have written thus freely of a sister, but that she makes a merit to my brother of disowning that she ever liked him; as I shall mention hereafter: and then you will always have me give you minute descriptions, nor suffer me to pass by the air and manner in which things are spoken that are to be taken notice of; rightly observing, that air and manner often express more than the accompanying words.
I'm sorry, my dear, I’ve never been this particular before; not even with you. I wouldn’t have written so openly about a sister now, but she takes pride in telling my brother that she never liked him, which I'll explain later. And then you always want me to give you detailed descriptions and don’t let me skip over the tone and way things are said that should be noticed; you’re right that tone and manner often convey more than the words themselves.
I congratulated her upon her prospects. She received my compliments with a great deal of self-complacency.
I congratulated her on her prospects. She accepted my compliments with a lot of self-satisfaction.
She liked the gentleman still more at his next visit; and yet he made no particular address to her, although an opportunity was given him for it. This was wondered at, as my uncle has introduced him into our family declaredly as a visitor to my sister. But as we are ever ready to make excuses when in good humour with ourselves for the perhaps not unwilful slights of those whose approbation we wish to engage; so my sister found out a reason much to Mr. Lovelace's advantage for his not improving the opportunity that was given him.—It was bashfulness, truly, in him. [Bashfulness in Mr. Lovelace, my dear!]—Indeed, gay and lively as he is, he has not the look of an impudent man. But, I fancy, it is many, many years ago since he was bashful.
She liked the guy even more during his next visit; yet he didn’t make any special effort to speak to her, even though there was an opportunity for it. This was surprising, as my uncle had clearly introduced him to our family as a visitor for my sister. But we often come up with excuses when we’re feeling good about ourselves for the maybe accidental snubs from those whose approval we’re trying to win; so my sister found a reason that reflected well on Mr. Lovelace for not taking the chance he was given. It was shyness, really, on his part. [Shyness in Mr. Lovelace, my dear!]—Honestly, as cheerful and lively as he is, he doesn’t have the look of a rude man. But I suspect it’s been many, many years since he was actually shy.
Thus, however, could my sister make it out—'Upon her word, she believed Mr. Lovelace deserved not the bad character he had as to women.—He was really, to her thinking, a modest man. He would have spoken out, she believed; but once or twice as he seemed to intend to do so, he was under so agreeable a confusion! Such a profound respect he seemed to shew her! A perfect reverence, she thought: she loved dearly that a man in courtship should shew a reverence to his mistress'—So indeed we all do, I believe: and with reason; since, if I may judge from what I have seen in many families, there is little enough of it shewn afterwards.—And she told my aunt Hervey, that she would be a little less upon the reserve next time he came: 'She was not one of those flirts, not she, who would give pain to a person that deserved to be well-treated; and the more pain for the greatness of his value for her.'—I wish she had not somebody whom I love in her eye.
So, my sister figured it out—'Honestly, she believed Mr. Lovelace didn’t deserve the bad reputation he had with women. She truly thought he was a modest guy. He would have spoken up, she believed; but a couple of times when it seemed like he was about to, he got so adorably flustered! He showed her such deep respect! It felt like complete reverence to her; she really appreciated that a man in courtship should show respect to his love interest.'—I think we all feel that way, right? And with good reason; if I can judge from what I’ve seen in many families, there’s usually not enough of it shown later on.—She told my aunt Hervey that she would be a bit less reserved the next time he visited: 'I’m not one of those flirts who would hurt someone who deserves to be treated well; and I wouldn’t want to hurt him more just because he values me so much.'—I wish she wasn’t thinking about someone I love.
In his third visit, Bella governed herself by this kind and considerate principle: so that, according to her own account of the matter, the man might have spoken out.—But he was still bashful: he was not able to overcome this unseasonable reverence. So this visit went off as the former.
In her third visit, Bella guided herself by this kind and thoughtful principle: so that, by her own account, the man might have shared his feelings. But he was still shy; he couldn't shake off this awkward sense of respect. So this visit went just like the previous one.
But now she began to be dissatisfied with him. She compared his general character with this his particular behaviour to her; and having never been courted before, owned herself puzzled how to deal with so odd a lover. 'What did the man mean, she wondered? Had not her uncle brought him declaredly as a suitor to her?—It could not be bashfulness (now she thought of it) since he might have opened his mind to her uncle, if he wanted courage to speak directly to her.—Not that she cared much for the man neither: but it was right, surely, that a woman should be put out of doubt early as to a man's intentions in such a case as this, from his own mouth.—But, truly, she had begun to think, that he was more solicitous to cultivate her mamma's good opinion, than hers!—Every body, she owned, admired her mother's conversation; but he was mistaken if he thought respect to her mother only would do with her. And then, for his own sake, surely he should put it into her power to be complaisant to him, if he gave her reason to approve of him. This distant behaviour, she must take upon herself to say, was the more extraordinary, as he continued his visits, and declared himself extremely desirous to cultivate a friendship with the whole family; and as he could have no doubt about her sense, if she might take upon her to join her own with the general opinion; he having taken great notice of, and admired many of her good things as they fell from her lips. Reserves were painful, she must needs say, to open and free spirits, like hers: and yet she must tell my aunt,' (to whom all this was directed) 'that she should never forget what she owed to her sex, and to herself, were Mr. Lovelace as unexceptionable in his morals as in his figure, and were he to urge his suit ever so warmly.'
But now she started to feel dissatisfied with him. She compared his overall character to how he treated her specifically, and since she had never been pursued before, she felt confused about how to handle such a strange admirer. "What did he mean?" she wondered. Hadn't her uncle introduced him as a suitor?—It couldn't be shyness (now that she thought about it) since he could have shared his feelings with her uncle if he needed courage to speak directly to her. Not that she cared much for the guy anyway; but it was only fair that a woman should be made aware of a man’s intentions early on, directly from him. But honestly, she had started to think he seemed more interested in winning her mom's approval than hers!—Everyone admired her mother's conversation, she admitted, but he was mistaken if he thought that just respecting her mom would impress her. And for his own sake, he should definitely give her a reason to feel nice toward him if he wanted her approval. This distant behavior was even more puzzling since he continued visiting and expressed a strong desire to befriend the whole family. He must know her intelligence well enough if she was to align her thoughts with the general opinion, given he had noticed and praised many of her good points as they came up in conversation. She had to say that reservations were frustrating for open and free spirits like hers; yet she should tell my aunt (to whom all this was directed) that she would never forget what she owed to her gender and to herself, even if Mr. Lovelace had an unblemished character and was to pursue her fervently.
I was not of her council. I was still absent. And it was agreed upon between my aunt Hervey and her, that she was to be quite solemn and shy in his next visit, if there were not a peculiarity in his address to her.
I wasn't part of her decision-making. I was still away. It was decided between my aunt Hervey and her that she should be very serious and reserved during his next visit, unless he spoke to her in a way that was different from usual.
But my sister it seems had not considered the matter well. This was not the way, as it proved, to be taken for matters of mere omission, with a man of Mr. Lovelace's penetration. Nor with any man; since if love has not taken root deep enough to cause it to shoot out into declaration, if an opportunity be fairly given for it, there is little room to expect, that the blighting winds of anger or resentment will bring it forward. Then my poor sister is not naturally good-humoured. This is too well-known a truth for me to endeavor to conceal it, especially from you. She must therefore, I doubt, have appeared to great disadvantages when she aimed to be worse tempered than ordinary.
But it seems my sister hadn't thought this through. This wasn’t the right approach, as it turned out, for someone with Mr. Lovelace's insight. And really, for any man; because if love hasn’t taken root deeply enough to push itself into a declaration when given a fair chance, there’s little hope that anger or resentment will bring it out. Plus, my poor sister isn't naturally good-humored. This is a well-known truth that I'm not going to hide from you. So, I fear she must have seemed at a real disadvantage when she tried to act more irritable than usual.
How they managed it in their next conversation I know not. One would be tempted to think by the issue, that Mr. Lovelace was ungenerous enough to seek the occasion given,* and to improve it. Yet he thought fit to put the question too:—But, she says, it was not till, by some means or other (she knew not how) he had wrought her up to such a pitch of displeasure with him, that it was impossible for her to recover herself at the instant. Nevertheless he re-urged his question, as expecting a definitive answer, without waiting for the return of her temper, or endeavouring to mollify her; so that she was under a necessity of persisting in her denial: yet gave him reason to think she did not dislike his address, only the manner of it; his court being rather made to her mother than to herself, as if he was sure of her consent at any time.
I don’t know how they handled it in their next conversation. One might be tempted to think that Mr. Lovelace was thoughtless enough to take advantage of the situation, but he decided to ask the question too. However, she said it wasn’t until, by some means she couldn’t understand, he had gotten her so upset with him that it was impossible for her to regain her composure at that moment. Still, he pressed his question, expecting a clear answer, without giving her time to cool down or trying to ease her feelings. This forced her to stick with her refusal, yet she gave him reason to believe she didn’t dislike his approach, just the way he went about it; it seemed like he was courting her mother more than her, as if he was confident he would get her approval at any point.
* See Mr. Lovelace's Letter, No. XXXI, in which he briefly
accounts for his conduct in this affair.
* See Mr. Lovelace's Letter, No. XXXI, where he briefly explains his actions in this situation.
A good encouraging denial, I must own: as was the rest of her plea; to wit, 'A disinclination to change her state. Exceedingly happy as she was: she never could be happier!' And such-like consenting negatives, as I may call them, and yet not intend a reflection upon my sister: for what can any young creature in the like circumstances say, when she is not sure but a too-ready consent may subject her to the slights of a sex that generally values a blessing either more or less as it is obtained with difficulty or ease? Miss Biddulph's answer to a copy of verse from a gentleman, reproaching our sex as acting in disguise, is not a bad one, although you may perhaps think it too acknowledging for the female character.
A pretty clever denial, I have to admit, just like the rest of her argument: namely, 'A reluctance to change her situation. She was so happy, she couldn’t imagine being happier!' And similar agreeable refusals, as I’d call them, without meaning to criticize my sister: because what can any young woman in her position say when she’s unsure if too quick an agreement might expose her to the scorn of a gender that usually values a blessing based on how easily or hard it is achieved? Miss Biddulph's reply to a poem from a gentleman, criticizing our gender for being deceptive, isn’t a bad response, even though you might think it’s too admitting for women.
Ungen'rous Sex!—To scorn us if we're kind; And yet upbraid us if we seem severe! Do you, t' encourage us to tell our mind, Yourselves put off disguise, and be sincere. You talk of coquetry!—Your own false hearts Compel our sex to act dissembling parts.
Ungenerous Sex!—You mock us when we're nice; And yet you criticize us if we seem harsh! If you want to encourage us to speak honestly, Then drop the pretense and be genuine. You talk about flirtation!—Your own insincere hearts Force our gender to play deceptive roles.
Here I am obliged to lay down my pen. I will soon resume it.
Here I have to put down my pen. I’ll be picking it up again shortly.
LETTER III
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE JAN. 13, 14.
And thus, as Mr. Lovelace thought fit to take it, had he his answer from my sister. It was with very great regret, as he pretended, [I doubt the man is an hypocrite, my dear] that he acquiesced in it. 'So much determinedness; such a noble firmness in my sister, that there was no hope of prevailing upon her to alter sentiments she had adopted on full consideration.' He sighed, as Bella told us, when he took his leave of her: 'Profoundly sighed; grasped her hand, and kissed it with such an ardour—Withdrew with such an air of solemn respect—She could almost find it in her heart, although he had vexed her, to pity him.' A good intentional preparative to love, this pity; since, at the time, she little thought that he would not renew his offer.
And so, as Mr. Lovelace chose to view it, he got his answer from my sister. He pretended to regret it greatly, [I doubt he’s a hypocrite, my dear] but he accepted it. 'Such determination; such a noble firmness in my sister that there was no chance of changing her mind after she had thought it through.' He sighed deeply, as Bella told us, when he left her: 'He sighed heavily, held her hand, and kissed it with such passion— Left with such an air of solemn respect— She could almost find it in her heart, even though he had upset her, to feel sorry for him.' This pity was a good start for love; at the time, she had no idea that he wouldn’t make his offer again.
He waited on my mother after he had taken leave of Bella, and reported his ill success in so respectful a manner, as well with regard to my sister, as to the whole family, and with so much concern that he was not accepted as a relation to it, that it left upon them all (my brother being then, as I have said, in Scotland) impressions in his favour, and a belief that this matter would certainly be brought on again. But Mr. Lovelace going up directly to town, where he staid a whole fortnight, and meeting there with my uncle Antony, to whom he regretted his niece's cruel resolution not to change her state; it was seen that there was a total end of the affair.
He spent time with my mother after saying goodbye to Bella and described his lack of success in such a respectful way, considering both my sister and the whole family, with so much genuine concern about not being accepted as part of it. This left a positive impression on them all (my brother was in Scotland at the time) and led them to believe that the issue would come up again. However, Mr. Lovelace went straight to the city, where he stayed for two weeks, and met with my uncle Antony. He expressed his disappointment about his niece's harsh decision not to change her situation; it became clear that the matter was completely over.
My sister was not wanting to herself on this occasion. She made a virtue of necessity; and the man was quite another man with her. 'A vain creature! Too well knowing his advantages: yet those not what she had conceived them to be!—Cool and warm by fits and starts; an ague-like lover. A steady man, a man of virtue, a man of morals, was worth a thousand of such gay flutterers. Her sister Clary might think it worth her while perhaps to try to engage such a man: she had patience: she was mistress of persuasion: and indeed, to do the girl justice, had something of a person: But as for her, she would not have a man of whose heart she could not be sure for one moment; no, not for the world: and most sincerely glad was she that she had rejected him.'
My sister didn't want to do this to herself this time. She made the best of a tough situation, and the guy was totally different with her. "What a vain person! He knows exactly how attractive he is, but it’s not quite what she thought!—He’s hot and cold, like an unreliable lover. A steady man, a man of integrity, a man with morals, is worth a thousand of those flashy types. Her sister Clary might find it worth her while to try and win over a guy like that; she’s patient, persuasive, and to give her credit, she’s not bad looking. But as for her, she wouldn’t want a man whose feelings she couldn’t trust for even a moment; no way, not for anything in the world. She was genuinely relieved that she had turned him down."
But when Mr. Lovelace returned into the country, he thought fit to visit my father and mother; hoping, as he told them, that, however unhappy he had been in the rejection of the wished-for alliance, he might be allowed to keep up an acquaintance and friendship with a family which he should always respect. And then unhappily, as I may say, was I at home and present.
But when Mr. Lovelace came back to the countryside, he decided to visit my parents, hoping, as he told them, that even though he was unhappy about the rejection of the desired alliance, he could still maintain a friendship and connection with a family he would always respect. Unfortunately, I was home and there at the time.
It was immediately observed, that his attention was fixed on me. My sister, as soon as he was gone, in a spirit of bravery, seemed desirous to promote his address, should it be tendered.
It was immediately clear that his attention was focused on me. My sister, as soon as he left, with a brave spirit, appeared eager to encourage his approach, if he decided to make one.
My aunt Hervey was there; and was pleased to say, we should make the finest couple in England—if my sister had no objection.—No, indeed! with a haughty toss, was my sister's reply—it would be strange if she had, after the denial she had given him upon full deliberation.
My Aunt Hervey was there and happily said we would make the best couple in England—if my sister didn’t mind. "No way!" was my sister’s haughty response; it would be odd if she did, after the rejection she had given him after thinking it over.
My mother declared, that her only dislike of his alliance with either daughter, was on account of his reputed faulty morals.
My mother said that her only issue with his relationship with either daughter was because of his rumored bad morals.
My uncle Harlowe, that his daughter Clary, as he delighted to call me from childhood, would reform him if any woman in the world could.
My uncle Harlowe believed that his daughter Clary, as he loved to call me since I was a kid, would fix him if any woman could.
My uncle Antony gave his approbation in high terms: but referred, as my aunt had done, to my sister.
My uncle Antony praised me highly but, like my aunt, referred to my sister.
She repeated her contempt of him; and declared, that, were there not another man in England, she would not have him. She was ready, on the contrary, she could assure them, to resign her pretensions under hand and seal, if Miss Clary were taken with his tinsel, and if every one else approved of his address to the girl.
She repeated how much she despised him and stated that if there weren't another man in England, she wouldn't want him. On the contrary, she assured them that she was ready to officially give up her claim if Miss Clary was interested in his flashy style and if everyone else supported his approach to the girl.
My father indeed, after a long silence, being urged by my uncle Antony to speak his mind, said, that he had a letter from his son, on his hearing of Mr. Lovelace's visits to his daughter Arabella; which he had not shewn to any body but my mother; that treaty being at an end when he received it: that in this letter he expressed great dislike to an alliance with Mr. Lovelace on the score of his immoralities: that he knew, indeed, there was an old grudge between them; but that, being desirous to prevent all occasions of disunion and animosity in his family, he would suspend the declaration of his own mind till his son arrived, and till he had heard his further objections: that he was the more inclined to make his son this compliment, as Mr. Lovelace's general character gave but too much ground for his son's dislike of him; adding, that he had hear (so, he supposed, had every one,) that he was a very extravagant man; that he had contracted debts in his travels: and indeed, he was pleased to say, he had the air of a spendthrift.
My father, after a long silence and urged by my uncle Antony to share his thoughts, said that he had received a letter from his son when he heard about Mr. Lovelace's visits to his daughter Arabella. He hadn't shown it to anyone but my mother, as that situation was over by the time he got it. In the letter, his son expressed a strong dislike for the idea of an alliance with Mr. Lovelace due to his immoral behavior. He acknowledged that there was an old grudge between them, but wanting to avoid any conflict in the family, he decided to hold off on expressing his own views until his son arrived and he could hear more of his objections. He felt it was courteous to give his son this respect since Mr. Lovelace's overall reputation certainly gave his son reasons to dislike him. He added that he had heard—along with everyone else, he supposed—that Mr. Lovelace was quite extravagant, that he had incurred debts during his travels, and it seemed to him that he really had the air of a spendthrift.
These particulars I had partly from my aunt Hervey, and partly from my sister; for I was called out as soon as the subject was entered upon. When I returned, my uncle Antony asked me, how I should like Mr. Lovelace? Every body saw, he was pleased to say, that I had made a conquest.
These details I got partly from my Aunt Hervey and partly from my sister, because I was called away as soon as the topic came up. When I came back, my Uncle Antony asked me how I felt about Mr. Lovelace. Everyone could see, he was happy to point out, that I had made an impression.
I immediately answered, that I did not like him at all: he seemed to have too good an opinion both on his person and parts, to have any regard to his wife, let him marry whom he would.
I immediately replied that I didn't like him at all; he seemed to have too high an opinion of himself and his abilities to care about his wife, no matter who he married.
My sister particularly was pleased with this answer, and confirmed it to be just; with a compliment to my judgment.—For it was hers.
My sister was especially happy with this answer and agreed that it was right, giving a nod to my judgment.—Because it was hers.
But the very next day Lord M. came to Harlowe-Place [I was then absent]; and in his nephew's name made a proposal in form; declaring, that it was the ambition of all his family to be related to ours: and he hoped his kinsman would not have such an answer on the part of the younger sister, as he had on that of the elder.
But the very next day, Lord M. came to Harlowe-Place [I was then absent]; and in his nephew's name, he made a formal proposal, stating that it was the ambition of his entire family to be related to ours. He hoped his relative wouldn't receive the same response from the younger sister as he did from the older one.
In short, Mr. Lovelace's visits were admitted as those of a man who had not deserved disrespect from our family; but as to his address to me, with a reservation, as above, on my father's part, that he would determine nothing without his son. My discretion as to the rest was confided in: for still I had the same objections as to the man: nor would I, when we were better acquainted, hear any thing but general talk from him; giving him no opportunity of conversing with me in private.
In short, Mr. Lovelace's visits were welcomed as those of a man who hadn’t earned our family's disrespect; however, regarding how he spoke to me, my father made it clear that he wouldn’t decide anything without his son. My judgment about everything else was trusted: I still had the same concerns about the man and, as we got to know each other better, I only allowed him to talk about general topics, giving him no chance to have a private conversation with me.
He bore this with a resignation little expected from his natural temper, which is generally reported to be quick and hasty; unused it seems from childhood to check or controul. A case too common in considerable families where there is an only son: and his mother never had any other child. But, as I have heretofore told you, I could perceive, notwithstanding this resignation, that he had so good an opinion of himself, as not to doubt, that his person and accomplishments would insensibly engage me: And could that be once done, he told my aunt Hervey, he should hope, from so steady a temper, that his hold in my affections would be durable: While my sister accounted for his patience in another manner, which would perhaps have had more force if it had come from a person less prejudiced: 'That the man was not fond of marrying at all: that he might perhaps have half a score mistresses: and that delay might be as convenient for his roving, as for my well-acted indifference.' That was her kind expression.
He accepted this with a patience that was surprising given his usual temperament, which is known to be quick and impulsive; it seems he was never taught to hold back or control himself from a young age. This is a common issue in wealthy families with only sons, and his mother never had any other children. But, as I mentioned before, I could see that despite his resignation, he had such a high opinion of himself that he believed his charm and skills would eventually win me over. And once that happened, he told my aunt Hervey, he hoped that his steady nature would ensure that my feelings for him would last. Meanwhile, my sister suggested another reason for his patience, which might have been more convincing if it had come from someone less biased: 'That the man wasn’t really interested in getting married at all; he might have a few mistresses; and that taking his time could be just as beneficial for his wandering as my feigned indifference.' That was her kind way of putting it.
Whatever was his motive for a patience so generally believed to be out of his usual character, and where the object of his address was supposed to be of fortune considerable enough to engage his warmest attention, he certainly escaped many mortifications by it: for while my father suspended his approbation till my brother's arrival, Mr. Lovelace received from every one those civilities which were due to his birth: and although we heard from time to time reports to his disadvantage with regard to morals, yet could we not question him upon them without giving him greater advantages in his own opinion than the situation he was in with us would justify to prudence; since it was much more likely that his address would not be allowed of, than that it would.
Whatever his reason was for showing patience that seemed out of character for him, especially considering that the person he was addressing was thought to have enough wealth to capture his full attention, he definitely avoided a lot of embarrassment because of it. While my father held off on giving his approval until my brother arrived, Mr. Lovelace received civilities from everyone that were appropriate for his background. And even though we occasionally heard negative things about his morals, we couldn’t question him about it without giving him more confidence than was warranted given his situation with us, as it was far more likely that his advances would not be accepted rather than they would be.
And thus was he admitted to converse with our family almost upon his own terms; for while my friends saw nothing in his behaviour but what was extremely respectful, and observed in him no violent importunity, they seemed to have taken a great liking to his conversation: While I considered him only as a common guest when he came; and thought myself no more concerned in his visits, not at his entrance and departure, than any other of the family.
And so he was allowed to talk with our family almost on his own terms; because while my friends found nothing in his behavior but respect and saw no excessive insistence from him, they appeared to really enjoy his conversation. I viewed him simply as an ordinary visitor when he came and felt no more involved in his visits, neither at his arrival nor when he left, than anyone else in the family.
But this indifference on my side was the means of procuring him one very great advantage; since upon it was grounded that correspondence by letters which succeeded;—and which, had it been to be begun when the family animosity broke out, would never have been entered into on my part. The occasion was this:
But my indifference allowed him to gain a significant advantage; it led to the correspondence through letters that followed—something I would not have engaged in if it had started when the family feud began. The opportunity was this:
My uncle Hervey has a young gentleman intrusted to his care, whom he has thoughts of sending abroad a year or two hence, to make the Grand Tour, as it is called; and finding Mr. Lovelace could give a good account of every thing necessary for a young traveller to observe upon such an occasion, he desired him to write down a description of the courts and countries he had visited, and what was most worthy of curiosity in them.
My uncle Hervey is looking after a young man whom he plans to send abroad for a year or two to make what’s called the Grand Tour. Since Mr. Lovelace can offer a detailed account of everything a young traveler should pay attention to during such a trip, he asked him to write down a description of the courts and countries he has visited, including what is most interesting about them.
He consented, on condition that I would direct his subjects, as he called it: and as every one had heard his manner of writing commended; and thought his narratives might be agreeable amusements in winter evenings; and that he could have no opportunity particularly to address me directly in them, since they were to be read in full assembly before they were given to the young gentleman, I made the less scruple to write, and to make observations, and put questions for our further information—Still the less perhaps as I love writing; and those who do, are fond, you know, of occasions to use the pen: And then, having ever one's consent, and my uncle Hervey's desire that I would write, I thought that if I had been the only scrupulous person, it would have shewn a particularity that a vain man might construe to his advantage; and which my sister would not fail to animadvert upon.
He agreed, as long as I would guide his subjects, as he referred to them. Everyone had heard good things about his writing style and thought his stories could be enjoyable entertainment on winter evenings. Plus, since he wouldn’t have a chance to speak to me directly in them, since they were going to be read aloud to everyone before being shared with the young gentleman, I felt less hesitant to write, make observations, and ask questions for our further understanding. Maybe that made it easier because I love writing, and people who enjoy it always look for chances to use their pens. Plus, with everyone’s approval and my uncle Hervey encouraging me to write, I figured if I were the only one hesitant, it might seem like a unique stance that a vain person could twist to their advantage, and my sister would definitely point that out.
You have seen some of these letters; and have been pleased with this account of persons, places, and things; and we have both agreed, that he was no common observer upon what he had seen.
You have seen some of these letters and enjoyed this account of people, places, and things. We both agree that he was no ordinary observer of what he had experienced.
My sister allowed that the man had a tolerable knack of writing and describing: And my father, who had been abroad in his youth, said, that his remarks were curious, and shewed him to be a person of reading, judgment and taste.
My sister acknowledged that the guy had a decent talent for writing and description. My father, who had traveled abroad in his youth, said that his observations were interesting and showed that he was well-read, discerning, and had good taste.
Thus was a kind of correspondence begun between him and me, with general approbation; while every one wondered at, and was pleased with, his patient veneration of me; for so they called it. However, it was not doubted but he would soon be more importunate, since his visits were more frequent, and he acknowledged to my aunt Hervey a passion for me, accompanied with an awe that he had never known before; to which he attributed what he called his but seeming acquiescence with my father's pleasure, and the distance I kept him at. And yet, my dear, this may be his usual manner of behaviour to our sex; for had not my sister at first all his reverence?
Thus, a kind of correspondence started between him and me, which everyone generally approved of; everyone was amazed by and pleased with his patient respect for me, as they called it. However, it was widely believed that he would soon become more insistent, since he visited more often and confessed to my aunt Hervey that he had feelings for me, mixed with a reverence he had never felt before. He attributed what he called his apparent compliance with my father's wishes, and the distance I maintained from him, to this awe. Yet, my dear, this might just be how he typically acts towards women; didn’t my sister initially receive all his admiration?
Mean time, my father, expecting his importunity, kept in readiness the reports he had heard in his disfavour, to charge them upon him then, as so many objections to address. And it was highly agreeable to me that he did so: it would have been strange if it were not; since the person who could reject Mr. Wyerley's address for the sake of his free opinions, must have been inexcusable, had she not rejected another's for his freer practices.
In the meantime, my father, anticipating his insistence, had prepared the negative comments he’d heard about him to throw back at him as various objections to address. I was glad that he did this; it would have been odd if I weren’t, since anyone who could turn down Mr. Wyerley’s proposal because of his independent views would have been completely unreasonable if she hadn’t also rejected someone else for his even more liberal actions.
But I should own, that in the letters he sent me upon the general subject, he more than once inclosed a particular one, declaring his passionate regards for me, and complaining with fervour enough, of my reserves. But of these I took not the least notice: for, as I had not written to him at all, but upon a subject so general, I thought it was but right to let what he wrote upon one so particular pass off as if I had never seen it; and the rather, as I was not then at liberty (from the approbation his letters met with) to break off the correspondence, unless I had assigned the true reason for doing so. Besides, with all his respectful assiduities, it was easy to observe, (if it had not been his general character) that his temper is naturally haughty and violent; and I had seen too much of that untractable spirit in my brother to like it in one who hoped to be still more nearly related to me.
But I have to admit that in the letters he sent me about the general topic, he included a specific one more than once, expressing his strong feelings for me and passionately complaining about my distance. However, I paid no attention to that because, since I hadn’t written to him at all except on such a general matter, I thought it was best to ignore what he said in that specific letter as if I had never seen it. Moreover, I felt it was inappropriate to end our correspondence, given how well-received his letters were, unless I provided a real reason for doing so. Besides, despite all his respectful attempts to connect, it was easy to notice—if it wasn’t already clear from his overall character—that his temperament is naturally proud and aggressive. I had seen too much of that stubbornness in my brother to be comfortable with it in someone who hoped to be even more closely connected to me.
I had a little specimen of this temper of his upon the very occasion I have mentioned: For after he had sent me a third particular letter with the general one, he asked me the next time he came to Harlowe-Place, if I had not received such a one from him?—I told him I should never answer one so sent; and that I had waited for such an occasion as he had now given me, to tell him so: I desired him therefore not to write again on the subject; assuring him, that if he did, I would return both, and never write another line to him.
I had a little taste of his temper on the occasion I mentioned earlier: After he sent me a third specific letter along with the general one, he asked me the next time he came to Harlowe-Place if I had received it. I told him I would never respond to one sent that way and that I had been waiting for the chance he just gave me to say so. I asked him not to write about it again, assuring him that if he did, I would send both letters back and never write to him again.
You can't imagine how saucily the man looked; as if, in short, he was disappointed that he had not made a more sensible impression upon me: nor, when he recollected himself (as he did immediately), what a visible struggle it cost him to change his haughty airs for more placid ones. But I took no notice of either; for I thought it best to convince him, by the coolness and indifference with which I repulsed his forward hopes (at the same time intending to avoid the affectation of pride or vanity) that he was not considerable enough in my eyes to make me take over-ready offence at what he said, or at his haughty looks: in other words, that I had not value enough for him to treat him with peculiarity either by smiles or frowns. Indeed he had cunning enough to give me, undesignedly, a piece of instruction which taught me this caution; for he had said in conversation once, 'That if a man could not make a woman in courtship own herself pleased with him, it was as much and oftentimes more to his purpose to make her angry with him.'
You can't imagine how cheeky the guy looked; it was as if he was a bit let down that he hadn’t made a better impression on me. And when he gathered himself again (which he did right away), it was clear he was really struggling to switch from his arrogant demeanor to a calmer one. But I didn’t react to either of these things; I figured it was best to show him, through my coolness and indifference in rejecting his advances (while trying to avoid coming off as proud or vain), that he wasn’t significant enough to make me take offense at what he said or his arrogant looks. In other words, I didn’t hold him in enough regard to treat him differently—whether by smiling or scowling. In fact, he was clever enough to unintentionally teach me this lesson, once saying in conversation, "If a man can’t get a woman in courtship to admit she’s pleased with him, it’s just as effective—and often even better—for him to make her angry with him."
I must break off here, but will continue the subject the very first opportunity. Mean time, I am
I need to stop here, but I’ll pick up the topic at the first chance I get. In the meantime, I am
Your most affectionate friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.
Your most loving friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER IV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE JAN. 15.
Such, my dear, was the situation Mr. Lovelace and I were in when my brother arrived from Scotland.
Such, my dear, was the situation Mr. Lovelace and I were in when my brother arrived from Scotland.
The moment Mr. Lovelace's visits were mentioned to him, he, without either hesitation or apology, expressed his disapprobation of them. He found great flaws in his character; and took the liberty to say in so many words, that he wondered how it came into the heads of his uncles to encourage such a man for either of his sisters: At the same time returning his thanks to my father for declining his consent till he arrived, in such a manner, I thought, as a superior would do, when he commended an inferior for having well performed his duty in his absence.
The moment Mr. Lovelace's visits were brought up, he immediately expressed his disapproval without any hesitation or apology. He pointed out serious flaws in his character and bluntly said that he was surprised his uncles would encourage such a man for either of his sisters. At the same time, he thanked my father for withholding his consent until he arrived, doing so in a way that felt like a superior praising an inferior for successfully doing their job in his absence.
He justified his avowed inveteracy by common fame, and by what he had known of him at college; declaring, that he had ever hated him; ever should hate him; and would never own him for a brother, or me for a sister, if I married him.
He justified his long-standing hatred by popular opinion and by what he had known of him in college; stating that he had always hated him, would always hate him, and would never acknowledge him as a brother or me as a sister if I married him.
That early antipathy I have heard accounted for in this manner:
That early dislike has been explained to me like this:
Mr. Lovelace was always noted for his vivacity and courage; and no less, it seems, for the swift and surprising progress he made in all parts of literature: for diligence in his studies in the hours of study, he had hardly his equal. This it seems was his general character at the university; and it gained him many friends among the more learned; while those who did not love him, feared him, by reason of the offence his vivacity made him too ready to give, and of the courage he shewed in supporting the offence when given; which procured him as many followers as he pleased among the mischievous sort.—No very amiable character, you'll say, upon the whole.
Mr. Lovelace was always known for his energy and bravery; and just as much for the quick and impressive progress he made in all areas of literature. In terms of diligence during his study hours, he had few equals. This seemed to be his overall reputation at the university, which earned him many friends among the more knowledgeable, while those who didn't like him were intimidated by the trouble his energy often caused and the bravery he showed in standing his ground when conflict arose, gaining him as many followers as he wanted among the troublemakers. Not exactly a charming character, you might say, all things considered.
But my brother's temper was not more happy. His native haughtiness could not bear a superiority so visible; and whom we fear more than love, we are not far from hating: and having less command of his passions than the other, he was evermore the subject of his perhaps indecent ridicule: so that every body, either from love or fear, siding with his antagonist, he had a most uneasy time of it while both continued in the same college.—It was the less wonder therefore that a young man who is not noted for the gentleness of his temper, should resume an antipathy early begun, and so deeply rooted.
But my brother's temper wasn't any better. His natural arrogance couldn't handle such obvious superiority; and when we fear someone more than we love them, we’re not far from hating them. Since he had less control over his emotions than the other, he was constantly the target of his perhaps inappropriate mockery. This meant that everyone, either out of love or fear, sided with his opponent, making his time very uncomfortable while both were in the same college. So, it’s not surprising that a young man known for his short temper would rehash an old grudge that was so deeply ingrained.
He found my sister, who waited but for the occasion, ready to join him in his resentments against the man he hated. She utterly disclaimed all manner of regard for him: 'Never liked him at all:—His estate was certainly much incumbered: it was impossible it should be otherwise; so entirely devoted as he was to his pleasures. He kept no house; had no equipage: Nobody pretended that he wanted pride: the reason therefore was easy to be guessed at.' And then did she boast of, and my brother praised her for, refusing him: and both joined on all occasions to depreciate him, and not seldom made the occasions; their displeasure against him causing every subject to run into this, if it began not with it.
He found my sister, who was just waiting for the chance, ready to side with him in his anger against the man he hated. She completely denied having any feelings for him: "I never liked him at all. His estate was definitely burdened with problems; it was impossible for it to be otherwise, given how devoted he was to his pleasures. He didn’t keep a household; had no carriage. No one claimed he lacked pride, so the reason was easy to figure out." Then she bragged about, and my brother praised her for, rejecting him; and they both constantly teamed up to put him down, often creating reasons to do so. Their dislike for him made every conversation turn to this topic, if it didn’t start with it.
I was not solicitous to vindicate him when I was not joined in their reflection. I told them I did not value him enough to make a difference in the family on his account: and as he was supposed to have given much cause for their ill opinion of him, I thought he ought to take the consequence of his own faults.
I wasn’t eager to defend him when I didn’t share their views. I told them I didn’t care enough about him to change anything in the family because of him, and since he was believed to have given them plenty of reasons to think badly of him, I felt he should face the consequences of his own mistakes.
Now and then indeed, when I observed that their vehemence carried them beyond all bounds of probability in their charges against him, I thought it but justice to put in a word for him. But this only subjected me to reproach, as having a prepossession in his favour which I would not own.—So that, when I could not change the subject, I used to retire either to my music, or to my closet.
Now and then, when I saw that their intensity went way beyond reason in their accusations against him, I felt it was only fair to speak up for him. But this just led to people blaming me for having a bias in his favor that I wouldn’t admit. So, when I couldn’t shift the conversation, I would go off either to my music or to my room.
Their behaviour to him, when they could not help seeing him, was very cold and disobliging; but as yet not directly affrontive. For they were in hopes of prevailing upon my father to forbid his visits. But as there was nothing in his behaviour, that might warrant such a treatment of a man of his birth and fortune, they succeeded not: And then they were very earnest with me to forbid them. I asked, what authority I had to take such a step in my father's house; and when my behaviour to him was so distant, that he seemed to be as much the guest of any other person of the family, themselves excepted, as mine?—In revenge, they told me, that it was cunning management between us; and that we both understood one another better than we pretended to do. And at last they gave such a loose to their passions, all of a sudden* as I may say, that instead of withdrawing, as they used to do when he came, they threw themselves in his way purposely to affront him.
Their behavior towards him, when they couldn't help but see him, was pretty cold and unfriendly; but it wasn't directly offensive yet. They were hoping to convince my father to stop him from visiting. However, since there was nothing in his behavior that warranted such treatment for a man of his status and wealth, they weren't successful. Then they were really pushing me to forbid his visits. I asked what right I had to take such action in my father's house, especially since my own behavior towards him was so distant that he seemed more like a guest of the rest of the family, excluding them, than of mine. In retaliation, they claimed it was a clever arrangement between us; that we both understood each other better than we let on. Eventually, they lost control of their emotions and, instead of stepping back like they usually did when he was around, they intentionally got in his way to confront him.
* The reason of this their more openly shown animosity is
given in Letter XIII.
* The reason for their more openly displayed hostility is explained in Letter XIII.
Mr. Lovelace, you may believe, very ill brooked this: but nevertheless contented himself to complain of it to me: in high terms, however, telling me, that but for my sake my brother's treatment of him was not to be borne.
Mr. Lovelace, you can imagine, really didn’t take this well; however, he still chose to complain about it to me. He expressed himself rather strongly, telling me that if it weren't for me, his brother's treatment of him would be intolerable.
I was sorry for the merit this gave him in his own opinion with me: and the more, as some of the affronts he received were too flagrant to be excused: But I told him, that I was determined not to fall out with my brother, if I could help it, whatever faults he had: and since they could not see one another with temper, should be glad that he would not throw himself in my brother's way; and I was sure my brother would not seek him.
I felt bad about the praise this gave him in his own eyes with me, especially since some of the insults he took were too obvious to be ignored. But I told him that I was committed to not having a falling out with my brother if I could avoid it, no matter what faults he had. Since they couldn't be around each other calmly, I hoped he wouldn’t put himself in my brother's path, and I was sure my brother wouldn’t look for him.
He was very much nettled at this answer: But said, he must bear his affronts if I would have it so. He had been accused himself of violence in his temper; but he hoped to shew on this occasion that he had a command of his passions which few young men, so highly provoked, would be able to shew; and doubted not but it would be attributed to a proper motive by a person of my generosity and penetration.
He was really irritated by this answer, but he said he would have to accept the insults if that’s what I wanted. He had been accused of being hot-tempered himself, but he hoped to prove this time that he could control his emotions in a way that few young men, so provoked, could manage; and he was confident that a person as generous and insightful as me would recognize it as having a good reason.
My brother had just before, with the approbation of my uncles, employed a person related to a discharged bailiff or steward of Lord M. who had had the management of some part of Mr. Lovelace's affairs (from which he was also dismissed by him) to inquire into his debts, after his companions, into his amours, and the like.
My brother had just recently, with my uncles' approval, hired someone connected to a former bailiff or steward of Lord M. This person had previously managed some of Mr. Lovelace's affairs (from which he was also let go) to look into his debts, after his associates, and his love interests, among other things.
My aunt Hervey, in confidence, gave me the following particulars of what the man had said of him.
My aunt Hervey privately shared the following details about what the man had said about him.
'That he was a generous landlord: that he spared nothing for solid and lasting improvements upon his estate; and that he looked into his own affairs, and understood them: that he had been very expensive when abroad; and contracted a large debt (for he made no secret of his affairs); yet chose to limit himself to an annual sum, and to decline equipage, in order to avoid being obliged to his uncle and aunts; from whom he might have what money he pleased; but that he was very jealous of their controul; had often quarrels with them; and treated them so freely, that they were all afraid of him. However, that his estate was never mortgaged, as my brother had heard it was; his credit was always high; and the man believed, he was by this time near upon, if not quite, clear of the world.
He was a generous landlord who spared no expense on solid and lasting improvements to his estate. He managed his own affairs and understood them well. He had spent a lot while abroad and racked up a significant debt, but he didn't hide his financial situation. Still, he decided to limit his annual spending and avoid luxuries to steer clear of relying on his uncle and aunts, from whom he could get as much money as he wanted. However, he was very protective of his independence, often argued with them, and treated them openly enough that they were all wary of him. Anyway, his estate was never mortgaged, as my brother had heard; his credit was always good, and he believed he was now close to being free of debt, if not completely.
'He was a sad gentleman, he said, as to women:—If his tenants had pretty daughters, they chose to keep them out of his sight. He believed he kept no particular mistress; for he had heard newelty, that was the man's word, was every thing with him. But for his uncle's and aunt's teazings, the man fancied he would not think of marriage: he was never known to be disguised with liquor; but was a great plotter, and a great writer: That he lived a wild life in town, by what he had heard: had six or seven companions as bad as himself; whom now and then he brought down with him; and the country was always glad when they went up again. He would have it, that although passionate, he was good-humoured; loved as well to take a jest as to give one; and would rally himself upon occasion the freest of any man he ever knew.'
He was a sad guy, he said, when it came to women: If his tenants had pretty daughters, they made sure to keep them away from him. He didn’t think he had any particular girlfriend; he believed that novelty, as he put it, was everything to him. But if it weren’t for his uncle's and aunt's teasing, he figured he wouldn't even think about marriage. He was never known to get drunk; instead, he was a great planner and an even better writer. He lived a wild life in the city, or so he’d heard: he had six or seven friends just as reckless as he was, whom he would occasionally bring along, and the country was always relieved when they left. He maintained that although he could be passionate, he was also good-natured; he enjoyed both giving and taking jokes and would easily poke fun at himself, more freely than anyone else he ever knew.
This was his character from an enemy; for, as my aunt observed, every thing the man said commendably of him came grudgingly, with a must needs say—to do him justice, &c. while the contrary was delivered with a free good-will. And this character, as a worse was expected, though this was bad enough, not answering the end of inquiring after it, my brother and sister were more apprehensive than before, that his address would be encouraged, since the worst part of it was known, or supposed, when he was first introduced to my sister.
This was how he was viewed by an enemy; as my aunt pointed out, everything he said about him positively was said with hesitation, always adding a “to be fair, etc.” while the negative comments were given freely and enthusiastically. And this view of him, although worse could be expected, was bad enough on its own, failing to achieve the goal of the inquiry. My brother and sister were even more concerned that his advances would be encouraged now that the worst parts of his character were known or assumed, considering he was initially introduced to my sister.
But, with regard to myself, I must observe in his disfavour, that, notwithstanding the merit he wanted to make with me for his patience upon my brother's ill-treatment of him, I owed him no compliments for trying to conciliate with him. Not that I believe it would have signified any thing if he had made ever such court either to him or to my sister: yet one might have expected from a man of his politeness, and from his pretensions, you know, that he would have been willing to try. Instead of which, he shewed such a contempt both of my brother and my sister, especially my brother, as was construed into a defiance of them. And for me to have hinted at an alteration in his behaviour to my brother, was an advantage I knew he would have been proud of; and which therefore I had no mind to give him. But I doubted not that having so very little encouragement from any body, his pride would soon take fire, and he would of himself discontinue his visits, or go to town; where, till he came acquainted with our family, he used chiefly to reside: And in this latter case he had no reason to expect, that I would receive, much less answer, his Letters: the occasions which had led me to receive any of his, being by this time over.
But regarding myself, I have to point out that, despite his attempt to gain my favor through his patience with my brother's mistreatment of him, I owed him no gratitude for trying to make peace. Not that I think it would have mattered at all if he had made such efforts toward my brother or my sister; still, one might have expected a man of his politeness and pretensions to at least try. Instead, he showed such disdain for both my brother and my sister, especially my brother, that it came off as a challenge. For me to suggest he change his behavior toward my brother would be something he would have relished, and I had no intention of giving him that satisfaction. But I had no doubt that, with so little encouragement from anyone, his pride would soon be ignited, and he would either stop visiting us or head to town, where he mainly lived until he got to know our family better. In that case, he had no reason to think I would respond to his letters, much less even acknowledge them, since the reasons that had led me to accept any of his letters were long gone.
But my brother's antipathy would not permit him to wait for such an event; and after several excesses, which Mr. Lovelace still returned with contempt, and a haughtiness too much like that of the aggressor, my brother took upon himself to fill up the door-way once when he came, as if to oppose his entrance: And upon his asking for me, demanded, what his business was with his sister?
But my brother's dislike wouldn’t let him wait for that to happen; and after several over-the-top actions, which Mr. Lovelace responded to with disdain and a pride that resembled the aggressor’s, my brother decided to block the doorway one time when he arrived, as if to stop him from coming in. And when he asked for me, he demanded to know what his business was with his sister.
The other, with a challenging air, as my brother says, told him, he would answer a gentleman any question; but he wished that Mr. James Harlowe, who had of late given himself high airs, would remember that he was not now at college.
The other person, with an attitude that my brother describes as challenging, told him that he would answer any question from a gentleman; however, he hoped that Mr. James Harlowe, who has been acting all high and mighty lately, would remember that he wasn't at college anymore.
Just then the good Dr. Lewen, who frequently honours me with a visit of conversation, as he is pleased to call it, and had parted with me in my own parlour, came to the door: and hearing the words, interposed; both having their hands upon their swords: and telling Mr. Lovelace where I was, he burst by my brother, to come to me; leaving him chafing, he said, like a hunted boar at bay.
Just then, the good Dr. Lewen, who often stops by to chat, as he likes to call it, came to the door. Hearing what was happening, he stepped in; both of them had their hands on their swords. He told Mr. Lovelace where I was, then pushed past my brother to reach me, leaving him fuming, like a cornered boar.
This alarmed us all. My father was pleased to hint to Mr. Lovelace, that he wished he would discontinue his visits for the peace-sake of the family: And I, by his command, spoke a great deal plainer.
This worried all of us. My dad was happy to suggest to Mr. Lovelace that he should stop visiting for the sake of the family's peace. And I, at his request, spoke much more directly.
But Mr. Lovelace is a man not easily brought to give up his purpose, especially in a point wherein he pretends his heart is so much engaged: and no absolute prohibition having been given, things went on for a little while as before: for I saw plainly, that to have denied myself to his visits (which however I declined receiving as often as I could) was to bring forward some desperate issue between the two; since the offence so readily given on one side was brooked by the other only out of consideration to me.
But Mr. Lovelace is someone who doesn't easily give up on his goals, especially when it comes to something he claims to care about deeply. Since there hasn’t been a total ban on his visits, things continued for a little while as they had before. I could see that refusing to see him (which I tried to do as much as possible) would only lead to a desperate situation between the two of us; the offense he caused was tolerated by the other side only because of their concern for me.
And thus did my brother's rashness lay me under an obligation where I would least have owed it.
And so my brother's recklessness put me in a position of owing something when I would have preferred not to.
The intermediate proposals of Mr. Symmes and Mr. Mullins, both (in turn) encouraged by my brother, induced him to be more patient for a while, as nobody thought me over-forward in Mr. Lovelace's favour; for he hoped that he should engage my father and uncles to approve of the one or the other in opposition to the man he hated. But when he found that I had interest enough to disengage myself from the addresses of those gentlemen, as I had (before he went to Scotland, and before Mr. Lovelace visited here) of Mr. Wyerley's, he then kept no measures: and first set himself to upbraid me for supposed prepossession, which he treated as if it were criminal; and then to insult Mr. Lovelace in person, at Mr. Edward Symmes's, the brother of the other Symmes, two miles off; and no good Dr. Lewen being there to interpose, the unhappy rencounter followed. My brother was disarmed, as you have heard; and on being brought home, and giving us ground to suppose he was much worse hurt than he really was, and a fever ensuing, every one flamed out; and all was laid at my door.
The intermediate proposals from Mr. Symmes and Mr. Mullins, both encouraged by my brother, made him a bit more patient for a while, as no one thought I was overly eager in Mr. Lovelace's favor; he hoped to get my father and uncles to approve of one of them against the man he despised. But when he realized that I had enough influence to distance myself from those gentlemen's advances, as I had done with Mr. Wyerley's before he went to Scotland and before Mr. Lovelace came here, he stopped holding back. He first began to accuse me of having a bias, which he treated as if it were a serious offense, and then he went to confront Mr. Lovelace in person at Mr. Edward Symmes's place, the brother of the other Symmes, two miles away. With no good Dr. Lewen there to step in, the unfortunate clash occurred. My brother was disarmed, as you’ve heard; and when he was brought home, giving us reason to think he was hurt worse than he actually was, and a fever developed, everyone reacted strongly, and all the blame fell on me.
Mr. Lovelace for three days together sent twice each day to inquire after my brother's health; and although he received rude and even shocking returns, he thought fit on the fourth day to make in person the same inquiries; and received still greater incivilities from my two uncles, who happened to be both there. My father also was held by force from going to him with his sword in his hand, although he had the gout upon him.
Mr. Lovelace sent someone to check on my brother's health twice a day for three days. Even though he got rude and shocking responses, he decided to ask in person on the fourth day and faced even more disrespect from my two uncles, who were both present. My father was also physically stopped from going to him with his sword, despite suffering from gout.
I fainted away with terror, seeing every one so violent, and hearing Mr. Lovelace swear that he would not depart till he had made my uncles ask his pardon for the indignities he had received at their hands; a door being held fast locked between him and them. My mother all the time was praying and struggling to with-hold my father in the great parlour. Meanwhile my sister, who had treated Mr. Lovelace with virulence, came in to me, and insulted me as fast as I recovered. But when Mr. Lovelace was told how ill I was, he departed; nevertheless vowing revenge.
I passed out from fear, seeing everyone so aggressive, and hearing Mr. Lovelace swear that he wouldn’t leave until my uncles apologized for the disrespect he had received from them; there was a door locked tight between him and them. My mother was praying and trying to keep my father calm in the main parlor the whole time. Meanwhile, my sister, who had been harsh to Mr. Lovelace, came in to me and insulted me as soon as I started to recover. But when Mr. Lovelace found out how sick I was, he left; still, he vowed revenge.
He was ever a favourite with our domestics. His bounty to them, and having always something facetious to say to each, had made them all of his party: and on this occasion they privately blamed every body else, and reported his calm and gentlemanly behaviour (till the provocations given him ran very high) in such favourable terms, that those reports, and my apprehensions of the consequence of this treatment, induced me to read a letter he sent me that night; and, it being written in the most respectful terms (offering to submit the whole to my decision, and to govern himself entirely by my will) to answer it some days after.
He was always a favorite with our household staff. His generosity and the way he always had something amusing to say to each of them made them all loyal to him. On this occasion, they privately blamed everyone else and spoke highly of his calm and gentlemanly behavior (until provoked too much) so much that their reports, along with my concerns about the consequences of this treatment, led me to read a letter he sent me that night. It was written in the most respectful terms, offering to leave everything to my decision and to completely follow my wishes, so I decided to reply to it a few days later.
To this unhappy necessity was owing our renewed correspondence, as I may call it; yet I did not write till I had informed myself from Mr. Symmes's brother, that he was really insulted into the act of drawing his sword by my brother's repeatedly threatening (upon his excusing himself out of regard to me) to brand me ir he did not; and, by all the inquiry I could make, that he was again the sufferer from my uncles in a more violent manner than I have related.
To this unfortunate need, we resumed our correspondence, as I might call it; however, I didn’t write until I confirmed with Mr. Symmes’s brother that he was genuinely provoked into pulling his sword due to my brother's repeated threats (after he had excused himself out of concern for me) to disgrace me if he didn’t; and, from all the inquiries I could make, I learned that he had once again suffered at the hands of my uncles in a more severe way than I have mentioned.
The same circumstances were related to my father and other relations by Mr. Symmes; but they had gone too far in making themselves parties to the quarrel either to retract or forgive; and I was forbidden to correspond with him, or to be seen a moment in his company.
The same situation was explained to my father and other relatives by Mr. Symmes; however, they had gotten too involved in the conflict to take back their actions or forgive anyone. I was not allowed to communicate with him or be seen with him at all.
One thing however I can say, but that in confidence, because my mother commanded me not to mention it:—That, expressing her apprehension of the consequences of the indignities offered to Mr. Lovelace, she told me, she would leave it to my prudence to do all I could to prevent the impending mischief on one side.
One thing I can share, but only in confidence since my mother told me not to mention it: She expressed her concern about what might happen because of the disrespect shown to Mr. Lovelace. She said I should use my judgment to do everything I could to prevent the upcoming trouble on one side.
I am obliged to break off. But I believe I have written enough to answer very fully all that you have required of me. It is not for a child to seek to clear her own character, or to justify her actions, at the expense of the most revered ones: yet, as I know that the account of all those further proceedings by which I may be affected, will be interesting to so dear a friend (who will communicate to others no more than what is fitting) I will continue to write, as I have opportunity, as minutely as we are used to write to each other. Indeed I have no delight, as I have often told you, equal to that which I take in conversing with you by letter, when I cannot in person.
I have to stop here. But I think I've written enough to fully answer everything you've asked of me. It's not up to a child to try to clear her own name or justify her actions at the expense of those she holds dear: however, since I know that the details of everything that may affect me will be of interest to such a close friend (who will only share what's appropriate), I’ll keep writing as much as I can, as thoroughly as we usually do. Honestly, I find no joy, as I've often told you, that compares to chatting with you through letters when I can't do it in person.
Mean time, I cannot help saying, that I am exceedingly concerned to find, that I am become so much the public talk as you tell me I am. Your kind, your precautionary regard for my fame, and the opportunity you have given me to tell my own story previous to any new accident (which heaven avert!) is so like the warm friend I have ever found in my dear Miss Howe, that, with redoubled obligation, you bind me to be
Meanwhile, I can’t help but say that I’m really worried to hear that I’ve become such a topic of public discussion, as you mentioned. Your kindness and your thoughtful concern for my reputation, along with the chance you’ve given me to share my own story before anything else happens (which I hope doesn’t!), remind me so much of the supportive friend I’ve always found in my dear Miss Howe. Because of this, I feel even more obligated to you.
Your ever grateful and affectionate, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your forever grateful and loving, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Copy of the requested Preamble to the clauses in her Grandfather's Will: inclosed in the preceding Letter.
Copy of the requested Preamble to the clauses in her Grandfather's Will: included in the previous Letter.
As the particular estate I have mentioned and described above, is principally of my own raising: as my three sons have been uncommonly prosperous; and are very rich: the eldest by means of the unexpected benefits he reaps from his new found mines; the second, by what has, as unexpectedly, fallen in to him on the deaths of several relations of his present wife, the worthy daughter by both sides of very honourable families; over and above the very large portion which he received with her in marriage: my son Antony by his East-India traffic, and successful voyages: as furthermore my grandson James will be sufficiently provided for by his grandmother Lovell's kindness to him; who, having no near relations, hath assured me, that she hath, as well by deed of gift as by will, left him both her Scottish and English estates: for never was there a family more prosperous in all its branches, blessed be God therefore: and as my said son James will very probably make it up to my grand-daughter Arabella; to whom I intend no disrespect; nor have reason; for she is a very hopeful and dutiful child: and as my sons, John and Antony, seem not inclined to a married life; so that my son James is the only one who has children, or is likely to have any. For all these reasons; and because my dearest and beloved grand-daughter Clarissa hath been from her infancy a matchless young creature in her duty to me, and admired by all who knew her, as a very extraordinary child; I must therefore take the pleasure of considering her as my own peculiar child; and this without intending offence; and I hope it will not be taken as any, since my son James can bestow his favours accordingly, and in greater proportion, upon his son James, and upon his daughter Arabella.—
As the specific estate I've mentioned and described above is mainly of my own creation: my three sons have done exceptionally well; and they are quite wealthy: the eldest thanks to the unexpected gains from his newly discovered mines; the second due to the surprising inheritance he received after the deaths of several relatives of his current wife, who comes from very respectable families on both sides; in addition to the substantial dowry he received when they married: my son Antony has profited from his East India trade and successful voyages; furthermore, my grandson James will be well taken care of by his grandmother Lovell’s generosity; she has assured me that, having no close relatives, she has left him both her Scottish and English estates through a deed of gift and in her will: never has there been a family so successful in all its branches, thank God: and since my son James is likely to support my granddaughter Arabella; I mean no disrespect to her; nor do I have any reason to, since she is a very promising and dutiful child: and as my sons, John and Antony, don’t seem interested in marrying; my son James is the only one who has children or is likely to have any. For all these reasons; and because my dearest granddaughter Clarissa has, since she was a baby, been an unmatched young lady in her duties to me, admired by everyone who knows her as an extraordinary child; I must take delight in considering her as my own special child; and I don’t mean to offend; and I hope it won’t be taken that way, since my son James can focus his attention accordingly, and in greater measure, on his son James, and his daughter Arabella.
These, I say, are the reasons which move me to dispose of the above-described estate in the precious child's favour; who is the delight of my old age: and, I verily think, has contributed, by her amiable duty and kind and tender regards, to prolong my life.
These are the reasons that lead me to give the mentioned estate to the precious child, who brings joy to my old age; I truly believe she has helped extend my life with her loving care and gentle affection.
Wherefore it is my express will and commandment, and I enjoin my said three sons, John, James, and Antony, and my grandson James, and my grand-daughter Arabella, as they value my blessing, and will regard my memory, and would wish their own last wills and desires to be fulfilled by their survivors, that they will not impugn or contest the following bequests and devises in favour of my said grand-daughter Clarissa, although they should not be strictly conformable to law or to the forms thereof; nor suffer them to be controverted or disputed on any pretence whatsoever.
Therefore, it is my clear wish and command, and I urge my three sons, John, James, and Antony, along with my grandson James and my granddaughter Arabella, to consider my blessing, honor my memory, and desire that their own final wishes be respected by those who come after them. They must not challenge or dispute the following gifts and bequests in favor of my granddaughter Clarissa, even if they don’t strictly adhere to the law or formal procedures; they should not allow these to be contested or argued against for any reason.
And in this confidence, &c. &c. &c.
And with this confidence, etc. etc. etc.
LETTER V
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE JAN. 20
I have been hindered from prosecuting my intention. Neither nights nor mornings have been my own. My mother has been very ill; and would have no other nurse but me. I have not stirred from her bedside (for she kept her bed); and two nights I had the honour of sharing it with her.
I haven’t been able to pursue my plans. I haven’t had any time to myself, either at night or in the morning. My mom has been really sick, and she wouldn’t let anyone else take care of her but me. I haven’t left her side (since she was confined to her bed), and for two nights, I even had the honor of sharing her bed with her.
Her disorder was a very violet colic. The contentions of these fierce, these masculine spirits, and the apprehension of mischiefs that may arise from the increasing animosity which all here have against Mr. Lovelace, and his too well known resenting and intrepid character, she cannot bear. Then the foundations laid, as she dreads, for jealousy and heart-burnings in her own family, late so happy and so united, afflict exceedingly a gentle and sensible mind, which has from the beginning, on all occasions, sacrificed its own inward satisfaction to outward peace. My brother and sister, who used very often to jar, are now so entirely one, and are so much together, (caballing was the word that dropt from my mother's lips, as if at unawares,) that she is very fearful of the consequences that may follow;—to my prejudice, perhaps, is her kind concern; since she sees that they behave to me every hour with more and more shyness and reserve: yet, would she but exert that authority which the superiority of her fine talents gives her, all these family feuds might perhaps be extinguished in their but yet beginnings; especially as she may be assured that all fitting concessions shall be made by me, not only as my brother and sister are my elders, but for the sake of so excellent and so indulgent a mother.
Her disorder was a very severe colic. The conflicts among these fierce, masculine spirits, along with her fear of the troubles that might come from the growing animosity everyone has towards Mr. Lovelace and his well-known, bold character, are unbearable for her. Also, the foundations of jealousy and resentment forming within her once-happy and united family weigh heavily on her gentle and sensible mind, which has consistently prioritized external peace over its own inner satisfaction. My brother and sister, who used to argue frequently, are now so completely united and spend so much time together (my mother let slip the word "caballing," almost unknowingly) that she worries about the possible consequences; perhaps her concern is for me, as she notices their increasing shyness and distance towards me. Yet, if she could just assert the authority that comes from her superior talents, maybe all these family feuds could be resolved before they escalate; especially since she can be assured that I will make all necessary concessions, both because my brother and sister are my elders and for the sake of such an excellent and indulgent mother.
For, if I may say to you, my dear, what I would not to any other person living, it is my opinion, that had she been of a temper that would have borne less, she would have had ten times less to bear, than she has had. No commendation, you'll say, of the generosity of those spirits which can turn to its own disquiet so much condescending goodness.
For if I can tell you, my dear, something I wouldn’t say to anyone else, I believe that if she had a temperament that could handle less, she would have had ten times less to deal with than she has. You might say that’s not a compliment to those generous souls who can turn so much kindness into their own trouble.
Upon my word I am sometimes tempted to think that we may make the world allow for and respect us as we please, if we can but be sturdy in our wills, and set out accordingly. It is but being the less beloved for it, that's all: and if we have power to oblige those we have to do with, it will not appear to us that we are. Our flatterers will tell us any thing sooner than our faults, or what they know we do not like to hear.
I sometimes really feel like we can make the world accept and respect us the way we want, as long as we’re strong-willed and act on it. The only downside is being less liked for it, that’s all. And if we can influence those around us, it won’t seem like we are. The people who flatter us will say anything before they mention our faults or anything we don't want to hear.
Were there not truth in this observation, is it possible that my brother and sister could make their very failings, their vehemences, of such importance to all the family? 'How will my son, how will my nephew, take this or that measure? What will he say to it? Let us consult him about it;' are references always previous to every resolution taken by his superiors, whose will ought to be his. Well may he expect to be treated with this deference by every other person, when my father himself, generally so absolute, constantly pays it to him; and the more since his godmother's bounty has given independence to a spirit that was before under too little restraint.—But whither may these reflections lead me!—I know you do not love any of us but my mother and me; and, being above all disguises, make me sensible that you do not oftener than I wish.—Ought I then to add force to your dislikes of those whom I wish you to like?—of my father especially; for he, alas! has some excuse for his impatience of contradiction. He is not naturally an ill-tempered man; and in his person and air, and in his conversation too, when not under the torture of a gouty paroxysm, every body distinguishes the gentleman born and educated.
If there weren't truth in this observation, could my brother and sister really make their flaws and their passions so important to the whole family? “How will my son, how will my nephew, react to this or that decision? What will he say about it? Let's ask for his opinion;” these are phrases that always come before any decisions made by those in charge, whose will he should follow. It's no wonder he expects to be treated with this kind of respect by everyone else when my father, who is usually so authoritative, consistently shows it to him; especially since his godmother's generosity has given him independence he previously lacked. — But where might these thoughts take me! — I know you only care about my mother and me; and being completely honest, you make it clear that you don't care as much as I would like. — Should I then push you to dislike those I wish you would like? — Especially my father; for he, unfortunately, has some justification for his impatience with disagreement. He isn't naturally a bad-tempered person; in his demeanor and presence, and in his conversations too—when he’s not suffering from terrible gout—everyone can see he was born and raised a gentleman.
Our sex perhaps must expect to bear a little—uncourtliness shall I call it?—from the husband whom as the lover they let know the preference their hearts gave him to all other men.—Say what they will of generosity being a manly virtue; but upon my word, my dear, I have ever yet observed, that it is not to be met with in that sex one time in ten that it is to be found in ours.—But my father was soured by the cruel distemper I have named; which seized him all at once in the very prime of life, in so violent a manner as to take from the most active of minds, as his was, all power of activity, and that in all appearance for life.—It imprisoned, as I may say, his lively spirits in himself, and turned the edge of them against his own peace; his extraordinary prosperity adding to his impatiency. Those, I believe, who want the fewest earthly blessings, most regret that they want any.
Our gender might have to put up with a bit of—shall I say, rudeness?—from the husband whom they let know, as their lover, that he is their top choice over all other men. People can say that generosity is a manly virtue; but honestly, my dear, I have often noticed that it appears in men only about one in ten times compared to us. However, my father was affected by the terrible illness I mentioned; it hit him all of a sudden right in the prime of his life, so violently that it stripped away all his energy and activity, which for someone like him was quite extraordinary, and seemingly for good. It locked away his vibrant spirit within himself and turned his energy against his own happiness; his remarkable success only making his impatience worse. I believe that those who are missing the fewest worldly blessings tend to lament the absence of any at all.
But my brother! What excuse can be made for his haughty and morose temper? He is really, my dear, I am sorry to have occasion to say it, an ill-temper'd young man; and treats my mother sometimes—Indeed he is not dutiful.—But, possessing every thing, he has the vice of age, mingled with the ambition of youth, and enjoys nothing—but his own haughtiness and ill-temper, I was going to say.—Yet again am I adding force to your dislikes of some of us.—Once, my dear, it was perhaps in your power to have moulded him as you pleased.—Could you have been my sister!—Then had I friend in a sister.—But no wonder that he does not love you now; who could nip in the bud, and that with a disdain, let me say, too much of kin to his haughtiness, a passion that would not have wanted a fervour worthy of the object; and which possibly would have made him worthy.
But my brother! What excuse can we make for his arrogant and sour mood? He really is, my dear, and I regret to say it, a bad-tempered young man; and he sometimes treats my mother—In fact, he isn't dutiful at all.—But despite having everything, he carries the flaws of age mixed with the ambition of youth, and enjoys nothing—except for his own arrogance and bad temper, I was going to say.—Yet here I am adding to your dislike of some of us.—Once, my dear, you might have been able to shape him as you wanted.—If only you could have been my sister!—Then I would have had a friend in my sister.—But it’s no surprise that he doesn’t love you now; who could crush a budding passion, and do so with a disdain that is too similar to his arrogance, a passion that would have had a fervor worthy of the object; and which might have made him worthy.
But no more of this. I will prosecute my former intention in my next; which I will sit down to as soon as breakfast is over; dispatching this by the messenger whom you have so kindly sent to inquire after us on my silence. Mean time, I am,
But enough of this. I will continue with my original plan in my next letter; I’ll start writing it as soon as breakfast is done, sending this with the messenger you kindly sent to check on us during my silence. In the meantime, I am,
Your most affectionate and obliged friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.
Your most caring and grateful friend and servant, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER VI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE HARLOWE-PLACE, JAN. 20.
I will now resume my narrative of proceedings here.—My brother being in a good way, although you may be sure that his resentments are rather heightened than abated by the galling disgrace he has received, my friends (my father and uncles, however, if not my brother and sister) begin to think that I have been treated unkindly. My mother been so good as to tell me this since I sent away my last.
I will now continue my story about what’s going on here. My brother is recovering well, but you can be sure that his anger is more intense than ever because of the humiliating disgrace he experienced. My friends (my father and uncles, even if my brother and sister don’t) are starting to feel that I've been treated unfairly. My mother has been kind enough to let me know this since I sent my last message.
Nevertheless I believe they all think that I receive letters from Mr. Lovelace. But Lord M. being inclined rather to support than to blame his nephew, they seem to be so much afraid of Mr. Lovelace, that they do not put it to me whether I do or not; conniving on the contrary, as it should seem, at the only method left to allay the vehemence of a spirit which they have so much provoked: For he still insists upon satisfaction from my uncles; and this possibly (for he wants not art) as the best way to be introduced again with some advantage into our family. And indeed my aunt Hervey has put it to my mother, whether it were not best to prevail upon my brother to take a turn to his Yorkshire estate (which he was intending to do before) and to stay there till all is blown over.
I think they all assume that I'm getting letters from Mr. Lovelace. But since Lord M. tends to support his nephew instead of criticize him, they seem so scared of Mr. Lovelace that they don’t even ask me if I am receiving any. Instead, it looks like they’re turning a blind eye to the only way to calm down a situation they’ve aggravated so much: he keeps demanding answers from my uncles; possibly because he sees it as the best way to get back into our family with some advantage. In fact, my aunt Hervey has suggested to my mother that it might be wise to convince my brother to head to his estate in Yorkshire (which he had planned to do anyway) and stay there until everything dies down.
But this is very far from being his intention: For he has already began to hint again, that he shall never be easy or satisfied till I am married; and, finding neither Mr. Symmes nor Mr. Mullins will be accepted, has proposed Mr. Wyerley once more, on the score of his great passion for me. This I have again rejected; and but yesterday he mentioned one who has applied to him by letter, making high offers. This is Mr. Solmes; Rich Solmes you know they call him. But this application has not met with the attention of one single soul.
But this is far from what he really wants: He has started to suggest again that he won't be happy or satisfied until I'm married; and since neither Mr. Symmes nor Mr. Mullins will do, he's brought up Mr. Wyerley again, claiming that he's really into me. I've turned him down again; just yesterday he mentioned someone who has reached out to him by letter, making big promises. This is Mr. Solmes; you know him as Rich Solmes. But no one has taken this request seriously at all.
If none of his schemes of getting me married take effect, he has thoughts, I am told, of proposing to me to go to Scotland, that as the compliment is, I may put his house there in such order as our own is in. But this my mother intends to oppose for her own sake; because having relieved her, as she is pleased to say, of the household cares (for which my sister, you know, has no turn) they must again devolve upon her if I go. And if she did not oppose it, I should; for, believe me, I have no mind to be his housekeeper; and I am sure, were I to go with him, I should be treated rather as a servant than a sister:—perhaps, not the better because I am his sister. And if Mr. Lovelace should follow me, things might be worse than they are now.
If his plans to get me married don’t work out, I’ve heard he’s thinking about asking me to go to Scotland so I can set up his house there like ours is. But my mom wants to oppose this for her own reasons; she feels she’s been relieved of household duties (which my sister, as you know, isn’t suited for), and those responsibilities would fall back on her if I leave. And even if she didn’t oppose it, I would; honestly, I have no desire to be his housekeeper, and I’m sure that if I went with him, I’d be treated more like a servant than a sister—maybe even worse because I am his sister. Plus, if Mr. Lovelace were to follow me, things could get even messier than they are now.
But I have besought my mother, who is apprehensive of Mr. Lovelace's visits, and for fear of whom my uncles never stir out without arms and armed servants (my brother also being near well enough to go abroad), to procure me permission to be your guest for a fortnight, or so.—Will your mother, think you, my dear, give me leave?
But I've asked my mom, who is worried about Mr. Lovelace's visits, and because of her fears, my uncles never go out without weapons and armed servants (my brother is also well enough to go out now), to get me permission to be your guest for about two weeks or so. Do you think your mom will let me?
I dare not ask to go to my dairy-house, as my good grandfather would call it: for I am now afraid of being thought to have a wish to enjoy that independence to which his will has entitled me: and as matter are situated, such a wish would be imputed to my regard to the man to whom they have now so great an antipathy. And indeed could I be as easy and happy here as I used to be, I would defy that man and all his sex; and never repent that I have given the power of my fortune into my father's hands.
I can't bring myself to ask to go to my dairy house, as my kind grandfather would have called it, because I'm worried people might think I want the freedom he’s given me through his will. Given the current situation, wanting that independence would be seen as being sympathetic to the man everyone now dislikes so much. Honestly, if I could feel as comfortable and joyful here as I once did, I would ignore that man and all men like him; and I would never regret handing over control of my fortune to my father.
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Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
Just now, my mother has rejoiced me with the news that my requested permission is granted. Every one thinks it best that I should go to you, except my brother. But he was told, that he must not expect to rule in every thing. I am to be sent for into the great parlour, where are my two uncles and my aunt Hervey, and to be acquainted with this concession in form.
Just now, my mom has made me happy by telling me that I’ve been given the permission I asked for. Everyone thinks it’s best for me to come to you, except my brother. But he was told that he can’t expect to have a say in everything. I’m going to be called into the big parlor, where my two uncles and Aunt Hervey are, to officially hear about this approval.
You know, my dear, that there is a good deal of solemnity among us. But never was there a family more united in its different branches than ours. Our uncles consider us as their own children, and declare that it is for our sakes that they live single. So that they are advised with upon every article relating to us, or that may affect us. It is therefore the less wonder, at a time when they understand that Mr. Lovelace is determined to pay us an amicable visit, as he calls it, (but which I am sure cannot end amicably,) that they should both be consulted upon the permission I had desired to attend you.
You know, my dear, that there’s a lot of seriousness among us. But there’s never been a family more united across its different branches than ours. Our uncles see us as their own kids and say they stay single for our sake. They’re involved in every matter concerning us or that might affect us. So, it’s not surprising that, at a time when they know Mr. Lovelace is set on making us a friendly visit—though I’m sure it won’t end well—they should both be consulted about my request to join you.
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Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
I will acquaint you with what passed at the general leave given me to be your guest. And yet I know that you will not love my brother the better for my communication. But I am angry with him myself, and cannot help it. And besides, it is proper to let you know the terms I go upon, and their motives for permitting me to go.
I’ll fill you in on what happened during the general leave granted to me to be your guest. But I know you won’t think any more highly of my brother because of what I share. I’m frustrated with him too, and I can’t help it. Also, it’s important to let you know the conditions I’m under and the reasons for allowing me to come here.
Clary, said my mother, as soon as I entered the great parlour, your request to go to Miss Howe's for a few days has been taken into consideration, and granted—
Clary, my mother said as soon as I walked into the big living room, your request to stay at Miss Howe's for a few days has been considered and approved—
Much against my liking, I assure you, said my brother, rudely interrupting her.
Much to my dismay, I assure you, my brother said, rudely interrupting her.
Son James! said my father, and knit his brows.
Son, James! my father said, frowning.
He was not daunted. His arm was in a sling. He often has the mean art to look upon that, when any thing is hinted that may be supposed to lead toward the least favour to or reconciliation with Mr. Lovelace.—Let the girl then [I am often the girl with him] be prohibited seeing that vile libertine.
He wasn't intimidated. His arm was in a sling. He often has the cruel skill to look at it when anything is suggested that might hint at favorable or reconciliatory feelings toward Mr. Lovelace.—So, let the girl [I often am the girl with him] be banned from seeing that despicable libertine.
Nobody spoke.
No one talked.
Do you hear, sister Clary? taking their silence for approbation of what he had dictated; you are not to receive visits from Lord M.'s nephew.
Do you hear, Sister Clary? Taking their silence as approval of what he had said, you are not allowed to accept visits from Lord M.'s nephew.
Every one still remained silent.
Everyone still remained silent.
Do you so understand the license you have, Miss? interrogated he.
"Do you understand the license you have, Miss?" he asked.
I would be glad, Sir, said I, to understand that you are my brother;—and that you would understand that you are only my brother.
I would be happy, Sir, I said, to know that you are my brother;—and that you would get that you are just my brother.
O the fond, fond heart! with a sneer of insult, lifting up his hands.
O the dear, dear heart! with a sneer of offense, raising his hands.
Sir, said I, to my father, to your justice I appeal: If I have deserved reflection, let me be not spared. But if I am to be answerable for the rashness—
Sir, I said to my father, I turn to your fairness: If I have earned criticism, don’t hold back. But if I’m to be blamed for the impulsiveness—
No more!—No more of either side, said my father. You are not to receive the visits of that Lovelace, though.—Nor are you, son James, to reflect upon your sister. She is a worthy child.
No more!—No more from either side, said my father. You are not to have visits from that Lovelace, either.—And you, son James, are not to judge your sister. She is a good girl.
Sir, I have done, replied he:—and yet I have her honour at heart, as much as the honour of the rest of the family.
Sir, I have finished, he replied:—and still, I care about her honor just as much as I do about the honor of the rest of the family.
And hence, Sir, retorted I, your unbrotherly reflections upon me?
And so, Sir, I replied, your unkind thoughts about me?
Well, but you observe, Miss, said he, that it is not I, but your father, that tells you, that you are not to receive the visits of that Lovelace.
"Well, as you can see, Miss," he said, "it's not me, but your father, who is telling you that you shouldn't be accepting visits from that Lovelace."
Cousin Harlowe, said my aunt Hervey, allow me to say, that my cousin Clary's prudence may be confided in.
Cousin Harlowe, my aunt Hervey said, let me tell you that my cousin Clary's judgment can be trusted.
I am convinced it may, joined my mother.
I’m convinced it might, Mom joined in.
But, aunt, but, madam (put in my sister) there is no hurt, I presume, in letting my sister know the condition she goes to Miss Howe upon; since, if he gets a nack of visiting her there—
But, Aunt, but, ma'am (my sister added), I don't think it could hurt to let my sister know the situation she’s going to Miss Howe under; since, if he starts visiting her there—
You may be sure, interrupted my uncle Harlowe, he will endeavour to see her there.
You can be sure, my uncle Harlowe interrupted, he will try to see her there.
So would such an impudent man here, said my uncle Antony: and 'tis better done there than here.
So, such a bold man would be here, my uncle Antony said, and it's better to do it there than here.
Better no where, said my father.—I command you (turning to me) on pain of displeasure, that you see him not at all.
Better nowhere, said my father. —I order you (turning to me) under threat of displeasure, that you do not see him at all.
I will not, Sir, in any way of encouragement, I do assure you: not at all, if I can properly avoid it.
I won't, Sir, in any way encourage you, I promise: not at all, if I can help it.
You know with what indifference, said my mother, she has hitherto seen him.—Her prudence may be trusted to, as my sister Hervey says.
You know how indifferent she has been toward him, said my mother. We can rely on her judgment, as my sister Hervey says.
With what appa—rent indifference, drawled my brother.
With what seemed like indifference, my brother said.
Son James! said my father sternly.
"James, my son!" my father said sternly.
I have done, Sir, said he. But again, in a provoking manner, he reminded me of the prohibition.
I have done, sir, he said. But again, in a teasing way, he reminded me of the rule against it.
Thus ended the conference.
The conference concluded.
Will you engage, my dear, that the hated man shall not come near your house?—But what an inconsistence is this, when they consent to my going, thinking his visits here no otherwise to be avoided!—But if he does come, I charge you never to leave us alone together.
Will you agree, my dear, that the man we dislike should not come near your house?—But how inconsistent is this, when they allow me to go, believing his visits here can't be avoided!—But if he does come, I insist that you never leave us alone together.
As I have no reason to doubt a welcome from your good mother, I will put every thing in order here, and be with you in two or three days.
As I have no reason to doubt a warm welcome from your kind mother, I will get everything in order here and be with you in two or three days.
Mean time, I am Your most affectionate and obliged, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Mean time, I am your most loving and grateful, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
LETTER VII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [AFTER HER RETURN FROM HER.] HARLOWE-PLACE, FEB. 20.
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [AFTER HER RETURN FROM HER.] HARLOWE-PLACE, FEB. 20.
I beg your excuse for not writing sooner. Alas! my dear, I have sad prospects before me! My brother and sister have succeeded in all their views. They have found out another lover for me; an hideous one!—Yet he is encouraged by every body. No wonder that I was ordered home so suddenly. At an hour's warning!—No other notice, you know, than what was brought with the chariot that was to carry me back.—It was for fear, as I have been informed [an unworthy fear!] that I should have entered into any concert with Mr. Lovelace had I known their motive for commanding me home; apprehending, 'tis evident, that I should dislike the man they had to propose to me.
I'm sorry for not writing sooner. Unfortunately, my dear, I have some troubling prospects ahead of me! My brother and sister have achieved all their goals. They’ve found another suitor for me; a repulsive one!—Yet everyone seems to support him. It's no surprise I was suddenly ordered home. With only an hour’s notice!—There was no other warning, besides what came with the carriage that was supposed to take me back.—It was out of fear, as I've been told [an unworthy fear!] that I might form any connection with Mr. Lovelace if I knew their reason for sending me home; clearly worried that I would dislike the man they had in mind for me.
And well might they apprehend so:—For who do you think he is?—No other than that Solmes—Could you have believed it?—And they are all determined too; my mother with the rest!—Dear, dear excellence! how could she be thus brought over, when I am assured, that on his first being proposed she was pleased to say, That had Mr. Solmes the Indies in possession, and would endow me with them, she should not think him deserving of her Clarissa!
And it's understandable that they feel that way: who do you think he is? No one other than Solmes. Can you believe it? They’re all set on it, my mother included! Oh, how could she be convinced like this when I know that the first time he was suggested, she was happy to say that even if Mr. Solmes owned the Indies and promised to give them to me, she wouldn’t think he was worthy of her Clarissa!
The reception I met with at my return, so different from what I used to meet with on every little absence [and now I had been from them three weeks], convinced me that I was to suffer for the happiness I had had in your company and conversation for that most agreeable period. I will give you an account of it.
The reception I received upon my return, so different from what I used to experience after even a short absence [and now I had been away for three weeks], made me realize that I was going to suffer for the happiness I had enjoyed in your company and conversation during that delightful time. I'll give you an account of it.
My brother met me at the door, and gave me his hand when I stepped out of the chariot. He bowed very low: pray, Miss, favour me.—I thought it in good humour; but found it afterwards mock respect: and so he led me in great form, I prattling all the way, inquiring of every body's health, (although I was so soon to see them, and there was hardly time for answers,) into the great parlour; where were my father, mother, my two uncles, and sister.
My brother met me at the door and offered me his hand when I stepped out of the carriage. He bowed very low and said, "Please, Miss, do me the honor." I thought he was just being playful, but later realized it was fake respect. He led me in a showy way while I chatted away, asking about everyone’s health, even though I was about to see them all soon and there wasn’t really time for answers, until we got to the big living room where my father, mother, two uncles, and sister were waiting.
I was struck all of a heap as soon as I entered, to see a solemnity which I had been so little used to on the like occasions in the countenance of every dear relation. They all kept their seats. I ran to my father, and kneeled: then to my mother: and met from both a cold salute: From my father a blessing but half pronounced: My mother indeed called me child; but embraced me not with her usual indulgent ardour.
I was completely taken aback as soon as I walked in, seeing a seriousness that I wasn't used to on similar occasions in the faces of my beloved family. They all stayed seated. I rushed to my dad and knelt down, then to my mom, and received a chilly greeting from both. My dad offered a blessing, but it was only half said. My mom did call me "child," but she didn't hug me with her usual warmth.
After I had paid my duty to my uncles, and my compliments to my sister, which she received with solemn and stiff form, I was bid to sit down. But my heart was full: and I said it became me to stand, if I could stand, upon a reception so awful and unusual. I was forced to turn my face from them, and pull out my handkerchief.
After I had greeted my uncles and paid my respects to my sister, who accepted them with a serious and formal demeanor, I was asked to take a seat. But my heart was heavy, so I felt it was more appropriate to stand, if I could, during such an extraordinary and daunting reception. I had to turn my face away from them and pull out my handkerchief.
My unbrotherly accuser hereupon stood forth, and charged me with having received no less than five or six visits at Miss Howe's from the man they had all so much reason to hate [that was the expression]; notwithstanding the commands I had had to the contrary. And he bid me deny it if I could.
My unbrotherly accuser then stepped forward and accused me of having had at least five or six visits at Miss Howe's from the man they all had plenty of reasons to hate; that was how they put it. Despite the orders I had received to avoid him. And he challenged me to deny it if I could.
I had never been used, I said, to deny the truth, nor would I now. I owned I had in the three weeks passed seen the person I presumed he meant oftener than five or six times [Pray hear me, brother, said I; for he was going to flame out], but he always asked for Mrs. or Miss Howe, when he came.
I had never been one to deny the truth, and I wouldn't start now. I admitted that in the three weeks that had passed, I had seen the person I thought he meant more than five or six times [Please listen to me, brother, I said; because he was about to lose his temper], but he always asked for Mrs. or Miss Howe when he visited.
I proceeded, that I had reason to believe, that both Mrs. Howe and Miss, as matters stood, would much rather have excused his visits; but they had more than once apologized, that having not the same reason my papa had to forbid him their house, his rank and fortune entitled him to civility.
I continued, believing that both Mrs. Howe and Miss would much rather have avoided his visits under the circumstances. However, they had apologized more than once, explaining that since they didn’t have the same reasons as my dad to keep him out of their home, his social status and wealth entitled him to respect.
You see, my dear, I made not the pleas I might have made.
You see, my dear, I didn't make the requests I could have made.
My brother seemed ready to give a loose to his passion: My father put on the countenance which always portends a gathering storm: My uncles mutteringly whispered: And my sister aggravatingly held up her hands. While I begged to be heard out:—And my mother said, let the child, that was her kind word, be heard.
My brother looked like he was about to let his feelings spill over: My father put on the serious face that always means trouble is coming: My uncles quietly whispered to each other: And my sister annoyingly held up her hands. Meanwhile, I was asking to finish speaking:—And my mother said, let the child, which was her nice way of saying, be heard.
I hoped, I said, there was no harm done: that it became not me to prescribe to Mrs. or Miss Howe who should be their visitors: that Mrs. Howe was always diverted with the raillery that passed between Miss and him: that I had no reason to challenge her guest for my visitor, as I should seem to have done had I refused to go into their company when he was with them: that I had never seen him out of the presence of one or both of those ladies; and had signified to him once, on his urging a few moments' private conversation with me, that, unless a reconciliation were effected between my family and his, he must not expect that I would countenance his visits, much less give him an opportunity of that sort.
I hoped, I said, there was no harm done: that it wasn't my place to tell Mrs. or Miss Howe who should be their guests: that Mrs. Howe always enjoyed the playful banter between Miss Howe and him: that I had no reason to question her guest for being my visitor, as I would have appeared to do had I refused to join them when he was there: that I had never seen him without one or both of those ladies present; and I had made it clear to him once, when he suggested a few minutes of private conversation with me, that unless there was a reconciliation between our families, he shouldn’t expect me to support his visits, let alone give him the chance for that kind of conversation.
I told him further, that Miss Howe so well understood my mind, that she never left me a moment while Mr. Lovelace was there: that when he came, if I was not below in the parlour, I would not suffer myself to be called to him: although I thought it would be an affectation which would give him an advantage rather than the contrary, if I had left company when he came in; or refused to enter into it when I found he would stay any time.
I told him that Miss Howe understood my feelings so well that she didn't leave my side whenever Mr. Lovelace was around. When he showed up, if I wasn't in the living room, I wouldn't let myself be called to him. I thought it would be more performative and give him an advantage if I left the group when he arrived or if I refused to join when I saw he was going to stick around for a while.
My brother heard me out with such a kind of impatience as shewed he was resolved to be dissatisfied with me, say what I would. The rest, as the event has proved, behaved as if they would have been satisfied, had they not further points to carry by intimidating me. All this made it evident, as I mentioned above, that they themselves expected not my voluntary compliance; and was a tacit confession of the disagreeableness of the person they had to propose.
My brother listened to me with a kind of impatience that showed he was determined to be unhappy with whatever I said. The others, as it turned out, acted like they would be satisfied, but they had their own agendas to push by trying to intimidate me. All of this clearly showed, as I mentioned before, that they didn't expect me to agree willingly; it was an unspoken admission of how unpleasant the person they wanted to propose was.
I was no sooner silent than my brother swore, although in my father's presence, (swore, unchecked either by eye or countenance,) That for his part, he would never be reconciled to that libertine: and that he would renounce me for a sister, if I encouraged the addresses of a man so obnoxious to them all.
I had barely gone quiet when my brother swore, even though our father was present, (he swore, without any hesitation or change in expression,) that he would never make up with that libertine. He said he would disown me as a sister if I supported the advances of a man so disliked by all of them.
A man who had like to have been my brother's murderer, my sister said, with a face even bursting with restraint of passion.
A man who almost killed my brother, my sister said, with a face that seemed ready to explode with suppressed emotion.
The poor Bella has, you know, a plump high-fed face, if I may be allowed the expression. You, I know, will forgive me for this liberty of speech sooner than I can forgive myself: Yet how can one be such a reptile as not to turn when trampled upon!
The poor Bella has, you know, a round, well-fed face, if I can say that. You, I know, will forgive me for this boldness quicker than I can forgive myself: Yet how can anyone be such a coward as not to react when stepped on!
My father, with vehemence both of action and voice [my father has, you know, a terrible voice when he is angry] told me that I had met with too much indulgence in being allowed to refuse this gentleman, and the other gentleman,; and it was now his turn to be obeyed!
My father, full of intensity in both action and voice [my father has, you know, a terrible voice when he's angry], told me that I had been given too much leeway in being allowed to refuse this gentleman and that gentleman; now it was his turn to be obeyed!
Very true, my mother said:—and hoped his will would not now be disputed by a child so favoured.
Very true, my mother said, and hoped that his will wouldn’t be challenged by a child so favored.
To shew they were all of a sentiment, my uncle Harlowe said, he hoped his beloved niece only wanted to know her father's will, to obey it.
To show they all felt the same way, my uncle Harlowe said he hoped his beloved niece just wanted to know her father's wishes so she could follow them.
And my uncle Antony, in his rougher manner, added, that surely I would not give them reason to apprehend, that I thought my grandfather's favour to me had made me independent of them all.—If I did, he would tell me, the will could be set aside, and should.
And my uncle Antony, in his blunt way, added that I definitely wouldn’t want to give them any reason to think that my grandfather’s favor made me independent of everyone. If I did, he said, the will could be overturned, and it would be.
I was astonished, you must needs think.—Whose addresses now, thought I, is this treatment preparative to?—Mr. Wyerley's again?—or whose? And then, as high comparisons, where self is concerned, sooner than low, come into young people's heads; be it for whom it will, this is wooing as the English did for the heiress of Scotland in the time of Edward the Sixth. But that it could be for Solmes, how should it enter into my head?
I was shocked, you must agree. Whose advances, I wondered, is this behavior meant for? Mr. Wyerley’s again? Or someone else? And then, as young people tend to think more highly of themselves than others, it doesn’t matter for whom it is; this is courting like the English did for the heir of Scotland back in the days of Edward the Sixth. But that it could be for Solmes—how could I even entertain that idea?
I did not know, I said, that I had given occasion for this harshness. I hoped I should always have a just sense of every one's favour to me, superadded to the duty I owed as a daughter and a niece: but that I was so much surprised at a reception so unusual and unexpected, that I hoped my papa and mamma would give me leave to retire, in order to recollect myself.
I didn't realize, I said, that I had caused this harsh treatment. I hoped I would always have a clear understanding of everyone’s feelings towards me, along with the obligation I had as a daughter and a niece. However, I was so taken aback by such an unusual and unexpected reception that I hoped my mom and dad would allow me to step away for a moment to gather my thoughts.
No one gainsaying, I made my silent compliments, and withdrew;—leaving my brother and sister, as I thought, pleased; and as if they wanted to congratulate each other on having occasioned so severe a beginning to be made with me.
No one disagreed, so I quietly expressed my appreciation and left;—leaving my brother and sister, as I believed, happy; as if they wanted to congratulate each other for starting things off so harshly with me.
I went up to my chamber, and there with my faithful Hannah deplored the determined face which the new proposal it was plain they had to make me wore.
I went up to my room, and there with my loyal Hannah, I talked about the serious look that the new proposal clearly had to offer me.
I had not recovered myself when I was sent for down to tea. I begged my maid to be excused attending; but on the repeated command, went down with as much cheerfulness as I could assume; and had a new fault to clear myself of: for my brother, so pregnant a thing is determined ill-will, by intimations equally rude and intelligible, charged my desire of being excused coming down, to sullens, because a certain person had been spoken against, upon whom, as he supposed, my fancy ran.
I hadn't fully gathered myself when I was called down for tea. I asked my maid to let me skip it, but after being told several times, I went down with as much cheerfulness as I could muster. I had another misunderstanding to clear up: my brother, who is so quick to judge, assumed my reluctance to come down was due to bad mood, because someone had been talked about, and he thought I had a crush on that person.
I could easily answer you, Sir, said I, as such a reflection deserves: but I forbear. If I do not find a brother in you, you shall have a sister in me.
I could easily respond to you, Sir, I said, as such a thought deserves: but I will hold back. If I don't find a brother in you, you'll have a sister in me.
Pretty meekness! Bella whisperingly said; looking at my brother, and lifting up her lip in contempt.
Pretty meekness! Bella said quietly, looking at my brother and curling her lip in disdain.
He, with an imperious air, bid me deserve his love, and I should be sure to have it.
He, with a commanding attitude, told me to earn his love, and I would definitely have it.
As we sat, my mother, in her admirable manner, expatiated upon brotherly and sisterly love; indulgently blamed my brother and sister for having taken up displeasure too lightly against me; and politically, if I may say so, answered for my obedience to my father's will.—The it would be all well, my father was pleased to say: Then they should dote upon me, was my brother's expression: Love me as well as ever, was my sister's: And my uncles, That I then should be the pride of their hearts.—But, alas! what a forfeiture of all these must I make!
As we sat there, my mom, in her typical way, talked a lot about sibling love; she gently criticized my brother and sister for being too quick to take offense against me; and, if I can say so, she defended my obedience to my dad's wishes. My dad said everything would be fine; then my brother said they should dote on me, my sister said to love me just like before, and my uncles said that I should be the pride of their hearts. But, sadly, I realized how much I'd have to give up for all of this!
This was the reception I had on my return from you.
This was the welcome I received when I came back from you.
Mr. Solmes came in before we had done tea. My uncle Antony presented him to me, as a gentleman he had a particular friendship for. My uncle Harlowe in terms equally favourable for him. My father said, Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe. My mother looked at him, and looked at me, now-and-then, as he sat near me, I thought with concern.—I at her, with eyes appealing for pity. At him, when I could glance at him, with disgust little short of affrightment. While my brother and sister Mr. Solmes'd him, and Sirr'd—yet such a wretch!—But I will at present only add, My humble thanks and duty to your honoured mother (to whom I will particularly write, to express the grateful sense I have of her goodness to me); and that I am
Mr. Solmes came in before we were done with tea. My uncle Antony introduced him to me as a gentleman he had a special friendship with. My uncle Harlowe spoke about him in equally positive terms. My father said, “Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe.” My mother looked at him, then at me, every now and then, and I could see concern in her eyes. I looked at her, silently asking for compassion. I stole glances at him, feeling a disgust that was almost frightening. Meanwhile, my brother and sister treated him with a sort of mock respect, calling him “Mr. Solmes” and “Sirr”—yet what a wretch! All I will add for now is my humble thanks and respect to your honored mother (to whom I will write specifically to express my gratitude for her kindness towards me); and that I am
Your ever obliged, CL. HARLOWE.
Yours truly, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER VIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE FEB. 24.
They drive on here at a furious rate. The man lives here, I think. He courts them, and is more and more a favourite. Such terms, such settlements! That's the cry.
They speed by here at a crazy pace. The guy lives here, I believe. He charms them and is becoming more and more popular. Such deals, such arrangements! That's what everyone is saying.
O my dear, that I had not reason to deplore the family fault, immensely rich as they all are! But this I may the more unreservedly say to you, as we have often joined in the same concern: I, for a father and uncles; you, for a mother; in every other respect, faultless.
O my dear, I wish I didn’t have to regret the family flaw, since they’re all so incredibly wealthy! But I can say this to you more openly, as we’ve often shared the same worry: I for a father and uncles; you for a mother; otherwise, perfect in every way.
Hitherto, I seem to be delivered over to my brother, who pretends as great a love to me as ever.
So far, it feels like I've been handed over to my brother, who acts like he loves me just as much as before.
You may believe I have been very sincere with him. But he affects to rally me, and not to believe it possible, that one so dutiful and discreet as his sister Clary can resolve to disoblige all her friends.
You might think I’ve been really genuine with him. But he pretends to joke about it and doesn’t believe it’s possible that someone as loyal and sensible as his sister Clary could decide to upset all her friends.
Indeed, I tremble at the prospect before me; for it is evident that they are strangely determined.
Indeed, I shake at the thought ahead of me; for it’s clear that they are oddly resolute.
My father and mother industriously avoid giving me opportunity of speaking to them alone. They ask not for my approbation, intended, as it should seem, to suppose me into their will. And with them I shall hope to prevail, or with nobody. They have not the interest in compelling me, as my brother and sister have: I say less therefore to them, reserving my whole force for an audience of my father, if he will permit me a patient ear. How difficult is it, my dear, to give a negative where both duty and inclination join to make one wish to oblige!
My mom and dad work hard to prevent me from having a chance to talk to them alone. They don't seek my approval, which seems intended to push me into following their wishes. I hope to make my case with them, or not at all. They aren't as invested in pressuring me as my brother and sister are, so I say less to them, saving my energy for my dad, if he’ll give me a patient hearing. It’s so hard, my dear, to say no when both duty and desire make you want to please!
I have already stood the shock of three of this man's particular visits, besides my share in his more general ones; and find it is impossible I should ever endure him. He has but a very ordinary share of understanding; is very illiterate; knows nothing but the value of estates, and how to improve them, and what belongs to land-jobbing and husbandry. Yet I am as one stupid, I think. They have begun so cruelly with me, that I have not spirit enough to assert my own negative.
I have already experienced the shock of three of this man's specific visits, in addition to my share of his more general ones, and I find it impossible to tolerate him. He has just a basic level of understanding; he’s quite uneducated; knows only the value of properties, how to enhance them, and what relates to real estate dealing and farming. Yet I feel just as dull, I think. They have treated me so harshly that I don’t have the confidence to stand up for my own opinion.
They had endeavoured it seems to influence my good Mrs. Norton before I came home—so intent are they to carry their point! And her opinion not being to their liking, she has been told that she would do well to decline visiting here for the present: yet she is the person of all the world, next to my mother, the most likely to prevail upon me, were the measures they are engaged in reasonable measures, or such as she could think so.
It seems they tried to sway my dear Mrs. Norton before I returned home—so determined are they to get their way! Since her opinion doesn’t align with theirs, she’s been advised to avoid visiting here for now. Yet, she is the person, next to my mother, most likely to convince me if the actions they’re involved in were reasonable or if she could believe they were.
My aunt likewise having said that she did not think her niece could ever be brought to like Mr. Solmes, has been obliged to learn another lesson.
My aunt also said that she didn’t think her niece would ever come to like Mr. Solmes, but she has had to learn another lesson.
I am to have a visit from her to-morrow. And, since I have refused so much as to hear from my brother and sister what the noble settlements are to be, she is to acquaint me with the particulars; and to receive from me my determination: for my father, I am told, will not have patience but to suppose that I shall stand in opposition to his will.
I’m having a visit from her tomorrow. And since I've refused to hear from my brother and sister about what the noble arrangements are going to be, she’s going to fill me in on the details and get my decision: because I’ve been told my dad won’t be patient and will just assume that I’ll go against his wishes.
Mean time it has been signified to me, that it will be acceptable if I do not think of going to church next Sunday.
In the meantime, I've been told that it would be fine if I don't plan on going to church next Sunday.
The same signification was made for me last Sunday; and I obeyed. They are apprehensive that Mr. Lovelace will be there with design to come home with me.
The same meaning was conveyed to me last Sunday, and I went along with it. They are worried that Mr. Lovelace will be there planning to come home with me.
Help me, dear Miss Howe, to a little of your charming spirit: I never more wanted it.
Help me, dear Miss Howe, with a bit of your lovely spirit: I’ve never needed it more.
The man, this Solmes, you may suppose, has no reason to boast of his progress with me. He has not the sense to say any thing to the purpose. His courtship indeed is to them; and my brother pretends to court me as his proxy, truly!—I utterly, to my brother, reject his address; but thinking a person, so well received and recommended by all my family, entitled to good manners, all I say against him is affectedly attributed to coyness: and he, not being sensible of his own imperfections, believes that my avoiding him when I can, and the reserves I express, are owing to nothing else: for, as I said, all his courtship is to them; and I have no opportunity of saying no, to one who asks me not the question. And so, with an air of mannish superiority, he seems rather to pity the bashful girl, than to apprehend that he shall not succeed.
The man, this Solmes, as you might guess, has no reason to brag about how things are going with me. He doesn’t have the sense to say anything meaningful. His courtship is really for them; my brother pretends to woo me on his behalf, seriously!—I completely reject his advances to my brother, but since Solmes is well-received and recommended by my entire family, my polite refusal is seen as mere shyness. And he, unaware of his own flaws, assumes that my attempts to avoid him and the distance I keep are simply due to that. As I mentioned, all his courting is directed at them; I never get the chance to say no to someone who isn’t directly asking me. So, with an air of manly superiority, he seems to pity the shy girl rather than realize that he’s not going to win me over.
FEBRUARY 25.
FEB 25.
I have had the expected conference with my aunt.
I had the usual talk with my aunt.
I have been obliged to hear the man's proposals from her; and have been told also what their motives are for espousing his interest with so much warmth. I am even loth to mention how equally unjust it is for him to make such offers, or for those I am bound to reverence to accept of them. I hate him more than before. One great estate is already obtained at the expense of the relations to it, though distant relations; my brother's, I mean, by his godmother: and this has given the hope, however chimerical that hope, of procuring others; and that my own at least may revert to the family. And yet, in my opinion, the world is but one great family. Originally it was so. What then is this narrow selfishness that reigns in us, but relationship remembered against relationship forgot?
I've had to listen to this guy's proposals from her, and I've also heard what their reasons are for supporting his interests so passionately. I’m even hesitant to say how unfair it is for him to make these offers, or for those I respect to accept them. I dislike him even more than I did before. One large estate has already been acquired at the expense of those connected to it, even if they are distant relatives—I'm referring to my brother's estate, gained through his godmother. This has created the hope, even if it's a misguided one, of getting others, and that at least my own might return to the family. Yet, in my view, the world is just one big family. It was originally like that. So what is this narrow selfishness that rules us, if not the remembering of relationships we value over those we've forgotten?
But here, upon my absolute refusal of him upon any terms, have I had a signification made me that wounds me to the heart. How can I tell it you? Yet I must. It is, my dear, that I must not for a month to come, or till license obtained, correspond with any body out of the house.
But here, with my complete refusal of him on any terms, I’ve received a message that cuts me to the core. How can I share this with you? Yet I have to. It is, my dear, that I must not, for the next month or until I get permission, communicate with anyone outside the house.
My brother, upon my aunt's report, (made, however, as I am informed, in the gentlest manner, and even giving remote hopes, which she had no commission from me to give,) brought me, in authoritative terms, the prohibition.
My brother, based on my aunt's report, (which I hear was delivered in the kindest way and even suggested some distant hopes, something I didn’t authorize her to do,) brought me the prohibition in a commanding manner.
Not to Miss Howe? said I.
Not to Miss Howe? I asked.
No, not to Miss Howe, Madam, tauntingly: for have you not acknowledged, that Lovelace is a favourite there?
No, not to Miss Howe, Madam, teasingly: for haven’t you admitted that Lovelace is a favorite there?
See, my dear Miss Howe—!
See, my dear Miss Howe!
And do you think, Brother, this is the way—
And do you think, Brother, this is how—
Do you look to that.—But your letters will be stopt, I can tell you.—And away he flung.
Do you see that? But I can tell you, your letters will be stopped. And then he threw it away.
My sister came to me soon after—Sister Clary, you are going on in a fine way, I understand. But as there are people who are supposed to harden you against your duty, I am to tell you, that it will be taken well if you avoid visits or visitings for a week or two till further order.
My sister came to me soon after—Sister Clary, I hear you’re doing great. But since there are people who might try to make you neglect your responsibilities, I have to let you know that it would be best if you avoid visits for a week or two until further notice.
Can this be from those who have authority—
Can this be from those who hold authority—
Ask them; ask them, child, with a twirl of her finger.—I have delivered my message. Your father will be obeyed. He is willing to hope you to be all obedience, and would prevent all incitements to refractoriness.
Ask them; ask them, kid, with a twirl of her finger.—I’ve sent my message. Your dad will be followed. He hopes you'll be completely obedient and wants to stop anything that might encourage disobedience.
I know my duty, said I; and hope I shall not find impossible condition annexed to it.
I understand my responsibility, I said; and I hope I won't encounter any impossible conditions attached to it.
A pert young creature, vain and conceited, she called me. I was the only judge, in my own wise opinion, of what was right and fit. She, for her part, had long seen into my specious ways: and now I should shew every body what I was at bottom.
A confident young woman, self-absorbed and arrogant, she labeled me. I believed I was the only one capable of deciding what was right and appropriate. Meanwhile, she had long recognized my deceptive nature: now I was going to reveal to everyone who I truly was.
Dear Bella! said I, hands and eyes lifted up—why all this?—Dear, dear Bella, why—
Dear Bella! I said, raising my hands and eyes—what's all this about?—Dear, dear Bella, why—
None of your dear, dear Bella's to me.—I tell you, I see through your witchcrafts [that was her strange word]. And away she flung; adding, as she went, and so will every body else very quickly, I dare say.
None of your beloved Bella's tricks will work on me. I swear, I can see through your magic [that was her odd word]. And off she went, adding as she left, and so will everyone else before long, I bet.
Bless me, said I to myself, what a sister have I!—How have I deserved this?
Bless me, I said to myself, what a sister I have!—How did I deserve this?
Then I again regretted my grandfather's too distinguishing goodness to me.
Then I regretted my grandfather's extraordinary kindness toward me once more.
FEB. 25, IN THE EVENING.
Feb 25, in the evening.
What my brother and sister have said against me I cannot tell:—but I am in heavy disgrace with my father.
What my brother and sister have said about me, I can't say; but I'm in serious trouble with my dad.
I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very cheerful aspect: but had occasion soon to change it.
I was called down for tea. I went with a very cheerful demeanor, but I had to change it pretty quickly.
Such a solemnity in every body's countenance!—My mother's eyes were fixed upon the tea-cups; and when she looked up, it was heavily, as if her eye-lids had weights upon them; and then not to me. My father sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his head might be turned from me: his hands clasped, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry to the very ends of them. My sister was swelling. My brother looked at me with scorn, having measured me, as I may say, with his eyes as I entered, from head to foot. My aunt was there, and looked upon me as if with kindness restrained, bending coldly to my compliment to her as she sat; and then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if to give the reason [so I am willing to construe it] of her unusual stiffness.—Bless me, my dear! that they should choose to intimidate rather than invite a mind, till now, not thought either unpersuadable or ungenerous!
Such a serious look on everyone’s face! My mother’s eyes were focused on the tea cups, and when she finally looked up, it was with great effort, as if her eyelids were heavy; and her gaze didn’t meet mine. My father was sitting slightly turned in his armchair, so his head was away from me: his hands were clasped and moving up and down, his fingers, poor dear man, twitching as if they were angry. My sister was puffing up. My brother glared at me with disdain, sizing me up from head to toe as I came in. My aunt was present and regarded me with a kind of restrained warmth, nodding coldly at my compliment to her as she sat, then glanced first at my brother and then at my sister, as if to justify her unusual stiffness. —Goodness, my dear! How could they choose to intimidate instead of inviting someone who, until now, hadn’t been seen as either stubborn or unkind!
I took my seat. Shall I make tea, Madam, to my mother?—I always used, you know, my dear, to make tea.
I sat down. Should I make tea, Madam, for my mother?—I always used to make tea, you know, my dear.
No! a very short sentence, in one very short word, was the expressive answer. And she was pleased to take the canister in her own hand.
No! A very short sentence, just one word, was the clear response. And she was happy to take the canister in her own hand.
My brother bid the footman, who attended, leave the room—I, he said, will pour out the water.
My brother told the footman, who was present, to leave the room—I'll pour the water, he said.
My heart was up in my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself. What is to follow? thought I.
My heart was racing. I didn’t know what to do with myself. What comes next? I wondered.
Just after the second dish, out stept my mother—A word with you, sister Hervey! taking her in her hand. Presently my sister dropt away. Then my brother. So I was left alone with my father.
Just after the second dish, my mother stepped forward—A word with you, sister Hervey! taking her by the hand. Soon my sister slipped away. Then my brother. So I was left alone with my father.
He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me as twice or thrice I would have addressed myself to him: nothing but solemn silence on all hands having passed before.
He looked so stern that my heart sank as I tried to speak to him two or three times: there was nothing but heavy silence all around.
At last, I asked, if it were his pleasure that I should pour him out another dish?
At last, I asked if he wanted me to serve him another dish.
He answered me with the same angry monosyllable, which I had received from my mother before; and then arose, and walked about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet; but was too much overawed by his sternness, even to make such an expression of my duty to him as my heart overflowed with.
He responded with the same angry one-word answer that I had gotten from my mother before. Then he stood up and started pacing the room. I got up as well, planning to throw myself at his feet, but I was too intimidated by his seriousness to express the deep respect I felt in my heart.
At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the back of a chair, I took a little more courage; and approaching him, besought him to acquaint me in what I had offended him?
At last, as he leaned on the back of a chair because of his gout, I gained a bit more courage and went up to him, asking him to tell me how I had offended him.
He turned from me, and in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, said he, know that I will be obeyed.
He turned away from me and said in a strong voice, "Clarissa Harlowe, know that I will be obeyed."
God forbid, Sir, that you should not!—I have never yet opposed your will—
God forbid, Sir, that you wouldn't!—I have never gone against your wishes—
Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he.—Don't let me run the fate of all who shew indulgence to your sex; to be the more contradicted for mine to you.
Nor your whims, Clarissa Harlowe, he interrupted. Don't let me end up like all those who indulge your kind; I don’t want to be more challenged for my feelings toward you.
My father, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a kind opinion of our sex; although there is not a more condescending wife in the world than my mother.
My father, you know, my dear, doesn't have a very high opinion of our gender, just like my brother. However, there's no wife more accommodating than my mother.
I was going to make protestations of duty—No protestations, girl! No words! I will not be prated to! I will be obeyed! I have no child, I will have no child, but an obedient one.
I was going to express my sense of duty—No expressions, girl! No words! I won’t be lectured! I will be obeyed! I have no child, I will have no child, but one who listens.
Sir, you never had reason, I hope—
Sir, I hope you never had a reason—
Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.
Tell me not what I've never had, but what I do have, and what I will have.
Good Sir, be pleased to hear me—My brother and sister, I fear—
Good sir, please listen to me—I'm worried about my brother and sister—
Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl!—They have a just concern for the honour of my family.
Your brother and sister shouldn't be talked about, girl! They care about our family's reputation.
And I hope, Sir—
And I hope, Sir—
Hope nothing.—Tell me not of hopes, but of facts. I ask nothing of you but what is in your power to comply with, and what it is your duty to comply with.
Hope doesn't matter.—Don't tell me about hopes, but about facts. I'm only asking for what you can actually do and what you have a responsibility to do.
Then, Sir, I will comply with it—But yet I hope from your goodness—
Then, Sir, I will go along with it—But I still hope for your kindness—
No expostulations! No but's, girl! No qualifyings! I will be obeyed, I tell you; and cheerfully too!—or you are no child of mine!
No arguments! No ifs, girl! No excuses! I expect to be obeyed, I’m telling you; and happily too!—or you’re not my child!
I wept.
I cried.
Let me beseech you, my dear and ever-honoured Papa, (and I dropt down on my knees,) that I may have only yours and my mamma's will, and not my brother's, to obey.
Let me plead with you, my dear and respected Dad, (and I dropped down on my knees,) that I may have only yours and Mom's wishes to follow, and not my brother's.
I was going on; but he was pleased to withdraw, leaving me on the floor; saying, That he would not hear me thus by subtilty and cunning aiming to distinguish away my duty: repeating, that he would be obeyed.
I kept talking, but he was happy to step back, leaving me on the floor; saying that he wouldn’t let me avoid my responsibilities through trickiness and cleverness, repeating that he wanted to be obeyed.
My heart is too full;—so full, that it may endanger my duty, were I to try to unburden it to you on this occasion: so I will lay down my pen.—But can—Yet positively, I will lay down my pen—!
My heart is too full;—so full that it might interfere with my responsibilities if I try to share it with you right now: so I will put my pen down.—But can—Yet I really will put my pen down—!
LETTER IX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE FEB. 26, IN THE MORNING.
My aunt, who staid here last night, made me a visit this morning as soon as it was light. She tells me, that I was left alone with my father yesterday on purpose that he might talk with me on my expected obedience; but that he owned he was put beside his purpose by reflecting on something my brother had told him in my disfavour, and by his impatience but to suppose, that such a gentle spirit as mine had hitherto seemed to be, should presume to dispute his will in a point where the advantage of the whole family was to be so greatly promoted by my compliance.
My aunt, who stayed here last night, came to visit me this morning as soon as it was light. She told me that I was left alone with my father yesterday on purpose so he could talk to me about my expected obedience. However, he admitted he was thrown off track by something my brother had said that made me look bad, and he was so impatient that he couldn’t believe someone with such a gentle spirit as mine would dare to oppose his wishes, especially when my compliance would benefit the whole family so much.
I find, by a few words which dropt unawares from my aunt, that they have all an absolute dependence upon what they suppose to be meekness in my temper. But in this they may be mistaken; for I verily think, upon a strict examination of myself, that I have almost as much in me of my father's as of my mother's family.
I realized, from a few words that accidentally slipped out from my aunt, that they all rely completely on what they believe to be my calmness. But they might be wrong about that; because I truly think, after taking a close look at myself, that I have just as much influence from my father's side as I do from my mother's side.
My uncle Harlowe it seems is against driving me upon extremities: But my brother has engaged, that the regard I have for my reputation, and my principles, will bring me round to my duty; that's the expression. Perhaps I shall have reason to wish I had not known this.
My uncle Harlowe seems to be against pushing me to my limits. But my brother has promised that my concern for my reputation and my principles will lead me back to my responsibilities; that’s what he said. Maybe I’ll end up wishing I hadn’t found this out.
My aunt advises me to submit for the present to the interdicts they have laid me under; and indeed to encourage Mr. Solmes's address. I have absolutely refused the latter, let what will (as I have told her) be the consequence. The visiting prohibition I will conform to. But as to that of not corresponding with you, nothing but the menace that our letters shall be intercepted, can engage my observation of it.
My aunt advises me to go along with the restrictions they've placed on me for now and to entertain Mr. Solmes's advances. I've firmly rejected the latter, regardless of the consequences, as I've told her. I will abide by the visiting ban. But regarding the rule against writing to you, the only thing that could make me follow it is the threat that our letters will be intercepted.
She believes that this order is from my father, and that my mother has not been consulted upon it. She says, that it is given, as she has reason think, purely in consideration to me, lest I should mortally offend him; and this from the incitements of other people (meaning you and Miss Lloyd, I make no doubt) rather than by my own will. For still, as she tells me, he speaks kind and praiseful things of me.
She thinks that this decision comes from my father and that my mother hasn't been involved in it. She says that it's made, as she has good reason to believe, purely for my sake, so I don’t seriously upset him; and that it's influenced more by other people (meaning you and Miss Lloyd, I’m sure) rather than my own choice. Because, as she tells me, he still says nice and complimentary things about me.
Here is clemency! Here is indulgence!—And so it is, to prevent a headstrong child, as a good prince would wish to deter disaffected subjects, from running into rebellion, and so forfeiting every thing! But this is allowing to the young-man's wisdom of my brother; a plotter without a head, and a brother without a heart!
Here is mercy! Here is forgiveness!—And this is to stop a stubborn kid, just as a good ruler would try to keep unhappy subjects from rebelling and losing everything! But this is giving in to my brother's foolishness; a schemer without a plan, and a brother without feeling!
How happy might I have been with any other brother in the world but James Harlowe; and with any other sister but his sister! Wonder not, my dear, that I, who used to chide you for these sort of liberties with my relations, now am more undutiful than you ever was unkind. I cannot bear the thought of being deprived of the principal pleasure of my life; for such is your conversation by person and by letter. And who, besides, can bear to be made the dupe of such low cunning, operating with such high and arrogant passions?
How happy could I have been with any other brother in the world except for James Harlowe; and with any other sister but his sister! Don’t be surprised, my dear, that I, who used to criticize you for these kinds of liberties with my family, am now more disrespectful than you ever were unkind. I can't stand the idea of losing the main joy of my life; that’s how much I appreciate your conversations, both in person and in letters. And who, besides, can put up with being tricked by such petty deceit, driven by such high and arrogant feelings?
But can you, my dear Miss Howe, condescend to carry on a private correspondence with me?—If you can, there is one way I have thought of, by which it may be done.
But can you, my dear Miss Howe, agree to continue a private correspondence with me?—If you can, I have thought of one way it could be done.
You must remember the Green Lane, as we call it, that runs by the side of the wood-house and poultry-yard where I keep my bantams, pheasants, and pea-hens, which generally engage my notice twice a day; the more my favourites because they were my grandfather's, and recommended to my care by him; and therefore brought hither from my Dairy-house since his death.
You should remember the Green Lane, as we call it, that runs alongside the wood-house and poultry yard where I keep my bantams, pheasants, and pea-hens. I usually tend to them twice a day; I like them more because they were my grandfather's pets, and he entrusted them to my care. That's why I brought them here from my Dairy-house after he passed away.
The lane is lower than the floor of the wood-house; and, in the side of the wood-house, the boards are rotted away down to the floor for half an ell together in several places. Hannah can step into the lane, and make a mark with chalk where a letter or parcel may be pushed in, under some sticks; which may be so managed as to be an unsuspected cover for the written deposits from either.
The path is lower than the floor of the shed, and in the side of the shed, the boards have rotted away to the floor for about a foot in several spots. Hannah can step into the path and make a mark with chalk where a letter or package can be slipped in under some sticks, which can be arranged to serve as a hidden place for the written items from either side.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
I have been just now to look at the place, and find it will answer. So your faithful Robert may, without coming near the house, and as only passing through the Green Lame which leads to two or three farm-houses [out of livery if you please] very easily take from thence my letters and deposit yours.
I just went to check out the place, and it looks good. So your loyal Robert can, without coming close to the house, easily take my letters and drop off yours while just passing through the Green Lame that leads to a couple of farmhouses.
This place is the more convenient, because it is seldom resorted to but by myself or Hannah, on the above-mentioned account; for it is the general store-house for firing; the wood for constant use being nearer the house.
This place is more convenient because it’s rarely visited by anyone except me or Hannah, for the reason mentioned above; it serves as the main storage for firewood, with the wood for everyday use located closer to the house.
One corner of this being separated off for the roosting-place of my little poultry, either she or I shall never want a pretence to go thither.
One corner of this space is set apart for my little chickens to roost, and either she or I will always have a reason to go there.
Try, my dear, the success of a letter this way; and give me your opinion and advice what to do in this disgraceful situation, as I cannot but call it; and what you think of my prospects; and what you would do in my case.
Try this method for a letter, my dear, and let me know your thoughts and advice on how to handle this embarrassing situation, which I can’t help but label it. Also, share what you think about my future and what you would do if you were in my position.
But before-hand I will tell you, that your advice must not run in favour of this Solmes: and yet it is very likely they will endeavour to engage your mother, in order to induce you, who have such an influence over me, to favour him.
But before I continue, I want to let you know that your advice shouldn't support this Solmes. However, it’s quite possible they will try to persuade your mother to influence you, since you have such an impact on me, to back him.
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.
But thinking it over, if you lean towards that side of the issue, I want you to express your thoughts completely. As determined as I believe I am—and I really can’t change that—I’ll at least listen patiently to what can be said on the other side. My feelings aren’t as strongly tied to another person as some of my friends think they are; honestly, I’m not even sure myself. And contrary to what you seemed to believe during his last visits, my preference for him over anyone else is more due to the way he has been treated and the patience he has shown for my sake than because of any personal attachment.
I write a few lines of grateful acknowledgement to your good mother 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.
I want to take a moment to express my gratitude to your wonderful mother for her kindness towards me during that joyful time. I doubt I'll ever experience anything like it again. I hope she can forgive me for not writing sooner.
The bearer, if suspected and examined, is to produce that as the only one he carries.
The person carrying it, if suspected and questioned, must show that it is the only one they have.
How do needless watchfulness and undue restraint produce artifice and contrivance! I should abhor these clandestine correspondences, were they not forced upon me. They have so mean, so low an appearance to myself, that I think I ought not to expect that you should take part in them.
How do unnecessary vigilance and excessive control create deception and manipulation! I would dislike these secret exchanges if they weren't imposed on me. They seem so petty and low to me that I don’t think I should expect you to get involved in them.
But why (as I have also expostulated with my aunt) must I be pushed into a state, which I have no wish to enter into, although I reverence it?—Why should not my brother, so many years older, and so earnest to see me engaged, be first engaged?—And why should not my sister be first provided for?
But why (as I’ve also pointed out to my aunt) must I be forced into a situation I don’t want to be in, even though I respect it? —Why shouldn’t my brother, who is so many years older and so eager to see me settled, be the first one to get engaged? —And why shouldn’t my sister be the first one taken care of?
But here I conclude these unavailing expostulations, with the assurance, that I am, and ever will be,
But here I wrap up these pointless arguments, knowing that I am, and always will be,
Your affectionate, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
With love, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
LETTER X
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!
What strange things some people do!—Miss Clarissa Harlowe being forced to marry Mr. Roger Solmes!—Unbelievable!
I must not, you say, give my advice in favour of this man!—You now convince me, my dear, that you are nearer of kin than I thought you, to the family that could think of so preposterous a match, or you would never have had the least notion of my advising in his favour.
I shouldn’t, you say, support this guy!—You’re now making me realize, my dear, that you’re more closely related to the family that could consider such a ridiculous match than I initially thought, or you wouldn’t have even considered the idea of me backing him.
Ask for his picture. You know I have a good hand at drawing an ugly likeness. But I'll see a little further 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?
Ask for his picture. You know I'm pretty good at drawing an unflattering likeness. But let me think a bit more first: who knows what might happen, given that things are progressing this way; and since you don’t have the guts to stand against such a powerful force?
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 mother'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 the father two elder children?—And do they not both bear more of his stamp and image than you do?—Pray, my dear, call me not to account for this free question; lest your application of my meaning, on examination, prove to be as severe as that.
You’re asking me for a bit of my spirit. Are you serious? But honestly, I doubt it will help you now. It won’t feel right for you. You’re your mother’s daughter, no matter what you think; you have strong personalities to deal with. Oh dear, you should have taken some of mine a bit earlier—that is, before you let those who believe they have a prior claim to your estate take charge. So what if it’s your father’s? Doesn’t he have two older children? And don’t they both resemble him more than you do? Please, don’t hold me responsible for this honest question; otherwise, your interpretation of my meaning might end up being as harsh as that.
Now I have launched out a little, indulge me one word more in the same strain—I will be decent, I promise you. I think you might have know, that Avarice and Envy are two passions that are not to be satisfied, the one by giving, the other by the envied person's continuing to deserve and excel.—Fuel, fuel both, all the world over, to flames insatiate and devouring.
Now that I've started to express my thoughts, let me share one more thing in the same vein—I promise to be respectful. I believe you should know that Greed and Jealousy are two emotions that can never be fulfilled; one isn't satisfied by generosity, and the other isn’t satisfied by the person being envied continuing to achieve and excel. Both are like fuel, everywhere in the world, feeding unstoppable and consuming flames.
But since you ask for my opinion, you must tell me all you know or surmise of their inducements. And if you will not forbid me to make extracts from your letters for the entertainment of my aunt and cousin in the little island, who long to hear more of your affairs, it will be very obliging.
But since you want my opinion, you need to share everything you know or guess about their motivations. And if you don't mind me taking some excerpts from your letters to share with my aunt and cousin on the little island, who are eager to hear more about your situation, that would be very kind of you.
But you are so tender of some people who have no tenderness for any body 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 judgment, 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?—Justify them, therefore, if you can. Let us see if there be any sense, whether sufficient reason or not in their choice. At present I cannot (and yet I know a good deal of your family) have any conception how all of them, your mother and your aunt Hervey in particular, can join with the rest against judgments given. As to some of the others, I cannot wonder at any thing they do, or attempt to do, where self is concerned.
But you are so considerate of some people who only care about themselves that I must urge you to speak up. Remember, a friendship like ours allows no secrets. You can trust my fairness. It would be a blow to your own judgment if you didn’t, since you do ask for my advice. And haven’t you taught me that friendship should never sway justice?—So justify their actions if you can. Let’s see if there’s any sense or valid reason behind their choices. Right now, I can’t understand (and I know quite a bit about your family) how they, particularly your mother and your aunt Hervey, can side with the others against the judgments made. As for some of the others, I can’t be surprised by anything they do, or try to do, when it comes to their own interests.
You ask, Why may not your brother be first engaged in wedlock? I'll tell you why: His temper and his arrogance are too well known to induce women he would aspire to, to receive his addresses, notwithstanding his great independent acquisitions, and still greater prospects. Let me tell you, my dear, those acquisitions have given him more pride than reputation. To me he is the most intolerable creature that I ever conversed with. The treatment you blame, he merited from one whom he addressed with the air of a person who presumes that he is about to confer a favour, rather than to receive one. I ever loved to mortify proud and insolent spirits. What, think you, makes me bear Hickman near me, but that the man is humble, and knows and keeps his distance?
You ask, why can’t your brother get married first? I'll explain: His attitude and arrogance are too well known for the kind of women he wants to attract. Even with his significant wealth and even greater prospects, they’re not likely to be interested. Let me tell you, my dear, his wealth has made him more proud than respected. To me, he’s the most unbearable person I’ve ever talked to. The way you criticize him, he earned from someone who approached him like he was doing her a favor instead of hoping for one himself. I’ve always enjoyed putting proud and arrogant people in their place. What do you think makes me tolerate Hickman around me? It’s because he’s humble and knows his place.
As to your question, Why your elder sister may not be first provided for? I answer, Because she must have no man, but one who has a great and clear estate; that's one thing. Another is, Because she has a younger sister. Pray, my dear, be so good as to tell me, What man of a great and clear estate would think of that eldest sister, while the younger were single?
As for your question, why your older sister might not be the first to be taken care of: I’ll tell you. It’s because she can only marry someone with a large and clear estate; that’s one reason. Another reason is that she has a younger sister. Please, my dear, be kind enough to tell me, what man with a large and clear estate would consider that older sister while the younger one is still single?
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? People who know in what their main excellence consists, are not to be blamed (are they) for cultivating and improving what they think most valuable?—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.
You’re all too wealthy to be happy, child. Don’t you each have to marry into even more wealth because of your family’s expectations? People who understand what makes them great can’t really be blamed for focusing on what they value most, right?—Is true happiness part of your family’s perspective?—Not at all, since none of your family except for you could find happiness without their riches. So let them keep fretting, complaining, and accumulating; they wonder why they aren’t happy when they have money, thinking that it’s just because they need more; and they continue piling it up until Death, as greedy an accumulator as they are, takes it all away.
Well then once more I say, do you, my dear, tell me what you know of their avowed and general motives; and I will tell you more than you will tell me of their failings! Your aunt Hervey, you say,* has told you: Why must I ask you to let me know them, when you condescend to ask my advice on the occasion?
Well then, I’ll say it again: please, my dear, tell me what you know about their stated and general motives, and I’ll share more about their shortcomings than you could ever tell me! You say your aunt Hervey has informed you; why do I need to ask you to share that with me when you’ve graciously sought my advice on this matter?
* See Letter VIII.
* See Letter 8.
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 one another's judgment upon it?
That they forbid you from communicating with me is something I neither find surprising nor blame them for; it shows me that they recognize their own foolishness. If they do, is it really surprising that they would be hesitant to rely on each other's judgment about it?
I am glad you have found out a way to correspond with me. I approve it much. I shall more, if this first trial of it prove successful. But should it not, and should it fall into their hands, it would not concern me but for your sake.
I'm glad you've figured out a way to get in touch with me. I really appreciate it. I’ll appreciate it even more if this first attempt goes well. But if it doesn't and it ends up in their hands, it won't worry me except for your sake.
We have heard before you wrote, that all was not right between your relations and you at your coming home: that Mr. Solmes visited you, and that with a prospect of success. But I concluded the mistake lay in the person; and that his address was to Miss Arabella. And indeed had she been as good-natured as your plump ones generally are, I should have thought her too good for him by half. This must certainly be the thing, thought I; and my beloved friend is sent for to advise and assist in her nuptial preparations. Who knows, said I to my mother, but that when the man has thrown aside his yellow full-buckled peruke, and his broad-brimmed beaver (both of which I suppose were Sir Oliver's best of long standing) he may cut a tolerable figure dangling to church with Miss Bell!—The woman, as she observes, should excel the man in features: and where can she match so well for a foil?
We’ve heard, even before you wrote, that things weren’t great between you and your family when you got home: that Mr. Solmes visited you and seemed to have a chance. But I figured the problem was with him, and that his attention was meant for Miss Arabella. Honestly, if she were as kind-hearted as your usual friends, I would have thought she was way too good for him. It must be that, I thought; my dear friend is being called to help with her wedding plans. Who knows, I said to my mom, maybe once the guy takes off his old yellow wig and broad-brimmed hat (which I assume were Sir Oliver's outdated best), he might actually look decent walking into church with Miss Bell!—A woman, as she points out, should be more attractive than the man: and where could she find a better match for that?
I indulged this surmise against rumour, because I could not believe that the absurdest people in England could be so very absurd as to think of this man for you.
I entertained this assumption despite the gossip, because I couldn't believe that the most ridiculous people in England could be so completely foolish as to consider this man for you.
We heard, moreover, that you received no visiters. I could assign no reason for this, except that the preparations for your sister were to be private, and the ceremony sudden, for fear this man should, as another man did, change his mind. Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph were with me to inquire what I knew of this; and of your not being in church, either morning or afternoon, the Sunday after your return from us; to the disappointment of a little hundred of your admirers, to use their words. It was easy for me to guess the reason to be what you confirm—their apprehensions that Lovelace would be there, and attempt to wait on you home.
We also heard that you weren't seeing any visitors. I couldn't figure out why, except that the preparations for your sister were meant to be private, and the ceremony was planned quickly to avoid this man changing his mind like another did. Miss Lloyd and Miss Biddulph came to ask me what I knew about this, and also about why you weren't in church, either in the morning or afternoon, the Sunday after you returned from us; much to the disappointment of a small group of your admirers, as they put it. It was easy for me to guess the reason, which you confirmed—their worry that Lovelace would be there and try to walk you home.
My mother takes very kindly your compliments in your letter to her. Her words upon reading it were, 'Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an admirable young lady: wherever she goes, she confers a favour: whomever she leaves, she fills with regret.'—And then a little comparative reflection—'O my Nancy, that you had a little of her sweet obligingness!'
My mother really appreciates your compliments in your letter to her. When she read it, she said, 'Miss Clarissa Harlowe is an amazing young woman: wherever she goes, she brings joy; whoever she leaves, they feel sad.'—Then she added, 'Oh my Nancy, if only you had a bit of her lovely charm!'
No matter. The praise was yours. You are me; and I enjoyed it. The more enjoyed it, because—Shall I tell you the truth?—Because I think myself as well as I am—were it but for this reason, that had I twenty brother James's, and twenty sister Bell's, not one of them, nor all of them joined together, would dare to treat me as yours presume to treat you. The person who will bear much shall have much to bear all the world through; it is your own sentiment,* grounded upon the strongest instance that can be given in your own family; though you have so little improved by it.
No worries. The praise was yours. You are me, and I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it even more because—should I be honest?—I see myself as I am—if only for this reason: if I had twenty brother James's and twenty sister Bell's, not one of them, or even all of them combined, would dare to treat me the way yours dare to treat you. The person who can endure a lot will have much to endure for a lifetime; this is your own belief, based on the strongest example from your own family, even though you haven’t learned much from it.
* Letter V.
* V.
The result is this, that I am fitter for this world than you; you for the next than me:—that is the difference.—But long, long, for my sake, and for hundreds of sakes, may it be before you quit us for company more congenial to you and more worthy of you!
The result is this: I am better suited for this world than you, and you are better suited for the next than I am—that's the difference. But for my sake, and for countless others, I hope it will be a long time before you leave us for a company that is more in tune with you and more deserving of you!
I communicated to my mother the account you give of your strange reception; also what a horrid wretch they have found out for you; and the compulsory treatment they give you. It only set her on magnifying her lenity to me, on my tyrannical behaviour, as she will call it [mothers must have their way, you know, my dear] to the man whom she so warmly recommends, against whom it seems there can be no just exception; and expatiating upon the complaisance I owe her for her indulgence. So I believe I must communicate to her nothing farther—especially as I know she would condemn the correspondence between us, and that between you and Lovelace, as clandestine and undutiful proceedings, and divulge our secret besides; for duty implicit is her cry. And moreover she lends a pretty open ear to the preachments of that starch old bachelor your uncle Antony; and for an example to her daughter would be more careful how she takes your part, be the cause ever so just.
I told my mom about what you said regarding your strange welcome and the awful person they’ve found for you, along with the forced treatment they’re giving you. This just made her exaggerate how lenient she’s been with me in light of my so-called tyrannical behavior, as she likes to call it [mothers need to have their way, you know, my dear], toward the man she highly recommends, who apparently has no valid objections against him. She went on about how grateful I should be for her indulgence. So I think I should share nothing more with her—especially since I know she would disapprove of our correspondence and your connection with Lovelace, viewing it as secretive and disrespectful, and she would spill our secret too; for her motto is total obedience. Plus, she seems quite influenced by the preachy old bachelor your uncle Antony, and to set a good example for her daughter, she’ll be extra careful about supporting you, even if your cause is completely justified.
Yet is this not the right policy neither. For people who allow nothing will be granted nothing: in other words, those who aim at carrying too many points will not be able to carry any.
Yet this is not the right policy either. People who don't allow anything will not be granted anything: in other words, those who try to achieve too many goals won't be able to achieve any.
But can you divine, my dear, what the old preachment-making, plump-hearted soul, your uncle Antony, means by his frequent amblings hither?—There is such smirking and smiling between my mother and him! Such mutual praises of economy; and 'that is my way!'—and 'this I do!'—and 'I am glad it has your approbation, Sir!'—and 'you look into every thing, Madam!'—'Nothing would be done, if I did not!'—
But can you figure out, my dear, what your uncle Antony, with his preachy ways and generous heart, means by his frequent visits here? There’s so much smiling and grinning between my mother and him! They’re exchanging compliments about being frugal; and 'that’s how I do things!'—and 'this is what I do!'—and 'I’m glad you approve, Sir!'—and 'you pay attention to everything, Madam!'—'Nothing would get done if I didn’t!'—
Such exclamations against servants! Such exaltings of self! And dear heart, and good lack!—and 'las a-day!—And now-and-then their conversation sinking into a whispering accent, if I come across them!—I'll tell you, my dear, I don't above half like it.
Such outbursts against servants! Such self-importance! And my goodness, oh dear!—and what a shame!—And every now and then their conversation turns into a whisper if I happen to be around!—I’ll tell you, my dear, I don’t like it one bit.
Only that these old bachelors usually take as many years to resolve upon matrimony as they can reasonably expect to live, or I should be ready to fire upon his visits; and to recommend Mr. Hickman to my mother's acceptance, as a much more eligible man: for what he wants in years, he makes up in gravity; and if you will not chide me, I will say, that there is a primness in both (especially when the man has presumed too much with me upon my mother's favour for him, and is under discipline on that account) as make them seem near of kin: and then in contemplation of my sauciness, and what they both fear from it, they sigh away! and seem so mightily to compassionate each other, that if pity be but one remove from love, I am in no danger, while they are both in a great deal, and don't know it.
Only that these old bachelors usually take as many years to decide on marriage as they can realistically expect to live, or I would be ready to fire away during his visits; and to suggest Mr. Hickman to my mother as a much better match: for what he lacks in age, he makes up for in seriousness; and if you won't scold me, I'll say that there’s a stiffness in both of them (especially since the man has gotten a bit too comfortable with me because of my mother’s affection for him, and is now being kept in check because of it) that makes them seem quite similar: and then, thinking about my boldness and what they both fear from it, they sigh away! and seem so deeply to sympathize with each other, that if pity is just a step away from love, I’m not in any trouble, while they are both in a lot and don’t even realize it.
Now, my dear, I know you will be upon me with your grave airs: so in for the lamb, as the saying is, in for the sheep; and do you yourself look about you; for I'll have a pull with you by way of being aforehand. Hannibal, we read, always advised to attack the Romans upon their own territories.
Now, my dear, I know you'll come at me with your serious demeanor: so if we're going for the lamb, we might as well go for the whole sheep; and you should keep your eyes open too; because I'm ready to go at it with you to get a head start. Hannibal, as we read, always suggested attacking the Romans on their own land.
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.
You’re happy to say, and you really mean it, that your feelings (a pretty old-fashioned word for affection) aren’t as involved with someone else as some of your friends think. Why would you make anyone believe, my dear, that the last month or so has been particularly good for that other person, who has benefited from the niece’s gratitude 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.
But, to set that aside—so caught up!—How much, my dear?—Should I take a guess? Some of your friends think it's a lot. You seem to have 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.
Don't be angry. It's only fair; you haven't admitted that little to me. People I've heard you say, who seem to keep secrets, always spark 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 by-stander, when the person possessed (why should I not call it possessed?) knows not it has such a demon.
But you kind of backtrack on what you said, as if memory has made you uncertain—you’re not even sure if they’re [that involved]. Was it really necessary to say this to me?—and to say it confidently?—But you know best.—Though I doubt that you do. Because early love is influenced by a delicate spirit; and often reveals itself to an outsider when the person experiencing it (why not call it what it is?) doesn’t even realize they have such a feeling.
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.
But if you go on to say what better favor you might have for him compared to anyone else, it's more because of the treatment he has received and put up with for your sake than because of any personal qualities.
This is generously said. It is in character. But, O 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 eye of a lover who has vanity? And who says Lovelace wants vanity?
This is really flattering. It suits your character. But, my friend, trust me, you're in trouble. Believe me, whether you're aware of it or not, you're a bit caught up in it. Your natural generosity and big-heartedness are putting you at risk: all your friends, by fighting against him with reckless aggression, are actually helping him. And I swear, despite all his admiration and efforts, Lovelace sees more than his admiration and those efforts (which are so perfectly suited to you) will allow him to admit—he’s realized, in short, that what he’s doing is actually more effective for him than anything he could do himself. And haven't you said before that nothing is as penetrating as the gaze of a lover with vanity? And who says Lovelace lacks 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 let me know it.
In short, my dear, I think, based on his easygoing nature and demeanor, that he has experienced more than I have—more than you might believe is possible—more than I think you even realize, or else you would have told me.
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 the correspondence private, it appears there is one secret which 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!
Already, to keep him from feeling bitter about the disrespect he’s faced and continues to face, he has managed to persuade you to communicate with him privately. I know he has nothing to brag about from your letters, but isn’t his success in getting you to receive and respond to his messages a significant win? By insisting that he should keep the correspondence private, it seems there’s one secret you don’t want the world to know, and he holds that secret. He is, in fact, that secret himself! What a closeness this creates for the lover! How it pushes the parent away!
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.
Yet who, given the circumstances, can blame you? Your kindness has likely prevented some serious problems. It must continue for the same reasons as long as the situation persists. You're caught in a challenging fate against your will: but habit, with such commendable intentions, can make the inconvenience more bearable, and create an inclination. And I recommend that you—if you want to handle such a crucial situation with the wisdom that governs all your actions—not be afraid to closely examine the true reasons behind your generosity to that fortunate 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!—Has not your man himself had natural philosophy enough to observe already to your aunt Hervey, that love takes the deepest root in the steadiest minds? The deuce take his sly penetration, I was going to say; for this was six or seven weeks ago.
In my honest opinion, I’ll tell you straight up, if you look into it, it’ll turn out to be LOVE—don’t freak out, my dear!—Hasn’t your guy already pointed out to your Aunt Hervey that love takes the strongest hold on the steadiest minds? Damn his clever insight, I was going to say; because this was six or seven weeks ago.
I have been tinctured, you know. Nor on the coolest reflection, could I account how and when the jaundice began: but had been over head and ears, as the saying is, but for some of that advice from you, which I now return you. Yet my man was not half so—so what, 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 will not.—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!
I've been feeling a bit off, you know. Even after thinking it over, I can't quite figure out when the trouble started. I was really deep in it, as they say, except for some advice you gave me, which I’m giving back to you now. But my guy wasn’t even half as—well, you know—of course, Lovelace is a great guy. And if he were just—well, I won’t make you blush while you read this—honestly, I won’t. But tell me, don’t you feel a little flutter in your heart, throb, throb, throb, as you read this part? If you do, don’t be embarrassed to admit it—it’s just your generous heart, my love. But remember what the Roman seer said, Caesar, watch out for the Ides of March!
Adieu, my dearest friend.—Forgive, and very speedily, by the new found expedient, tell me that you forgive,
Adieu, my dearest friend.—Please forgive me, and quickly, using this new method, let me know that you forgive.
Your ever-affectionate, ANNA HOWE.
Your loving, ANNA HOWE.
LETTER XI
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.
You both irritated and worried me, my dearest Miss Howe, with the last part of your message. When I first read it, I thought it wasn’t necessary to be cautious with a critique when I was writing to such a dear friend. But then I realized, isn't there more to it than just a naturally lively tone? I must have made a mistake. Let me take a good look at myself, just as my beloved friend suggests.
I do so; and cannot own any of the glow, any of the throbs you mention.—Upon my word I will repeat, I cannot. And yet the passages in my letter, upon which you are so humourously 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.
I will admit; I can't feel any of the excitement or emotions you're talking about.—Honestly, I will say again, I can’t. Yet the parts of my letter that you’re making fun of do leave me open to your witty teasing. I admit that they do. I can’t figure out what mindset I was in that made me write so strangely.
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 blamable to say, they 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 I must be in love with him.
But, seriously—does it really mean that much when someone who doesn't care too much about anyone says that some people are better than others? And is it wrong to say that the ones who are treated poorly by their family but tolerate it for their own sake are the better ones? For example, I can say that Mr. Lovelace is a better choice than Mr. Solmes, and that I prefer him over that guy. But obviously, I can say that without it implying that I 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 an haughtiness in them, as if he thought his address had a merit in it, that would be more than an equivalent to a woman's love. In short, his very politeness, notwithstanding the advantages he must have had from his birth and education, appear to be constrained; and, with the most remarkable easy and genteel person, something, at times, seems to be behind in his manner that is too studiously kept in. Then, good-humoured as he is thought to be in the main to other people's servants, and this even to familiarity (although, as you have observed, a familiarity that has dignity in it not unbecoming to a man of quality) he is apt sometimes to break out into a passion with his own: An oath or a curse follows, and such looks from those servants as plainly shew terror, and that they should have fared worse had they not been in my hearing: with a confirmation in the master's looks of a surmise too well justified.
I definitely wouldn’t fall in love with him, as people say, for the world: First, because I have no respect for his morals, and I think it's a flaw—shared by our whole family (except my brother)—that he was allowed to visit us with the hope of something, which, since it was distant, didn’t give any of us the right to confront him about his questionable behavior that we heard about. Next, I see him as a vain man who could secretly enjoy having someone’s heart engaged. And thirdly, the attentiveness and admiration you attribute to him seem to carry a certain arrogance, as if he believes that his efforts are so valuable that they should outweigh a woman’s love. In short, his politeness, despite the advantages he must have had from his upbringing and education, feels forced; and even with his generally charming and graceful nature, there’s something in his manner that seems overly controlled at times. While he is thought to be generally good-natured with other people's servants—even to the point of being familiar (though, as you mentioned, this familiarity has a dignity that’s appropriate for a man of quality)—he sometimes erupts in anger with his own. An oath or a curse follows, and his servants’ expressions clearly show fear, as if they know they’d be worse off if I weren’t there to hear it, with the master’s own expression confirming that suspicion all too well.
* Letter III.
* Letter 3.
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.
Honestly, my dear, THIS man is not THE man. I have serious objections to him. My heart doesn’t race for him. I feel nothing but anger against myself for even letting such a thought arise. But you must not, my dearest friend, mistake basic gratitude for love. I can’t stand the idea that you would. However, if I ever find myself in the unfortunate position of thinking it is love, I promise you, on my word and my honor, that I will let you know.
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.
You asked me to tell you quickly, and using this new way of communicating, that I'm not upset with you for your playful teasing: I'm sending this right away, saving for my next message the explanation of why my friends are so determined to support Mr. Solmes's proposal.
Be satisfied, my dear, mean time, 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 any thing 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?
Be satisfied, my dear, for now, that I’m not upset with you: I really am not. On the contrary, I'm truly grateful for your friendly warnings; and I ask you (as I have many times before) that if you notice anything in me that’s really flawed and requires you to defend me to others out of friendship and loyalty, please let me know: because I feel I should act in a way that doesn't even give an enemy a reason to criticize me; and how can someone as weak and young as I am avoid criticism if my friend won’t hold up a mirror to show me my flaws?
Judge me, then, my dear, as any indifferent person (knowing what you know of me) would do. I may be 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 inexcusable: 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; since I have never spared you on the like occasions.
Judge me, my dear, as any detached person (given what you know about me) would. I might feel a bit hurt at first; I might blush a little for being seen as less deserving of your friendship than I hope to be; but rest assured, your kind criticism will prompt me to reflect and improve. If it doesn't, you'll have a fault to point out in me that will be completely inexcusable: a fault, I should add, that if you don’t call me out on (if you think I’m guilty), you won’t be as much, or as warmly, my friend as I am yours; since I have never held back with you in similar situations.
Here I break off to begin another letter to you, with the assurance, mean time, that I am, and ever will be,
Here I pause to start another letter to you, with the reassurance, in the meantime, that I am, and always will be,
Your equally affectionate and grateful, CL. HARLOWE.
Your equally loving and thankful, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XII
MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 2.
Indeed you would not be in love with him for the world!—Your servant, my dear. Nor would I have you. For, I think, with all the advantages of person, fortune, and family, he is not by any means worthy of you. And this opinion I give as well from the reasons you mention (which I cannot but confirm) as from what I have heard of him but a few hours ago from Mrs. Fortescue, a favourite of Lady Betty Lawrance, who knows him well—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.
You definitely wouldn’t want to be in love with him for anything!—Your servant, my dear. And I wouldn’t want that for you either. Because, even with all his good looks, wealth, and family background, he’s really not good enough for you. I say this based on the reasons you mentioned (which I completely agree with) and what I heard just a few hours ago from Mrs. Fortescue, a favorite of Lady Betty Lawrance, who knows him well. But let me congratulate you on being the first woman I’ve ever heard of who’s managed to tame that fierce beast, Love, and make it 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 be upon yourself; for it is no manner of argument that because you would not be in love, you therefore 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?
Well, if you don’t feel those thrills and sparks, then you aren’t in love—and that's perfectly valid, because you simply wouldn’t be in love; there’s nothing more to say about it. But, my dear, I will keep a close eye on you, and I hope you will watch yourself too; just because you wouldn’t want to be in love doesn’t mean you aren’t. But before I completely move on from this topic, let me give you a little advice, my charming friend—it’s just a word of caution, and it’s based on the common saying that an outsider often sees things better than the players themselves. Could it be that you’ve been dealing with such difficult and quirky people that you haven’t been able to notice those feelings? Or, if you’ve felt them occasionally, could it be that, since you had two situations to attach them to, you mistakenly assigned them to the wrong one?
But whether you have a value for Lovelace or not, I know you will be impatient to hear what Mrs. Fortescue has said of him. Nor will I keep you longer in suspense.
But whether you think highly of Lovelace or not, I know you’re eager to hear what Mrs. Fortescue has said about him. I won’t keep you in suspense any longer.
An hundred wild stories she tells of him from childhood to manhood: for, as she observed, having never been subject to contradiction, he was always as mischievous as a monkey. But I shall pass over these whole hundred of his puerile rogueries (although indicative ones, as I may say) to take notice as well of some things you are not quite ignorant of, as of others you know not, and to make a few observations upon him and his ways.
She tells a hundred wild stories about him from childhood to adulthood: because, as she pointed out, since he never faced any challenges to his words, he was always as mischievous as a monkey. But I will skip over these hundred childish pranks (even though they’re telling, I must say) to highlight some things you might not know, alongside some you might, and to share a few thoughts on him and his behavior.
Mrs. Fortescue owns, what every body knows, 'that he is notoriously, nay, avowedly, a man of pleasure; yet says, that in any thing he sets his heart upon or undertakes, he is the most industrious and persevering mortal under the sun. He rests it seems not above six hours in the twenty-four—any more than you. He delights in writing. Whether at Lord M.'s, or at Lady Betty's, or Lady Sarah's, he has always a pen in his fingers when he retires. One of his companions (confirming his love of writing) has told her, that his thoughts flow rapidly to his pen:' And you and I, my dear, have observed, on more occasions than one, that though he writes even a fine hand, he is one of the readiest and quickest of writers. He must indeed have had early a very docile genius; since a person of his pleasurable turn and active spirit, could never have submitted to take long or great pains in attaining the qualifications he is master of; qualifications so seldom attained by youth of quality and fortune; by such especially of those of either, who, like him, have never known what it was to be controuled.
Mrs. Fortescue owns, as everyone knows, that he is famously, even openly, a man of pleasure; yet says that in anything he is passionate about or undertakes, he is the most hardworking and persistent person under the sun. It seems he gets no more than six hours of rest in a day—just like you. He loves to write. Whether he's at Lord M.'s, Lady Betty's, or Lady Sarah's, he always has a pen in hand when he steps away. One of his friends, affirming his love for writing, has told her that his thoughts flow quickly onto the page: And you and I, my dear, have noticed on several occasions that even though he writes beautifully, he is one of the fastest and most efficient writers. He must have had a very eager mind from an early age; because a person with his love of pleasure and active spirit could never have endured the long effort needed to acquire the skills he possesses—skills so rarely achieved by young people of privilege and wealth, especially those who, like him, have never experienced being controlled.
'He had once it seems the vanity, upon being complimented on these talents (and on his surprising diligence, for a man of pleasure) to compare himself to Julius Caesar; who performed great actions by day, and wrote them down at night; and valued himself, that he only wanted Caesar's out-setting, to make a figure among his contemporaries.
He once, it seems, had the arrogance, when praised for these talents (and for his surprising hard work, considering he was a man of leisure) to compare himself to Julius Caesar; who achieved great things during the day and wrote them down at night; and thought that he only needed Caesar's flair to stand out among his peers.
'He spoke of this indeed, she says, with an air of pleasantry: for she observed, and so have we, that he has the art of acknowledging his vanity with so much humour, that it sets him above the contempt which is due to vanity and self-opinion; and at the same time half persuades those who hear him, that he really deserves the exultation he gives himself.'
'He really talked about this, she says, with a lighthearted tone: because she noticed, and so did we, that he has a knack for admitting his vanity with such humor that it elevates him above the disdain typically directed at vanity and self-importance; and at the same time, he almost convinces those listening that he truly deserves the pride he expresses.'
But supposing it to be true that all his vacant nightly hours are employed in writing, what can be his subjects? If, like Caesar, his own actions, he must undoubtedly be a very enterprising and very wicked man; since nobody suspects him to have a serious turn; and, decent as he is in his conversation with us, his writings are not probably such as would redound either to his own honour, or to the benefit of others, were they to be read. He must be conscious of this, since Mrs. Fortescue says, 'that in the great correspondence by letters which he holds, he is as secret and as careful as if it were of a treasonable nature;—yet troubles not his head with politics, though nobody knows the interests of princes and courts better than he is said to do.'
But let’s say it's true that all his free time at night goes into writing. What could he possibly write about? If it's about his own actions like Caesar, then he must be quite an ambitious and very immoral person since no one thinks he’s serious. And even though he seems decent in conversation with us, his writings likely wouldn’t bring him any honor or benefit anyone else if they were to be read. He must realize this, especially since Mrs. Fortescue says that in his extensive letter correspondence, he’s as secretive and careful as if it were something treasonous; yet he doesn’t bother with politics, even though no one supposedly knows more about the interests of princes and courts than he does.
That you and I, my dear, should love to write, is no wonder. We have always, from the time each could hold a pen, delighted in epistolary correspondencies. Our employments are domestic and sedentary; and we can scribble upon twenty innocent subjects, and take delight in them because they are innocent; though were they to be seen, they might not much profit or please others. But that such a gay, lively young fellow as this, who rides, hunts, travels, frequents the public entertainments, and has means to pursue his pleasures, should be able to set himself down to write for hours together, as you and I have heard him say he frequently does, that is the strange thing.
That you and I, my dear, love to write is no surprise. Ever since we could hold a pen, we’ve enjoyed writing letters to each other. Our lives are home-based and laid-back, and we can jot down notes about a variety of lighthearted topics, finding joy in them simply because they’re lighthearted; though if others were to see them, they might not find them especially valuable or entertaining. But it’s unusual that such a lively young man like him, who rides, hunts, travels, goes to social events, and has the means to enjoy his pleasures, can sit down and write for hours at a time, as you and I have heard him say he often does.
Mrs. Fortescue says, 'that he is a complete master of short-hand writing.' By the way, what inducements could a swift writer as he have to learn short-hand!
Mrs. Fortescue says, 'that he is a total expert in shorthand writing.' By the way, what reasons could a fast writer like him have to learn shorthand!
She says (and we know it as well as she) 'that he has a surprising memory, and a very lively imagination.'
She says (and we know it just like she does) 'that he has an amazing memory, and a really vivid imagination.'
Whatever his other vices are, all the world, as well as Mrs. Fortescue, says, 'he is a sober man. And among all his bad qualities, gaming, that great waster of time as well as fortune, is not his vice:' So that he must have his head as cool, and his reason as clear, as the prime of youth and his natural gaiety will permit; and by his early morning hours, a great portion of time upon his hands to employ in writing, or worse.
Whatever his other flaws may be, everyone, including Mrs. Fortescue, claims, 'he is a sober man.' And among all his bad qualities, gambling, that huge waste of time and money, isn’t one of them. So he must have his head as cool and his reasoning as clear as youth and his natural cheerfulness allow; plus, he has plenty of time on his hands in the early mornings to use for writing or something even less productive.
Mrs. Fortescue says, 'he has one gentleman who is more his intimate and correspondent than any of the rest.' You remember what his dismissed bailiff said of him and of his associates.* I don't find but that Mrs. Fortescue confirms this part of it, 'that all his relations are afraid of him; and that his pride sets him above owing obligations to them. She believes he is clear of the world; and that he will continue so;' No doubt from the same motive that makes him avoid being obliged to his relations.
Mrs. Fortescue says, "He has one gentleman who is closer to him and communicates with him more than anyone else." You remember what his fired bailiff said about him and his associates.* I see that Mrs. Fortescue backs this up, saying that all his family members are scared of him and that his pride makes him feel above owing them anything. She believes he is isolated from the world and will stay that way; probably for the same reason that he avoids being indebted to his family.
* Letter IV.
* Letter 4.
A person willing to think favourably of him would hope, that a brave, a learned, and a diligent, man, cannot be naturally a bad man.—But if he be better than his enemies say he is (and if worse he is bad indeed) he is guilty of an inexcusable fault in being so careless as he is of his reputation. I think a man can be so but from one of these two reasons: either that he is conscious he deserves the ill spoken of him; or, that he takes a pride in being thought worse than he is. Both very bad and threatening indications; since the first must shew him to be utterly abandoned; and it is but natural to conclude from the other, that what a man is not ashamed to have imputed to him, he will not scruple to be guilty of whenever he has an opportunity.
A person who’s willing to see him in a positive light would hope that a brave, knowledgeable, and hardworking man can’t be inherently bad. But if he’s better than his enemies claim (and if he’s worse, then he’s truly bad), he’s making a serious mistake by being so careless about his reputation. I believe a man can be this way for one of two reasons: either he knows he deserves the bad stuff said about him, or he takes pride in being seen as worse than he actually is. Both are really bad and concerning signs; the first suggests he’s completely lost, and it’s only natural to think that if a man isn’t ashamed of the negative things said about him, he won’t hesitate to act on them whenever he can.
Upon the whole, and upon all I could gather from Mrs. Fortescue, Mr. Lovelace is a very faulty man. You and I have thought him too gay, too inconsiderate, too rash, too little an hypocrite, to be deep. You see he never would disguise his natural temper (haughty as it certainly is) with respect to your brother's behaviour to him. Where he thinks a contempt due, he pays it to the uttermost. Nor has he complaisance enough to spare your uncles.
Overall, from everything I could gather from Mrs. Fortescue, Mr. Lovelace is quite a flawed man. You and I have considered him too carefree, too thoughtless, too reckless, and not enough of a hypocrite to be truly clever. He never hides his true nature (arrogant as it definitely is) when it comes to your brother's behavior toward him. When he feels someone deserves contempt, he shows it fully. He doesn’t even have the courtesy to spare your uncles.
But were he deep, and ever so deep, you would soon penetrate him, if they would leave you to yourself. His vanity would be your clue. Never man had more: Yet, as Mrs. Fortescue observed, 'never did man carry it off so happily.' There is a strange mixture in it of humourous vivacity:—Since but for one half of what he says of himself, when he is in the vein, any other man would be insufferable.
But if he were really deep, and I mean really deep, you'd figure him out quickly if they just left you alone. His pride would be your hint. No one has more of it than he does: yet, as Mrs. Fortescue pointed out, 'no one has ever handled it so well.' There's a weird mix of humorous energy in him: because if it weren't for just half of what he says about himself when he's in the mood, any other guy would be unbearable.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
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.
"Speak of the devil," is an old saying. The lively fellow just dropped by for a visit and has just left. He's full of impatience and anger about how you're being treated, and he's also really concerned that they'll manage to persuade 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.
I shared my thoughts with him, saying that he would never consider someone like Solmes; instead, it will likely result in a compromise where neither option will be chosen.
No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable, ever had so little favour from a woman for whose sake he had borne so much.
No man, he said, whose wealth and connections are so significant, has ever received so little favor from a woman for whom he has endured so much.
I told him my mind as freely as I used to do. But whoever 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 spoke my mind to him just like I used to. But who was at fault, really? He said there were spies watching his every move and trying to dig into his life and morals, and that your brother and uncles were behind it.
I told him, that this was very hard upon him; and the more so, as neither his life nor morals perhaps would stand a fair inquiry.
I told him that this was really tough on him, especially since neither his life nor his morals would probably hold up under close examination.
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 the shallow souls of the Harlowes! 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.
He smiled and called himself my servant. The moment was too perfect, he said, for Miss Howe, who never held back from criticizing him, to let it go. But, for goodness' sake, the Harlowes are such shallow people! Can you believe it? They were trying to plot against him. They better be careful he doesn't give them a taste of their own medicine. Their hearts were more suited for such schemes 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?
I asked him if he thought he was smarter than they were for doing those kinds of things, as he put it.
He drew off: and then ran into the highest professions of reverence and affection for you.
He pulled away and then launched into a stream of deep respect and affection for you.
The object so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his professions?
The commendable object, who can question the truth of his claims?
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
Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend!—I love and admire you for the generous conclusion of your last letter more than I can express. I began this letter with some teasing, knowing that you always enjoyed my playful side; yet never was there a heart that glowed with more friendly love than that of
Your own ANNA HOWE.
Your own ANNA HOWE.
LETTER XIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE WEDNESDAY, MARCH 1.
I now take up my pen to lay before you the inducements and motive which my friends have to espouse so earnestly the address of this Mr. Solmes.
I’m now picking up my pen to share with you the reasons and motivations behind my friends' strong support for Mr. Solmes’ proposal.
In order to set this matter in a clear light, it is necessary to go a little back, and even perhaps to mention some things which you already know: and so you may look upon what I am going to relate, as a kind of supplement to my letters of the 15th and 20th of January last.*
To clarify this issue, I need to go back a bit and perhaps mention some things you already know. So, consider what I’m about to share as a sort of addition to my letters from January 15th and 20th.*
* Letters IV. and V.
* Letters 4 and 5.
In those letters, of which I have kept memorandums, I gave you an account of my brother's and sister's antipathy to Mr. Lovelace; and the methods they took (so far as they had then come to my knowledge) to ruin him in the opinion of my other friends. And I told you, that after a very cold, yet not a directly affrontive behaviour to him, they all of a sudden* became more violent, and proceeded to personal insults; which brought on at last the unhappy rencounter between my brother and him.
In those letters, which I’ve kept notes on, I told you about my brother's and sister's dislike for Mr. Lovelace, and how they tried (at least based on what I knew at the time) to turn my other friends against him. I mentioned that after behaving very coolly, but not outright insulting him, they suddenly became more aggressive and started making personal insults, which eventually led to the unfortunate confrontation between my brother and him.
* See Letter IV.
* See Letter 4.
Now you must know, that from the last conversation that passed between my aunt and me, it comes out, that this sudden vehemence on my brother's and sister's parts, was owing to stronger reasons than to the college-begun antipathy on his side, or to slighted love on hers; to wit, to an apprehension that my uncles intended to follow my grandfather's example in my favour; at least in a higher degree than they wish they should. An apprehension founded it seems on a conversation between my two uncles and my brother and sister: which my aunt communicated to me in confidence, as an argument to prevail upon me to accept of Mr. Solmes's noble settlements: urging, that such a seasonable compliance, would frustrate my brother's and sister's views, and establish me for ever in the love of my father and uncles.
Now you should know that from the last conversation I had with my aunt, it became clear that my brother's and sister's sudden intensity was due to deeper reasons than just the college rivalry on his side or unrequited feelings on hers. Instead, it stemmed from a worry that my uncles planned to follow in my grandfather's footsteps regarding me, at least to a greater extent than they intended. This concern apparently came from a discussion between my two uncles and my brother and sister, which my aunt shared with me in confidence to convince me to accept Mr. Solmes's generous offers. She insisted that such timely compliance would thwart my brother's and sister's plans and secure my place in the affections of my father and uncles forever.
I will give you the substance of this communicated conversation, after I have made a brief introductory observation or two, which however I hardly need to make to you who are so well acquainted with us all, did not the series or thread of the story require it.
I will share the main points of this conversation after I make a couple of brief introductory remarks, which I barely need to say to you, since you know us all so well, but the flow of the story calls for it.
I have more than once mentioned to you the darling view some of us have long had of raising a family, as it is called. A reflection, as I have often thought, upon our own, which is no considerable or upstart one, on either side, on my mother's especially.—A view too frequently it seems entertained by families which, having great substance, cannot be satisfied without rank and title.
I've mentioned to you more than once how some of us have always dreamed of raising a family. It's a thought I've often had about our own family, which isn't exactly impressive or flashy on either side, particularly on my mother's side. It seems this idea is often held by families that have a lot of wealth but still feel they need rank and title to be satisfied.
My uncles had once extended this view to each of us three children; urging, that as they themselves intended not to marry, we each of us might be so portioned, and so advantageously matched, as that our posterity, if not ourselves, might make a first figure in our country.—While my brother, as the only son, thought the two girls might be very well provided for by ten or fifteen thousand pounds a-piece: and that all the real estates in the family, to wit, my grandfather's, father's, and two uncles', and the remainder of their respective personal estates, together with what he had an expectation of from his godmother, would make such a noble fortune, and give him such an interest, as might entitle him to hope for a peerage. Nothing less would satisfy his ambition.
My uncles once shared this perspective with each of us three kids; they insisted that since they had no plans to marry, we should each be well provided for and matched advantageously so that our descendants, if not us, could stand out in our country. My brother, being the only son, believed that the two girls could be very well taken care of with ten or fifteen thousand pounds each. He thought all the family real estate—my grandfather's, father's, and two uncles'—along with the remainder of their personal estates and what he expected to inherit from his godmother, would create such a substantial fortune and give him enough status to aspire for a peerage. Nothing less would fulfill his ambitions.
With this view he gave himself airs very early; 'That his grandfather and uncles were his stewards: that no man ever had better: that daughters were but incumbrances and drawbacks upon a family:' and this low and familiar expression was often in his mouth, and uttered always with the self-complaisance which an imagined happy thought can be supposed to give the speaker; to wit, 'That a man who has sons brings up chickens for his own table,' [though once I made his comparison stagger with him, by asking him, If the sons, to make it hold, were to have their necks wrung off?] 'whereas daughters are chickens brought up for tables of other men.' This, accompanied with the equally polite reflection, 'That, to induce people to take them off their hands, the family-stock must be impaired into the bargain,' used to put my sister out of all patience: and, although she now seems to think a younger sister only can be an incumbrance, she was then often proposing to me to make a party in our own favour against my brother's rapacious views, as she used to call them: while I was for considering the liberties he took of this sort, as the effect of a temporary pleasantry, which, in a young man, not naturally good-humoured, I was glad to see; or as a foible that deserved raillery, but no other notice.
With this attitude, he held himself in high regard from a young age; he believed that his grandfather and uncles were his stewards, claiming that no one had better ones. He thought of daughters as nothing but burdens on a family. This casual and familiar saying was frequently on his lips, always delivered with the self-satisfaction that a happy thought can bring, like, "A man with sons is raising chickens for his own table," [though I once threw him off balance by asking him if that meant the sons would have their necks wrung?] "while daughters are just chickens raised for the tables of other men." This, along with the equally charming observation that to encourage people to take daughters off their hands, the family's value must be diminished in the process, would drive my sister completely mad. And although she now seems to think that a younger sister can only be a burden, back then she often suggested that we team up against my brother’s greedy intentions, as she liked to call them. Meanwhile, I preferred to see his behavior as just a fleeting joke, something light-hearted to enjoy from a young man who wasn’t naturally good-humored, or merely a quirk that deserved teasing but no serious attention.
But when my grandfather's will (of the purport of which in my particular favour, until it was opened, I was as ignorant as they) had lopped off one branch of my brother's expectation, he was extremely dissatisfied with me. Nobody indeed was pleased: for although every one loved me, yet being the youngest child, father, uncles, brother, sister, all thought themselves postponed, as to matter of right and power [Who loves not power?]: And my father himself could not bear that I should be made sole, as I may call it, and independent; for such the will, as to that estate and the powers it gave, (unaccountably, as they all said,) made me.
But when my grandfather's will was opened, and I found out it favored me in a way I had no idea about, it cut off part of my brother's expectations, and he was really upset with me. No one was happy, actually. Although everyone loved me, being the youngest child, my father, uncles, brother, and sister all felt robbed of their rights and power [Who doesn’t want power?]. Even my dad couldn’t stand the idea of me being the sole heir and independent; the will surprisingly made me that way regarding the estate and the powers it granted.
To obviate, therefore, every one's jealousy, I gave up to my father's management, as you know, not only the estate, but the money bequeathed me (which was a moiety of what my grandfather had by him at his death; the other moiety being bequeathed to my sister); contenting myself to take as from his bounty what he was pleased to allow me, without desiring the least addition to my annual stipend. And then I hoped I had laid all envy asleep: but still my brother and sister (jealous, as now is evident, of my two uncles' favour of me, and of the pleasure I had given my father and them by this act of duty) were every now-and-then occasionally doing me covert ill offices: of which, however, I took the less notice, when I was told of them, as I thought I had removed the cause of their envy; and I imputed every thing of that sort to the petulance they are both pretty much noted for.
To eliminate everyone's jealousy, I handed over to my father's control, as you know, not just the estate, but also the money that was left to me (which was half of what my grandfather had when he passed away; the other half was left to my sister). I was content to accept whatever he chose to give me, without asking for any increase in my yearly allowance. I hoped that this would put an end to any envy; but my brother and sister, as it turns out, were still jealous of my two uncles' favoritism toward me and the happiness I brought my father and them with this act of duty. They kept trying to undermine me in secret, but I paid less attention to it when I heard about their actions, as I thought I had removed the reason for their jealousy, attributing their behavior to the irritability that both of them are known for.
My brother's acquisition then took place. This made us all very happy; and he went down to take possession of it: and his absence (on so good an account too) made us still happier. Then followed Lord M.'s proposal for my sister: and this was an additional felicity for the time. I have told you how exceedingly good-humoured it made my sister.
My brother's acquisition then happened. This made us all really happy, and he went to take possession of it. His absence (for such a good reason) made us even happier. Next came Lord M.'s proposal for my sister, which added to our joy at the time. I've mentioned how incredibly cheerful it made my sister.
You know how that went off: you know what came on in its place.
You know how that went down: you know what took its place.
My brother then returned; and we were all wrong again: and Bella, as I observed in my letters abovementioned, had an opportunity to give herself the credit of having refused Mr. Lovelace, on the score of his reputed faulty morals. This united my brother and sister in one cause. They set themselves on all occasions to depreciate Mr. Lovelace, and his family too (a family which deserves nothing but respect): and this gave rise to the conversation I am leading to, between my uncles and them: of which I now come to give the particulars; after I have observed, that it happened before the rencounter, and soon after the inquiry made into Mr. Lovelace's affairs had come out better than my brother and sister hoped it would.*
My brother then came back, and we were all wrong again: and Bella, as I mentioned in my earlier letters, had the chance to take credit for rejecting Mr. Lovelace because of his allegedly questionable morals. This brought my brother and sister together for a common cause. They made it their mission to criticize Mr. Lovelace and his family as well (a family that deserves nothing but respect): and this led to the conversation I'm about to share, between my uncles and them. I should note that this took place before the meeting, and shortly after the investigation into Mr. Lovelace's affairs had turned out better than my brother and sister expected.*
* See Letter IV.
* See Letter 4.
They were bitterly inveighing against him, in their usual way, strengthening their invectives with some new stories in his disfavour, when my uncle Antony, having given them a patient hearing, declared, 'That he thought the gentleman behaved like a gentleman; his niece Clary with prudence; and that a more honourable alliance for the family, as he had often told them, could not be wished for: since Mr. Lovelace had a very good paternal estate; and that, by the evidence of an enemy, all clear. Nor did it appear, that he was so bad a man as he had been represented to be: wild indeed; but it was a gay time of life: he was a man of sense: and he was sure that his niece would not have him, if she had not good reason to think him reformed, or that there was a likelihood that she could reform him by her example.'
They were harshly criticizing him, just like they always do, adding some new negative stories about him when my uncle Antony, having listened patiently, stated, 'I believe the gentleman is acting like a gentleman; his niece Clary has shown good judgment; and, as I’ve often said, there couldn’t be a better match for the family. Mr. Lovelace has a solid family estate, and that’s confirmed even by his enemies. It also doesn’t seem like he’s as bad as people have claimed: he might be a bit wild, but that’s just part of being young and carefree. He’s a sensible guy, and I'm sure my niece wouldn't be interested if she didn’t have a good reason to believe he could change or that she could help him change through her own behavior.'
My uncle then gave one instance, my aunt told me, as a proof of a generosity in Mr. Lovelace's spirit, which convinced him that he was not a bad man in nature; and that he was of a temper, he was pleased to say, like my own; which was, That when he (my uncle) had represented to him, that he might, if he pleased, make three or four hundred pounds a year of his paternal estate, more than he did; he answered, 'That his tenants paid their rents well: that it was a maxim with his family, from which he would by no means depart, Never to rack-rent old tenants, or their descendants; and that it was a pleasure to him, to see all his tenants look fat, sleek, and contented.'
My uncle shared an example, my aunt told me, as proof of Mr. Lovelace's generous spirit, which convinced him that he wasn't a bad person at heart. He even said that Mr. Lovelace's temperament was similar to mine. When my uncle pointed out that Mr. Lovelace could easily make three or four hundred pounds a year from his family estate if he wanted, Mr. Lovelace replied, "My tenants pay their rents on time. It’s a principle in my family that I refuse to break: I never overcharge long-term tenants or their descendants. It brings me joy to see all my tenants looking healthy, happy, and satisfied."
I indeed had once occasionally heard him say something like this; and thought he never looked so well as at that time;—except once; and that was in an instance given by him on the following incident.
I had actually heard him say something like this before, and I thought he looked his best at that time—except for one occasion, which he referenced in the following incident.
An unhappy tenant of my uncle Antony came petitioning to my uncle for forbearance, in Mr. Lovelace's presence. When he had fruitlessly withdrawn, Mr. Lovelace pleaded his cause so well, that the man was called in again, and had his suit granted. And Mr. Lovelace privately followed him out, and gave him two guineas, for present relief; the man having declared, that, at the time, he had not five shilling in the world.
An unhappy tenant of my uncle Antony came to my uncle asking for leniency, while Mr. Lovelace was present. After trying unsuccessfully to leave, Mr. Lovelace argued so persuasively that the man was called back in and got what he wanted. Mr. Lovelace then quietly followed him out and gave him two guineas for immediate help; the man had said that he didn't have five shillings to his name at that moment.
On this occasion, he told my uncle (but without any airs of ostentation), that he had once observed an old tenant and his wife in a very mean habit at church; and questioning them about it the next day, as he knew they had no hard bargain in their farm, the man said, he had done some very foolish things with a good intention, which had put him behind-hand, and he could not have paid his rent, and appear better. He asked him how long it would take him to retrieve the foolish step he acknowledged he had made. He said, Perhaps two or three years. Well then, said he, I will abate you five pounds a year for seven years, provided you will lay it upon your wife and self, that you may make a Sunday-appearance like MY tenants. Mean time, take this (putting his hand in his pocket, and giving him five guineas), to put yourselves in present plight; and let me see you next Sunday at church, hand in hand, like an honest and loving couple; and I bespeak you to dine with me afterwards.
On this occasion, he told my uncle (but without any showiness) that he had once seen an old tenant and his wife dressed very poorly at church. The next day, when he asked them about it, he knew they weren’t struggling with their farm. The man explained that he had done some really foolish things with good intentions that had gotten him into a tight spot, and he couldn't pay his rent and still look respectable. He asked him how long it would take to fix the mistake he admitted to. The man replied, "Maybe two or three years." Well then, he said, "I’ll reduce your rent by five pounds a year for seven years, on the condition that you and your wife dress nicely so you can make a respectable appearance like my other tenants. In the meantime, take this" (as he reached into his pocket and handed him five guineas) "to help you out for now; and I want to see you both next Sunday at church, hand in hand, like a decent and loving couple; and I’d like you to join me for dinner afterward."
Although this pleased me when I heard it, as giving an instance of generosity and prudence at the same time, not lessening (as my uncle took notice) the yearly value of the farm, yet, my dear, I had no throbs, no glows upon it!—Upon my word, I had not. Nevertheless I own to you, that I could not help saying to myself on the occasion, 'Were it ever to be my lot to have this man, he would not hinder me from pursuing the methods I so much delight to take'—With 'A pity, that such a man were not uniformly good!'
Even though I was pleased when I heard this because it showed both generosity and wisdom, and it didn't decrease the farm's yearly value (as my uncle noted), I honestly felt no excitement about it! I really didn’t. Still, I must admit that I couldn’t help thinking to myself at the time, 'If I ever ended up with this man, he wouldn’t stop me from following the paths I love so much'—with a thought of, 'What a shame that such a man isn’t consistently good!'
Forgive me this digression.
Forgive the distraction.
My uncle went on (as my aunt told me), 'That, besides his paternal estate, he was the immediate heir to very splendid fortunes: that, when he was in treaty for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him (my uncle) what great things he and his two half-sisters intended to do for him, in order to qualify him for the title, which would be extinct at his Lordship's death, and which they hoped to procure for him, or a still higher, that of those ladies' father, which had been for some time extinct on failure of heirs male: that it was with this view that his relations were all so earnest for his marrying: that as he saw not where Mr. Lovelace could better himself; so, truly, he thought there was wealth enough in their own family to build up three considerable ones: that, therefore, he must needs say, he was the more desirous of this alliance, as there was a great probability, not only from Mr. Lovelace's descent, but from his fortunes, that his niece Clarissa might one day be a peeress of Great Britain:—and, upon that prospect [here was the mortifying stroke], he should, for his own part, think it not wrong to make such dispositions as should contribute to the better support of the dignity.'
My uncle said (as my aunt told me), 'That, in addition to his father’s estate, he was the direct heir to some very impressive wealth: that, when he was negotiating for his niece Arabella, Lord M. told him (my uncle) about the great things he and his two half-sisters planned to do for him, so he would qualify for the title that would end with his Lordship's death, and they hoped to get for him that title, or even a higher one—their father’s title, which had been extinct for a while due to a lack of male heirs: that it was for this reason that his relatives were all so eager for him to marry: that since he couldn’t see how Mr. Lovelace could do better for himself, he honestly thought there was enough wealth in their own family to establish three significant households: that, therefore, he had to say he was even more keen on this alliance, as there was a good chance, not only because of Mr. Lovelace’s lineage but also his wealth, that his niece Clarissa might one day become a peeress of Great Britain:—and, thinking about that [here was the painful part], he believed it wouldn’t be wrong to arrange things in a way that would help support that dignity.'
My uncle Harlowe, it seems, far from disapproving of what his brother had said, declared, 'That there was but one objection to an alliance with Mr. Lovelace; to wit, his faulty morals: especially as so much could be done for Miss Bella, and for my brother too, by my father; and as my brother was actually possessed of a considerable estate by virtue of the deed of gift and will of his godmother Lovell.'
My uncle Harlowe, it seems, rather than disapproving of what his brother said, stated, 'The only problem with an alliance with Mr. Lovelace is his questionable morals; especially since my father could do so much for Miss Bella and my brother as well, and since my brother actually owns a significant estate thanks to the deed of gift and will from his godmother Lovell.'
Had I known this before, I should the less have wondered at many things I have been unable to account for in my brother's and sister's behaviour to me; and been more on my guard than I imagined there was a necessity to be.
If I had known this earlier, I would have been less surprised by many things I couldn't explain about my brother’s and sister’s behavior toward me; and I would have been more cautious than I thought I needed to be.
You may easily guess how much this conversation affected my brother at the time. He could not, you know, but be very uneasy to hear two of his stewards talk at this rate to his face.
You can easily imagine how this conversation impacted my brother back then. He couldn't help but feel very uncomfortable hearing two of his stewards talk like that right in front of him.
He had from early days, by his violent temper, made himself both feared and courted by the whole family. My father himself, as I have lately mentioned, very often (long before my brother's acquisition had made him still more assuming) gave way to him, as to an only son who was to build up the name, and augment the honour of it. Little inducement, therefore, had my brother to correct a temper which gave him so much consideration with every body.
From a young age, his aggressive temper made him both feared and sought after by the entire family. My father, as I’ve mentioned recently, frequently gave in to him, like he would with an only son meant to carry on the family name and increase its honor. Therefore, my brother had little reason to change a temper that earned him so much respect from everyone.
'See, Sister Bella,' said he, in an indecent passion before my uncles, on this occasion I have mentioned—'See how it is!—You and I ought to look about us!—This little syren is in a fair way to out-uncle, as she has already out-grandfather'd, us both!'
'Look, Sister Bella,' he said, in an over-the-top way in front of my uncles, on that occasion I mentioned—'Look at this!—You and I should keep our eyes open!—This little siren is on track to out-uncle us, just like she’s already out-grandfathered us both!'
From this time (as I now find it plain upon recollection) did my brother and sister behave to me, as to one who stood in their way; and to each other as having but one interest: and were resolved, therefore, to bend all their force to hinder an alliance from taking effect, which they believed was likely to oblige them to contract their views.
From this time (as I can clearly see now upon reflection), my brother and sister treated me like I was an obstacle in their way, and they treated each other as if they had only one interest. They were determined to do everything they could to stop a relationship from happening, which they thought would force them to limit their ambitions.
And how was this to be done, after such a declaration from both my uncles?
And how was I supposed to do that after such a statement from both my uncles?
My brother found out the way. My sister (as I have said) went hand in hand with him. Between them, the family union was broke, and every one was made uneasy. Mr. Lovelace was received more and more coldly by all: but not being to be put out of his course by slights only, personal affronts succeeded; defiances next; then the rencounter: that, as you have heard, did the business. And now, if I do not oblige them, my grandfather's estate is to be litigated with me; and I, who never designed to take advantage of the independency bequeathed me, am to be as dependent upon my father's will, as a daughter ought to be who knows not what is good for herself. This is the language of the family now.
My brother discovered the way. My sister (as I mentioned) went hand in hand with him. Together, they broke our family apart, and everyone felt uncomfortable. Mr. Lovelace was received more and more coldly by everyone; but since he wouldn’t be deterred by just slights, personal insults followed, then challenges, and finally the confrontation: that, as you’ve heard, settled things. And now, if I don’t comply with them, my grandfather's estate will be contested with me; and I, who never intended to take advantage of the independence left to me, will have to depend on my father's will, just like a daughter who doesn’t know what’s best for herself. This is the talk of the family now.
But if I will suffer myself to be prevailed upon, how happy (as they lay it out) shall we all be!—Such presents am I to have, such jewels, and I cannot tell what, from every one in the family! Then Mr. Solmes's fortunes are so great, and his proposals so very advantageous, (no relation whom he values,) that there will be abundant room to raise mine upon them, were the high-intended favours of my own relations to be quite out of the question. Moreover, it is now, with this view, found out, that I have qualifications which of themselves will be a full equivalent to Mr. Solmes for the settlements he is to make; and still leave him under an obligation to me for my compliance. He himself thinks so, I am told—so very poor a creature is he, even in his own eyes, as well as in theirs.
But if I let myself be convinced, how happy we’ll all be! I’m going to get such amazing gifts, like jewels and who knows what else, from everyone in the family! Plus, Mr. Solmes has such great wealth and his offers are so beneficial, (he doesn’t value any relatives of his,) that there would be plenty of room for me to benefit from them, even if my own family’s generous gestures are completely off the table. Also, it turns out that I have qualities that on their own will be more than enough compared to what Mr. Solmes will offer in terms of settlements; it’ll still leave him indebted to me for agreeing to this. I've heard he thinks that way himself—what a pathetic person he is, even in his own eyes, just like everyone else sees him.
These desirable views answered, how rich, how splendid shall we all three be! And I—what obligations shall I lay upon them all!—And that only by doing an act of duty so suitable to my character, and manner of thinking; if, indeed, I am the generous as well as dutiful creature I have hitherto made them believe I am.
These exciting visions answered, how wealthy and magnificent we will all be! And I—what responsibilities will I place on them all!—And that’s only by fulfilling a duty that fits my character and way of thinking; if, indeed, I truly am the generous and responsible person I’ve led them to believe I am.
This is the bright side that is turned to my father and uncles, to captivate them: but I am afraid that my brother's and sister's design is to ruin me with them at any rate. Were it otherwise, would they not on my return from you have rather sought to court than frighten me into measures which their hearts are so much bent to carry? A method they have followed ever since.
This is the side that my father and uncles see, meant to win them over: but I'm worried that my brother and sister actually want to undermine me with them regardless. If it were different, wouldn’t they have tried to win me over instead of scaring me into actions they’re so determined to pursue? This is the approach they’ve taken all along.
Mean time, orders are given to all the servants to shew the highest respect to Mr. Solmes; the generous Mr. Solmes is now his character with some of our family! But are not these orders a tacit confession, that they think his own merit will not procure him respect? He is accordingly, in every visit he makes, not only highly caressed by the principals of our family, but obsequiously attended and cringed to by the menials.—And the noble settlements are echoed from every mouth.
In the meantime, orders are given to all the servants to show the utmost respect to Mr. Solmes; the generous Mr. Solmes is now his reputation with some of our family! But aren’t these orders a silent admission that they believe his own worth won’t earn him respect? So, during every visit he makes, he is not only warmly welcomed by the key members of our family but also attended to and fawned over by the servants. And the grand arrangements are repeated by everyone.
Noble is the word used to enforce the offers of a man who is mean enough avowedly to hate, and wicked enough to propose to rob of their just expectations, his own family, (every one of which at the same time stands in too much need of his favour,) in order to settle all he is worth upon me; and if I die without children, and he has none by any other marriage, upon a family which already abounds. Such are his proposals.
Noble is the word used to describe the offers of a man who openly hates and is cruel enough to try to take away the rightful expectations of his own family, all of whom desperately need his support, just to leave everything he has to me; and if I die without children, and he has none from any other marriage, then to a family that already has plenty. Those are his proposals.
But were there no other motive to induce me to despise the upstart man, is not this unjust one to his family enough?—The upstart man, I repeat; for he was not born to the immense riches he is possessed of: riches left by one niggard to another, in injury to the next heir, because that other is a niggard. And should I not be as culpable, do you think, in my acceptance of such unjust settlements, as he is in the offer of them, if I could persuade myself to be a sharer in them, or suffer a reversionary expectation of possessing them to influence my choice?
But even if there were no other reason to look down on that arrogant guy, isn’t this unfair treatment of his family enough?—The arrogant guy, I say again; because he wasn’t born into the huge wealth he has now: riches left by one miser to another, harming the next heir, simply because that other is also a miser. And shouldn’t I be just as guilty, do you think, in accepting such unfair arrangements, as he is in offering them, if I could convince myself to be a part of them, or let the hope of inheriting them sway my decisions?
Indeed, it concerns me not a little, that my friends could be brought to encourage such offers on such motives as I think a person of conscience should not presume to begin the world with.
Indeed, it worries me a lot that my friends could be led to support such offers for reasons that I believe a person with a conscience shouldn't start their journey in life with.
But this it seems is the only method that can be taken to disappoint Mr. Lovelace; and at the same time to answer all my relations have wish for each of us. And surely I will not stand against such an accession to the family as may happen from marrying Mr. Solmes: since now a possibility is discovered, (which such a grasping mind as my brother's can easily turn into a probability,) that my grandfather's estate will revert to it, with a much more considerable one of the man's own. Instances of estates falling in, in cases far more unlikely than this, are insisted upon; and my sister says, in the words of an old saw, It is good to be related to an estate.
But it seems this is the only way to let Mr. Lovelace down while also meeting what our families want for us. And I certainly won’t oppose such a valuable addition to the family that could come from marrying Mr. Solmes, especially since it’s now been suggested (and someone as ambitious as my brother can easily turn this into a sure thing) that my grandfather’s estate could come back to us, along with a much larger one belonging to Mr. Solmes himself. There are examples of estates being handed down in cases that are far less likely than this, and my sister says, quoting an old saying, it’s good to be connected to an estate.
While Solmes, smiling no doubt to himself at a hope so remote, by offers only, obtains all their interests; and doubts not to join to his own the estate I am envied for; which, for the conveniency of its situation between two of his, will it seems be of twice the value to him that it would be of to any other person; and is therefore, I doubt not, a stronger motive with him than the wife.
While Solmes, probably smiling to himself at such a distant hope, gets all their interests with just offers; and he is sure he'll add to his own the estate I’m envied for; which, due to its convenient location between two of his, will apparently be worth twice as much to him as it would be to anyone else; and so, I have no doubt, is a stronger motivation for him than marrying the wife.
These, my dear, seem to me the principal inducements of my relations to espouse so vehemently as they do this man's suit. And here, once more, must I deplore the family fault, which gives those inducements such a force as it will be difficult to resist.
These, my dear, seem to me the main reasons why my family is so eager to support this man's proposal. And here, once again, I must lament the family flaw that makes those reasons so compelling that it will be hard to resist.
And thus far, let matters with regard to Mr. Solmes and me come out as they will, my brother has succeeded in his views; that is to say, he has, in the first place, got my FATHER to make the cause his own, and to insist upon my compliance as an act of duty.
And so far, let things between Mr. Solmes and me unfold as they will, my brother has gotten his way; that is to say, he has, first of all, convinced my DAD to take up the cause as his own and to insist on my agreement as a matter of responsibility.
My MOTHER has never thought fit to oppose my father's will, when once he has declared himself determined.
My mom has never felt it was necessary to go against my dad's wishes once he has made up his mind.
My UNCLES, stiff, unbroken, highly-prosperous bachelors, give me leave to say, (though very worthy persons in the main,) have as high notions of a child's duty, as of a wife's obedience; in the last of which, my mother's meekness has confirmed them, and given them greater reason to expect the first.
My uncles, who are stiff, unyielding, and quite successful bachelors, allow me to say (though they are generally good people) that they have very high expectations for a child's duty, similar to their expectations for a wife's obedience. My mother's submissiveness has reinforced their views and given them even more reason to anticipate the former.
My aunt HERVEY (not extremely happy in her own nuptials, and perhaps under some little obligation) is got over, and chuses [sic] not to open her lips in my favour against the wills of a father and uncles so determined.
My aunt HERVEY (not very happy in her own marriage, and maybe feeling some obligation) has come around and chooses not to say anything nice about me despite the strong wishes of my father and uncles.
This passiveness in my mother and in my aunt, in a point so contrary to their own first judgments, is too strong a proof that my father is absolutely resolved.
This passiveness in my mother and aunt, which is so contrary to their initial judgments, is clear evidence that my father is completely determined.
Their treatment of my worthy MRS. NORTON is a sad confirmation of it: a woman deserving of all consideration for her wisdom, and every body thinking so; but who, not being wealthy enough to have due weight in a point against which she has given her opinion, and which they seem bent upon carrying, is restrained from visiting here, and even from corresponding with me, as I am this very day informed.
Their treatment of my esteemed MRS. NORTON is a disappointing confirmation of this: a woman who deserves all respect for her wisdom, and everyone acknowledges that; but since she isn't wealthy enough to hold sway on an issue she has voiced her opinion on, and which they are determined to push through, she is being kept from visiting here and even from staying in touch with me, as I was informed just today.
Hatred to Lovelace, family aggrandizement, and this great motive paternal authority!—What a force united must they be supposed to have, when singly each consideration is sufficient to carry all before it!
Hatred toward Lovelace, family pride, and this powerful motive of parental authority!—What a force they must have together, when each one alone is enough to dominate everything in its path!
This is the formidable appearance which the address of this disagreeable man wears at present.
This is the intimidating look that this unpleasant man's address has right now.
My BROTHER and my SISTER triumph.—They have got me down, as Hannah overheard them exult. And so they have (yet I never knew that I was insolently up); for now my brother will either lay me under an obligation to comply to my own unhappiness, and so make me an instrument of his revenge upon Lovelace; or, if I refuse, will throw me into disgrace with my whole family.
My brother and sister have won. They’ve got me beat, as Hannah overheard them celebrating. And they really do (even though I never realized I was being so cocky); because now my brother will either force me to do something that will make me unhappy and use me to get back at Lovelace, or if I refuse, he'll make me look bad in front of the entire family.
Who will wonder at the intrigues and plots carried on by undermining courtiers against one another, when a private family, but three of which can possibly have clashing interests, and one of them (as she presumes to think) above such low motives, cannot be free from them?
Who would be surprised by the scheming and plotting among jealous courtiers when even a private family, with only three members who could possibly have conflicting interests, and one of them (as she believes) above such petty motives, cannot escape it?
What at present most concerns me, is, the peace of my mother's mind! How can the husband of such a wife (a good man too!—But oh! this prerogative of manhood!) be so positive, so unpersuadable, to one who has brought into the family means, which they know so well the value of, that methinks they should value her the more for their sake?
What worries me most right now is my mother's peace of mind! How can the husband of such a wife (a good man too!—But oh! this privilege of being a man!) be so certain, so unchangeable, toward someone who has contributed to the family in ways they clearly understand the value of, that I think they should appreciate her even more for their own sake?
They do indeed value her: but, I am sorry to say, she has purchased that value by her compliances; yet has merit for which she ought to be venerated; prudence which ought of itself to be conformed to in every thing.
They really do value her; however, I regret to say that she's earned that value through her willingness to go along with others. Still, she has qualities that deserve to be respected and wisdom that should be followed in all things.
But whither roves my pen? How dare a perverse girl take these liberties with relations so very respectable, and whom she highly respects? What an unhappy situation is that which obliges her, in her own defence as it were, to expose their failings?
But where is my pen wandering? How can a rebellious girl take such liberties with family members she respects so much? What a sad situation it is that forces her, in her own defense, to reveal their flaws?
But you, who know how much I love and reverence my mother, will judge what a difficulty I am under, to be obliged to oppose a scheme which she has engaged in. Yet I must oppose it (to comply is impossible); and must without delay declare my opposition, or my difficulties will increase; since, as I am just now informed, a lawyer has been this very day consulted [Would you have believed it?] in relation to settlements.
But you, who know how much I love and respect my mother, will understand how difficult it is for me to go against a plan she’s involved in. Still, I have to oppose it (there’s no way I can agree to it); and I need to express my opposition right away, or my troubles will get worse; because, as I just found out, a lawyer has been consulted today about settlements.
Were ours a Roman Catholic family, how much happier for me, that they thought a nunnery would answer all their views!—How happy, had not a certain person slighted somebody! All then would have been probably concluded between them before my brother had arrived to thwart the match: then had I a sister; which now I have not; and two brothers;—both aspiring; possibly both titled: while I should only have valued that in either which is above title, that which is truly noble in both!
Were we a Roman Catholic family, how much happier I would be if they thought a nunnery would meet all their expectations! — How happy it could have been if a certain someone hadn't disrespected someone else! Everything would probably have been settled between them before my brother showed up to ruin the match: then I would have had a sister; which I don't now; and two brothers—both ambitious; possibly both with titles: while I would only have valued in either of them what is greater than a title, that which is truly noble in both!
But by what a long-reaching selfishness is my brother governed! By what remote, exceedingly remote views! Views, which it is in the power of the slightest accident, of a fever, for instance, (the seeds of which are always vegetating, as I may say, and ready to burst forth, in his own impetuous temper,) or of the provoked weapon of an adversary, to blow up and destroy!
But what a deeply rooted selfishness drives my brother! What distant, extremely distant perspectives! Perspectives that can be entirely undermined by the smallest accident, like a fever, for instance, (the seeds of which are always lying in wait, ready to erupt in his own volatile temperament,) or by the provoked strike of an enemy, to completely ruin everything!
I will break off here. Let me write ever so freely of my friends, I am sure of your kind construction: and I confide in your discretion, that you will avoid reading to or transcribing for others such passages as may have the appearance of treating too freely the parental, or even the fraternal character, or induce others to censure for a supposed failure in duty to the one, or decency to the other,
I’ll stop here. As I write openly about my friends, I trust your understanding and know that you’ll be careful not to share or read out loud any parts that might seem to be overly candid about parental or sibling relationships, or that could lead others to judge me for a supposed failure in my responsibilities to one or proper behavior to the other.
Your truly affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.
Yours truly, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XIV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY EVENING, MARCH 2.
On Hannah's depositing my long letter, (begun yesterday, but by reason of several interruptions not finished till within this hour,) she found and brought me yours of this day. I thank you, my dear, for this kind expedition. These few lines will perhaps be time enough deposited, to be taken away by your servant with the other letter: yet they are only to thank you, and to tell you my increasing apprehensions.
On Hannah's delivering my long letter, which I started yesterday but couldn't finish until just now due to various interruptions, she found and brought me yours from today. Thank you, my dear, for this prompt action. These few lines should hopefully reach you in time to be taken back by your servant along with the other letter; they are just to express my gratitude and share my growing concerns.
I must take or seek the occasion to apply to my mother for her mediation; for I am in danger of having a day fixed, and antipathy taken for bashfulness.—Should not sisters be sisters to each other? Should not they make a common cause of it, as I may say, a cause of sex, on such occasions as the present? Yet mine, in support of my brother's selfishness, and, no doubt, in concert with him, has been urging in full assembly it seems, (and that with an earnestness peculiar to herself when she sets upon any thing,) that an absolute day be given me; and if I comply not, to be told, that it shall be to the forfeiture of all my fortunes, and of all their love.
I need to find a moment to ask my mom to step in for me; I'm at risk of having a date set, and people might think I'm just shy. Shouldn’t sisters stick together? Shouldn’t they unite for a common cause, especially in situations like this? Yet mine, backing up my brother's selfishness and probably working with him, has been insisting in front of everyone (and she’s usually really passionate about whatever she cares about) that I be given a definite date. If I don’t agree, they’ll say I’ll lose all my prospects and their love.
She need not be so officious: my brother's interest, without hers, is strong enough; for he has found means to confederate all the family against me. Upon some fresh provocation, or new intelligence concerning Mr. Lovelace, (I know not what it is,) they have bound themselves, or are to bind themselves, by a signed paper, to one another [The Lord bless me, my dear, what shall I do!] to carry their point in favour of Mr. Solmes, in support of my father's authority, as it is called, and against Mr. Lovelace, as a libertine, and an enemy to the family: and if so, I am sure, I may say against me.—How impolitic in them all, to join two people in one interest, whom they wish for ever to keep asunder!
She doesn't need to be so pushy: my brother's interest, without hers, is strong enough; he has found a way to unite the whole family against me. Due to some new provocation or information about Mr. Lovelace, (I'm not sure what it is,) they have committed themselves, or are going to commit themselves, with a signed document, to support each other [The Lord bless me, my dear, what should I do!] to back Mr. Solmes, in favor of my father's authority, as they call it, and against Mr. Lovelace, whom they see as a libertine and an enemy to the family: and if that's the case, I know that means against me as well.—How foolish of them all to unite two people in one interest while they want them to stay apart forever!
What the discharged steward reported of him is surely bad enough: what Mrs. Fortescue said, not only confirms that bad, but gives room to think him still worse. And yet the something further which my friends have come at, is of so heinous a nature (as Betty Barnes tells Hannah) that it proves him almost to be the worst of men.—But, hang the man, I had almost said—What is he to me? What would he be—were not this Mr. Sol——O my dear, how I hate the man in the light he is proposed to me!
What the fired steward said about him is really bad: what Mrs. Fortescue mentioned not only confirms that but suggests he could be even worse. Yet, the additional information my friends have gathered is so terrible (as Betty Barnes told Hannah) that it makes him seem like the worst man ever. —But, forget about him, I almost said—What does he mean to me? Who would he be—if it weren't for this Mr. Sol——Oh my dear, how I despise him based on how he's been portrayed to me!
All of them, at the same time, are afraid of Mr. Lovelace; yet not afraid to provoke him!—How am I entangled!—to be obliged to go on corresponding with him for their sakes—Heaven forbid, that their persisted-in violence should so drive me, as to make it necessary for my own!
All of them are scared of Mr. Lovelace, but they're not scared enough to provoke him! — I’m so trapped! — I have to keep communicating with him for their sake — God forbid that their ongoing aggression would force me to take action for my own benefit!
But surely they will yield—Indeed I cannot.
But surely they will give in—Honestly, I can’t.
I believe the gentlest spirits when provoked (causelessly and cruelly provoked) are the most determined. The reason may be, that not taking up resolutions lightly—their very deliberation makes them the more immovable.—And then when a point is clear and self-evident, how can one with patience think of entering into an argument or contention upon it?—
I think that the kindest people, when wrongly and harshly challenged, are the most resolute. This might be because they don't make decisions lightly—their careful consideration makes them more unyielding. And when something is obvious and straightforward, how can someone calmly consider getting into an argument or dispute about it?
An interruption obliges me to conclude myself, in some hurry, as well as fright, what I must ever be,
An interruption forces me to wrap things up quickly, along with the fear of what I must always be,
Yours more than my own, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Yours even more than my own, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
LETTER XV
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 a person of your merit should be addressed by a succession of worthless creatures, who have nothing but their presumption for their excuse.
I have both your letters at the same time. It's really unfortunate, my dear, that since your friends want you to get married, someone as deserving as you has to deal with a series of worthless people, who only have their arrogance to justify themselves.
That these presumers appear not in this very unworthy light to some of your friends, is, because their defects are not so striking to them as to others.—And why? Shall I venture to tell you?—Because they are nearer their own standard—Modesty, after all, perhaps has a concern in it; for how should they think that a niece or sister of theirs [I will not go higher, for fear of incurring your displeasure] should be an angel?
That these people come across in such an unflattering way to some of your friends is because their flaws aren’t as obvious to them as they are to others. And why? Should I dare to say? Because they are closer to their own standards. Modesty, after all, might play a role in this; how could they believe that a niece or sister of theirs [I won’t go any further, to avoid upsetting you] could be an angel?
But where indeed is the man to be found (who has the least share of due diffidence) that dares to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with hope, or with any thing but wishes? Thus the bold and forward, not being sensible of their defects, aspire; while the modesty of the really worthy fills them with too much reverence to permit them to explain themselves. Hence your Symmes's, your Byron's, your Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best of the herd), and your Solmes's, in turn, invade you—Wretches that, looking upon the rest of your family, need not despair of succeeding in an alliance with it—But to you, what an inexcusable presumption!
But where can you find a guy (who has even a little bit of healthy doubt) who has the nerve to look up to Miss Clarissa Harlowe with any hope, or anything other than mere wishes? The bold and brash, not recognizing their flaws, reach for her, while the modesty of truly worthy individuals makes them feel too much respect to express themselves. That's why you have your Symmes's, your Byron's, your Mullins's, your Wyerley's (the best of the bunch), and your Solmes's, all trying to win you over—losers who, looking at the rest of your family, feel they have a chance at forming a connection—But to you, what an outrageous assumption!
Yet I am afraid all opposition will be in vain. You must, you will, I doubt, be sacrificed to this odious man. I know your family. There will be no resisting such baits as he has thrown out. O, my dear, my beloved friend! and are such charming qualities, is such exalted merit, to be sunk in such a marriage!—You must not, your uncle tells your mother, dispute their authority. AUTHORITY! what a full word is that in the mouth of a narrow-minded person, who happened to be born thirty years before one!—Of your uncles I speak; for as to the paternal authority, that ought to be sacred.—But should not parents have reason for what they do?
Yet I'm afraid all opposition will be pointless. You must, you will, I fear, be sacrificed to this awful man. I know your family. There will be no resisting the temptations he has offered. Oh, my dear, my beloved friend! How can such wonderful qualities and such incredible merit be wasted on this marriage?—You must not, your uncle tells your mother, challenge their authority. AUTHORITY! What a loaded word coming from a narrow-minded person who happened to be born thirty years before you!—I'm talking about your uncles; as for paternal authority, that should be respected. But shouldn’t parents have a good reason for what they do?
Wonder not, however, at your Bell's unsisterly behaviour in this affair: I have a particular to add to the inducements your insolent brother is governed by, which will account for all her driving. You have already owned, that her outward eye was from the first struck with the figure and address of the man whom she pretends to despise, and who, 'tis certain, thoroughly despises her: but you have not told me, that still she loves him of all men. Bell has a meanness in her very pride; that meanness rises with her pride, and goes hand in hand with it; and no one is so proud as Bell. She has owned her love, her uneasy days, and sleepless nights, and her revenge grafted upon her love, to her favourite Betty Barnes—To lay herself in the power of a servant's tongue! Poor creature!—But LIKE little souls will find one another out, and mingle, as well as LIKE great ones. This, however, she told the wench in strict confidence: and thus, by way of the female round-about, as Lovelace had the sauciness on such another occasion, in ridicule of our sex, to call it, Betty (pleased to be thought worthy of a secret, and to have an opportunity of inveighing against Lovelace's perfidy, as she would have it to be) told it to one of her confidants: that confidant, with like injunctions of secrecy, to Miss Lloyd's Harriot—Harriot to Miss Lloyd—Miss Lloyd to me—I to you—with leave to make what you please of it.
Don't be surprised by Bell's sisterly behavior in this situation: I have something specific to add to the reasons your arrogant brother is acting this way, which will explain all her actions. You’ve already admitted that from the beginning, she was captivated by the looks and charm of the man she claims to despise, and who, it’s clear, completely despises her. But you haven’t mentioned that she still loves him more than anyone else. Bell is petty beneath her pride; that pettiness rises with her pride and goes hand in hand with it, and no one is prouder than Bell. She has confessed her love, her restless days and sleepless nights, and her desire for revenge stemming from her love to her favorite, Betty Barnes—To put herself at the mercy of a servant’s gossip! Poor thing!—But like-minded souls find each other and mix just as easily as those who are different do. This, however, she shared with the girl in strict confidence: and so, through the female grapevine, as Lovelace had the audacity to do in a similar scenario, mocking our gender as he would, Betty (happy to feel worthy of a secret and to have a chance to complain about Lovelace's supposed betrayal) told it to one of her close friends: that friend, with similar promises of secrecy, to Miss Lloyd's Harriot—Harriot to Miss Lloyd—Miss Lloyd to me—I to you—with your permission to interpret it however you wish.
And now you will not wonder to find Miss Bell an implacable rival, rather than an affectionate sister; and will be able to account for the words witchcraft, syren, and such like, thrown out against you; and for her driving on for a fixed day for sacrificing you to Solmes: in short, for her rudeness and violence of every kind.
And now you won't be surprised to see Miss Bell as a fierce rival instead of a caring sister. You'll understand why she used words like witchcraft and seductress against you and why she's pushing for a specific date to hand you over to Solmes. In short, you'll get her rudeness and all forms of aggression.
What a sweet revenge will she take, as well upon Lovelace as upon you, if she can procure her rival sister to be married to the man that sister hates; and so prevent her having the man whom she herself loves (whether she have hope of him or not), and whom she suspects her sister loves!
What a sweet revenge she will have, both on Lovelace and on you, if she can get her rival sister to marry the man that sister hates; and in doing so, keep her from having the man she loves (regardless of whether she has hope with him or not), and whom she thinks her sister loves!
Poisons and poniard have often been set to work by minds inflamed by disappointed love, and actuated by revenge.—Will you wonder, then, that the ties of relationship in such a case have no force, and that a sister forgets to be a sister?
Poisons and daggers have often been used by minds consumed by unrequited love and driven by revenge. Will you be surprised, then, that family bonds hold no weight in such situations and that a sister forgets what it means to be a sister?
Now I know this to be her secret motive, (the more grating to her, as her pride is concerned to make her disavow it), and can consider it joined with her former envy, and as strengthened by a brother, who has such an ascendant over the whole family; and whose interest (slave to it as he always was) engaged him to ruin you with every one: both possessed of the ears of all your family, and having it as much in their power as in their will to misrepresent all you say, all you do; such subject also as to the rencounter, and Lovelace's want of morals, to expatiate upon: your whole family likewise avowedly attached to the odious man by means of the captivating proposals he has made them;—when I consider all these things, I am full of apprehensions for you.—O my dear, how will you be able to maintain your ground;—I am sure, (alas! I am too sure) that they will subdue such a fine spirit as yours, unused to opposition; and (tell it not in Gath) you must be Mrs. Solmes!
Now I realize this is her hidden agenda, which is even more frustrating for her because her pride forces her to deny it. I can see it connected to her past jealousy, made worse by a brother who holds so much power over the entire family. His interests, to which he’s always been a slave, have led him to undermine you with everyone: they both have the ears of your whole family and are in a position to twist everything you say and do. They're also keen to discuss your encounter and Lovelace's lack of morals. Your entire family is openly attached to that awful man because of the enticing proposals he has made them. Considering all of this, I am extremely worried for you. Oh my dear, how will you be able to stand your ground? I’m certain (oh, how certain I am) that they will crush such a beautiful spirit as yours, which isn’t used to opposition; and (don’t let it be known) you will have to marry Mr. Solmes!
Mean time, it is now easy, as you will observe, to guess from what quarter the report I mentioned to you in one of my former, came, That the younger sister has robbed the elder of her lover:* for Betty whispered it, at the time she whispered the rest, that neither Lovelace nor you had done honourably by her young mistress.—How cruel, my dear, in you, to rob the poor Bella of the only lover she only had!—At the instant too that she was priding herself, that now at last she should have it in her power not only to gratify her own susceptibilities, but to give an example to the flirts of her sex** (my worship's self in her eye) how to govern their man with a silken rein, and without a curb-bridle!
In the meantime, it's pretty clear, as you’ll notice, where the report I mentioned in one of my earlier letters came from. The younger sister has stolen the older sister's boyfriend: Betty let it slip that neither Lovelace nor you treated her young mistress honorably. How cruel of you, my dear, to take away the only boyfriend the poor Bella had! Especially when she was so proud that now she could not only fulfill her own desires but also show other flirts how to manage their men with a gentle touch and without any harsh control!
* Letter I.
** Letter II.
* Letter I.
** Letter II.Upon the whole, I have now no doubt of their persevering in favour of the despicable Solmes; and of their dependence upon the gentleness of your temper, and the regard you have for their favour, and for your own reputation. 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 are bursting upon you from hearts so narrow.
Overall, I have no doubt that they will continue to support the despicable Solmes and rely on your gentle nature, as well as your concern for their approval and your own reputation. I'm now more convinced than ever that my previous advice to keep the estate your grandfather left you was the right call. If you had done that, it would have earned you at least some outward respect from your brother and sister, which might have made them hide the jealousy and hostility they're showing you now from their small-minded hearts.
I must harp a little more upon this string—Do not you observe, how much your brother's influence has overtopped yours, since he has got into fortunes so considerable, and since you have given some of them an appetite to continue in themselves the possession of your estate, unless you comply with their terms?
I need to emphasize this point a bit more—Don't you see how much your brother's influence has surpassed yours ever since he came into such considerable wealth? And since you've allowed some of them to feel entitled to keep your estate unless you agree to their conditions?
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 blighting tongues by the company of your prudent Norton, as you had proposed,) 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 in some, and such tyrannical and despotic wills 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 understand your dedicated and admirable motives; you'd think you could trust a father who loved you so deeply. But if you had actually owned that estate and were living up to it, with your youth shielded from negative gossip by the company of your wise Norton, as you suggested, do you really believe your brother, who was resentful about it at the time and considered it his right as the only son, wouldn’t have been scheming to get it? I mentioned before that I thought your challenges were just in line with your level of wisdom; however, it would take more than a typical woman to navigate this situation honorably, given that you have to deal with such intense and greedy individuals and such tyrannical wills in others. Indeed, everything could be accomplished, and the world might admire you even more for your blind duty and selfless submission, if you can convince yourself to become Mrs. Solmes.
* Letter I.
* I.
I am pleased with the instances you give me of Mr. Lovelace's benevolence to his own tenants, and with his little gift to your uncle's. Mrs. Fortescue allows him to be the best of landlords: I might have told you that, had I thought it necessary to put you into some little conceit of him. He has qualities, in short, that may make him a tolerable creature on the other side of fifty: but God help the poor woman to whose lot he shall fall till then! women, I should say, perhaps; since he may break half-a-dozen hearts before that time.—But to the point I was upon—Shall we not have reason to commend the tenant's grateful honesty, if we are told, that with joy the poor man called out your uncle, and on the spot paid him in part of his debt those two guineas?—But what shall we say of that landlord, who, though he knew the poor man to be quite destitute, could take it; and, saying nothing while Mr. Lovelace staid, as soon as he was gone, tell of it in praise of the poor fellow's honesty?—Were this so, and were not that landlord related to my dearest friend, how should I despise such a wretch?—But, perhaps, the story is aggravated. Covetous people have every one's ill word: and so indeed they ought; because they are only solicitous to keep that which they prefer to every one's good one.—Covetous indeed would they be, who deserved neither, yet expected both!
I am glad to hear about Mr. Lovelace’s kindness to his tenants and his small gift to your uncle. Mrs. Fortescue thinks he’s the best landlord. I might have mentioned that if I thought it would give you a good impression of him. In short, he has qualities that could make him a decent guy once he's over fifty, but God help the poor woman who ends up with him until then! I should say women, since he might break a few hearts before that time. But back to my point—shouldn’t we commend the tenant’s grateful honesty when we hear that the poor man joyfully called out your uncle and paid him two guineas toward his debt right then? But what about that landlord who, even though he knew the poor man was completely broke, accepted it? And then, while Mr. Lovelace was still there, said nothing, only to praise the tenant's honesty once he was gone? If that happened, and if that landlord weren’t related to my dearest friend, how would I not look down on such a scoundrel? But maybe the story is exaggerated. Greedy people deserve everyone’s bad opinion, and rightly so, because they only care about keeping what they value more than anyone's good opinion. It would indeed be greedy for someone to deserve neither and still expect both!
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,
I can’t wait for your next letter. Please keep being as detailed as you can. I can’t think of anything else but what has to do with you and what’s going on in your life: because I am, and always will be, very fond of you,
Your own, ANNA HOWE.
Your own, Anna Howe.
LETTER XVI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [HER PRECEDING NOT AT THAT TIME RECEIVED.] FRIDAY, MARCH 3.
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [HER PRECEDING NOT AT THAT TIME RECEIVED.] FRIDAY, MARCH 3.
O 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 living creature?
O my dear friend, I’ve been through such a tough time! Challenge after challenge; meeting after meeting!—But what law or ceremony can give someone the right to a heart that hates him more than it does any other living being?
I hope my mother will be able to prevail for me.—But I will recount it 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 hope my mom can speak up for me. But I’ll tell the whole story, even if I have to stay up all night to do it; I have a lot to write, and I’ll be as detailed as you want me to be.
I concluded my last in a fright. It was occasioned by a conversation that passed between my mother and my aunt, part of which Hannah overheard. I need not give you the particulars; since what I have to relate to you from different conversations that have passed between my mother and me, in the space of a very few hours, will include them all. I will begin then.
I ended my last one in a panic. It was triggered by a conversation that took place between my mom and my aunt, part of which Hannah overheard. I don't need to give you the details; since what I have to share from various talks I had with my mom over just a few hours will cover everything. So, I'll get started.
I went down this morning when breakfast was ready with a very uneasy heart, from what Hannah had informed me of yesterday afternoon; wishing for an opportunity, however, to appeal to my mother, 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 mother and sister, with so much assurance in his looks!—But you know, my dear, that those we love not, cannot do any thing to please us.
I went downstairs this morning when breakfast was ready with an uneasy heart, thinking about what Hannah had told me yesterday afternoon. I was hoping for a chance to talk to my mother, wanting to spark her interest on my behalf, and I planned to find a moment to do this when she went to her own room after breakfast. But, unfortunately, there was the unpleasant Solmes, sitting there between my mother and sister, looking so self-assured! But you know, my dear, that those we don’t care for can’t do anything to win our favor.
Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have been well enough: but the bend and broad-shouldered creature must needs rise, and stalk towards a chair, which was just by that which was set for me.
Had the unfortunate man stayed in his seat, it might have been fine: but the tall, broad-shouldered guy had to get up and walk over to a chair that was right next to the one that was set for me.
I removed it to a distance, as if to make way to my own: and down I sat, abruptly I believe; what I had heard all in my head.
I moved it away to clear space for myself and then sat down, probably pretty suddenly; everything I had heard was running through my mind.
But this was not enough to daunt him. The man is a very confident, he is a very bold, staring man!—Indeed, my dear, the man is very confident.
But this was not enough to discourage him. The man is very self-assured; he is a very daring, intense man!—Indeed, my dear, the man is quite confident.
He took the removed chair, and drew it so near mine, squatting in it with his ugly weight, that he pressed upon my hoop.—I was so offended (all I had heard, as I said, in my head) that I removed to another chair. I own I had too little command of myself. It gave my brother and sister too much advantage. I day say they took it. But I did it involuntarily, I think. I could not help it.—I knew not what I did.
He took the chair that had been moved and pulled it so close to mine, sitting down in it with his heavy weight, that he pressed on my skirt. I was so insulted (especially with everything I had been thinking about) that I moved to another chair. I admit I didn’t have much self-control. It gave my brother and sister too much power over the situation. I dare say they took advantage of it. But I did it without thinking, I believe. I couldn't help it. I didn’t know what I was doing.
I saw that my father was excessively displeased. When angry, no man's countenance ever shews it so much as my father's. Clarissa Harlowe! said he with a big voice—and there he stopped. Sir! said I, trembling and courtesying (for I had not then sat down again); and put my chair nearer the wretch, and sat down—my face, as I could feel, all in a glow.
I noticed that my dad was really upset. When he gets angry, his face shows it more than anyone else's. "Clarissa Harlowe!" he called out loudly—and then he paused. "Yes, sir!" I replied, shaking and curtsying (since I hadn't sat down yet); I moved my chair closer to the wretch and sat down—my face, as I could feel, was burning.
Make tea, child, said my kind mamma; sit by me, love, and make tea.
Make some tea, dear, said my sweet mom; come sit next to me, love, and make tea.
I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had quitted; and being thus indulgently put into employment, soon recovered myself; and in the course of the breakfasting officiously asked two or three questions of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have done, but to make up with my father.—Proud spirits may be brought to! Whisperingly spoke my sister to me, over her shoulder, with an air of triumph and scorn: but I did not mind her.
I happily took the seat the man had left; and with that distraction, I quickly got my bearings. During breakfast, I asked Mr. Solmes a couple of questions, not because I was genuinely interested, but to make peace with my father. — How proud people can be brought low! My sister whispered to me with a tone of victory and disdain, but I didn't pay her any attention.
My mother was all kindness and condescension. I asked her once, if she were pleased with the tea? She said, softly, (and again called me dear,) she was pleased with all I did. I was very proud of this encouraging goodness: and all blew over, as I hoped, between my father and me; for he also spoke kindly to me two or three times.
My mom was all kindness and a bit patronizing. I asked her once if she liked the tea. She said softly (and called me "dear" again) that she was happy with everything I did. I felt really proud of this supportive attitude; and everything seemed to settle down, as I hoped, between my dad and me since he also talked to me kindly two or three times.
Small accidents these, my dear, to trouble you with; only as they lead to greater, as you shall hear.
Small accidents, my dear, to bother you with; they just lead to bigger ones, as you’ll see.
Before the usual breakfast-time was over, my father withdrew with my mother, telling her he wanted to speak with her. Then my sister and next my aunt (who was with us) dropt away.
Before breakfast was over, my father took my mother aside, saying he wanted to talk to her. Then my sister and, later, my aunt (who was with us) left.
My brother gave himself some airs of insult, which I understood well enough; but which Mr. Solmes could make nothing of: and at last he arose from his seat—Sister, said he, I have a curiosity to shew you. I will fetch it. And away he went shutting the door close after him.
My brother acted all high and mighty, which I understood perfectly; but Mr. Solmes didn’t get it at all. Finally, he stood up from his seat and said, “Sister, I have something interesting to show you. I’ll go get it.” Then he left, closing the door tightly behind him.
I saw what all this was for. I arose; the man hemming up for a speech, rising, and beginning to set his splay-feet [indeed, my dear, the man in all his ways is hateful to me] in an approaching posture.—I will save my brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I. I courtesied—Your servant, sir—The man cried, Madam, Madam, twice, and looked like a fool.—But away I went—to find my brother, to save my word.—But my brother, indifferent as the weather was, was gone to walk in the garden with my sister. A plain case, that he had left his curiosity with me, and designed to shew me no other.
I understood what all of this was about. I got up; the man was getting ready to give a speech, standing and starting to position his clumsy feet—honestly, I can’t stand him. “I’ll spare my brother the hassle of bringing his curiosity to me,” I said. I curtsied and said, “Your servant, sir.” The man called out, “Madam, Madam,” twice, looking completely ridiculous. But I walked away—to find my brother, to keep my promise. But my brother, indifferent as the weather was, had gone to stroll in the garden with my sister. It was clear he had left his curiosity with me and didn’t intend to show me anything else.
I had but just got into my own apartment, and began to think of sending Hannah to beg an audience of my mother (the more encouraged by her condescending goodness at breakfast) when Shorey, her woman, brought me her commands to attend me in her closet.
I had just moved into my own apartment and started considering sending Hannah to ask my mother for a meeting (especially encouraged by her kind nature at breakfast) when Shorey, her maid, came to tell me that I was needed in her room.
My father, Hannah told me, was just gone out of it with a positive angry countenance. Then I as much dreaded the audience as I had wished for it before.
My father, Hannah told me, was really worked up and looked genuinely angry. Then I dreaded the meeting just as much as I had previously hoped for it.
I went down however; but, apprehending the subject she intended to talk to me upon, approached her trembling, and my heart in visible palpitations.
I went downstairs, but sensing the topic she wanted to discuss, I approached her nervously, my heart racing visibly.
She saw my concern. Holding out her kind arms, as she sat, Come kiss me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sun-beam breaking through the cloud that overshadowed her naturally benign aspect—Why flutters my jewel so?
She noticed my worry. Stretching out her welcoming arms as she sat, she said, “Come kiss me, my dear,” with a smile like sunshine breaking through the clouds that shaded her naturally kind face—“Why is my jewel so restless?”
This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, confirmed my apprehensions. My mother saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.
This fake sweetness, along with her kindness earlier, only confirmed my worries. My mom realized that the unpleasant truth needed a nicer facade.
O my Mamma! was all I could say; and I clasped my arms round her neck, and my face sunk into her bosom.
O my Mom! was all I could say; and I wrapped my arms around her neck, and my face buried into her chest.
My child! my child! restrain, said she, your powers of moving! I dare not else trust myself with you.—And my tears trickled down her bosom, as hers bedewed my neck.
My child! My child! Hold back, she said, your ability to move! I can't trust myself with you otherwise. And my tears flowed down her chest, just as hers soaked my neck.
O the words of kindness, all to be expressed in vain, that flowed from her lips!
Oh, the words of kindness, all wasted, that flowed from her lips!
Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa Harlowe!—O my daughter, best beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever amiable to me!—Why these sobs?—Is an apprehended duty so affecting a thing, that before I can speak—But I am glad, my love, you can guess at what I have to say to you. I am spared the pains of breaking to you what was a task upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you. Then rising, she drew a chair near her own, and made me sit down by her, overwhelmed as I was with tears of apprehension of what she had to say, and of gratitude for her truly maternal goodness to me—sobs still my only language.
Lift up your beautiful face, my dearest child, my own Clarissa Harlowe!—Oh, my daughter, the most beloved of my heart, lift up a face that is always so lovely to me!—Why are you crying?—Is it such a burden to think about a duty that I can’t even speak?—But I’m glad, my love, that you can sense what I need to tell you. You've saved me from the difficulty of having to break the news to you, which I was dreading. Then, she stood up, brought a chair next to hers, and had me sit down beside her, overwhelmed with tears from both the fear of what she had to say and gratitude for her truly maternal kindness toward me—sobs were still my only way of expressing myself.
And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my neck, and my glowing cheek wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me talk to you, my child. Since silence is your choice, hearken to me, and be silent.
And pulling her chair even closer to mine, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pressing my tear-streaked cheek against hers. "Let me talk to you, my child. Since you’ve chosen silence, listen to me and keep quiet."
You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace. Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not be controuled; nor yet persuaded. You have sometimes seemed to pity me, that I am obliged to give up every point. Poor man! his reputation the less for it; mine the greater: yet would I not have this credit, if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say, in hope, no doubt, to make me so: you would not add, I am sure, to my trouble: you would not wilfully break that peace which costs your mother so much to preserve. Obedience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me that I have apprehended too much!—I see your concern! I see your perplexity! I see your conflict! [loosing her arm, and rising, not willing I should see how much she herself was affected]. I will leave you a moment.—Answer me not—[for I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped, and lifted up in a supplicating manner]—I am not prepared for your irresistible expostulation, she was pleased to say. I will leave you to recollection: and I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.
You know, my dear, what I give up and endure every day for the sake of peace. Your dad is a really good man and means well, but he won’t be controlled or persuaded. You’ve sometimes seemed to feel sorry for me for having to give in on everything. Poor guy! It costs him his reputation, but mine benefits from it; still, I wouldn’t want this credit if it comes at such a high price for both him and me. You are a dutiful, prudent, and wise child, she was happy to say, hoping to encourage me to be the same: you wouldn’t add to my troubles intentionally; you wouldn’t deliberately disturb the peace that your mother works so hard to maintain. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Oh my Clary Harlowe, make my heart happy by telling me that I’m overthinking this!—I see your concern! I see your confusion! I see your struggle! [loosing her arm and standing up, not wanting me to see how affected she truly was]. I’ll leave you for a moment.—Don’t respond—[because I was about to speak, and as soon as she took her sweet cheek from mine, I dropped down on my knees, my hands clasped and lifted up beggar-like]—I’m not ready for your intense objections, she said. I’ll leave you to think: and I urge you, with all my love, that this truly maternal tenderness of mine isn’t wasted on you.
And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes as she went from me; as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the whole compass of her meaning.
And then she went into the next room, wiping her eyes as she left me; mine were filled with tears; my heart grasping the full extent of her emotions.
She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness.
She came back soon, feeling more steady.
Still on my knees, I had thrown my face across the chair she had sat in.
Still on my knees, I had buried my face in the chair she had sat in.
Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe—No sullenness, I hope!
Look up at me, my Clary Harlowe—No sulking, I hope!
No, indeed, my ever-to-be-revered Mamma.—And I arose. I bent my knee.
No, truly, my always-respected Mom.—And I got up. I knelt down.
She raised me. No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and compliance. Your heart, not your knees, must bend. It is absolutely determined. Prepare yourself therefore to receive your father, when he visits you by-and-by, as he would wish to receive you. But on this one quarter of an hour depends the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of all the family, and your own security from a man of violence: and I charge you besides, on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.
She raised me. Not by bowing to me, but with a sense of duty and obedience. Your heart, not your knees, needs to be flexible. It’s absolutely necessary. So, get ready to welcome your father when he comes to see you, just as he would want to welcome you. But for this brief fifteen minutes depends my future peace, the satisfaction of our whole family, and your safety from a violent man: and I insist, on my blessing, that you consider becoming Mrs. Solmes.
There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk: and when I recovered, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty holding open my reluctantly-opened palm, my laces cut, my linen scented with hartshorn; and my mother gone. Had I been less kindly treated, the hated name still forborne to be mentioned, or mentioned with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion—But to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenced, to think of being MRS. SOLMES—what a denunciation was that!
The dagger pierced my heart, and I sank down: when I regained consciousness, I found myself in the arms of my Hannah, with my sister's Betty holding open my unwilling palm, my laces cut, my linen smelling of hartshorn; and my mother was gone. If I had been treated less kindly, with the hated name not mentioned at all, or brought up with a bit more caution and reserve, I could have faced that dreadful sound with less visible emotion. But to be told, on the blessing of a mother so dearly loved and truly respected, to consider being MRS. SOLMES—what a terrible thing that was!
Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn way): Your mamma, Miss, is concerned for your disorder: she expects you down again in an hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes every thing from your duty.
Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her serious manner): Your mom, Miss, is worried about your condition: she expects you downstairs in an hour, and asked me to say that she hopes everything will be fine if you behave.
I made no reply; for what could I say? And leaning upon my Hannah's arm, withdrew to my own apartment. There you will guess how the greatest part of the hour was employed.
I didn't say anything; what could I possibly say? Leaning on Hannah's arm, I went back to my room. You can imagine how I spent most of the hour there.
Within that time, my mother came up to me.
Within that time, my mom came up to me.
I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment.—No emotions, child! No flutters!—Am I not your mother?—Do not discompose me by discomposing yourself! Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I would give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear, we will go into your closet.
I love, she was happy to say, coming into this apartment.—No emotions, dear! No flutters!—Am I not your mother?—Don’t upset me by getting upset! Don’t make me uneasy when I want to give you nothing but happiness. Come on, sweetheart, let’s go into your closet.
She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her: and after she had inquired how I did, she began in a strain as if she supposed I had made use of the intervening space to overcome all my objections.
She took my hand, guided me, and had me sit next to her. After asking how I was doing, she started talking as if she thought I had used the time in between to work through all my doubts.
She was pleased to tell me, that my father and she, in order to spare my natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves—
She was happy to tell me that my father and she, to protect my natural modesty, had taken care of the whole situation themselves—
Hear me out; and then speak.—He is not indeed every thing I wish him to be: but he is a man of probity, and has no vices—
Hear me out; and then speak. —He isn’t everything I want him to be: but he’s a man of integrity and has no vices—
No vices, Madam—!
No vices, ma'am—!
Hear me out, child.—You have not behaved much amiss to him: we have seen with pleasure that you have not—
Hear me out, kid. You haven't acted too badly towards him; we've noticed with happiness that you haven't—
O Madam, must I not now speak!
O Madam, I must speak now!
I shall have done presently.—A young creature of your virtuous and pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: you love your brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to have killed him, and who threatened your uncles, and defies us all. You have had your own way six or seven times: we want to secure you against a man so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know) whether you prefer this man to all others?—Yet God forbid that I should know you do; for such a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet tell me, are your affections engaged to this man?
I'll be done soon.—A young person like you, who has such strong morals and values, surely can't love someone immoral: you care too much about your brother to want to marry someone who almost killed him and who has threatened your uncles and challenges us all. You've gotten your way six or seven times: we want to protect you from a man so despicable. Tell me (I have a right to know) if you prefer this man over everyone else?—But God forbid I should find out you do; such a revelation would make us all miserable. Still, tell me, are your feelings invested in this man?
I knew not what the inference would be, if I said they were not.
I didn't know what the conclusion would be if I said they weren't.
You hesitate—You answer me not—You cannot answer me.—Rising—Never more will I look upon you with an eye of favour—
You hesitate. You don’t answer me. You can’t answer me. Rising— I will never look at you with kindness again—
O Madam, Madam! Kill me not with your displeasure—I would not, I need not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the inference, if I answer you as you wish.—Yet be that inference what it will, your threatened displeasure will make me speak. And I declare to you, that I know not my own heart, if it not be absolutely free. And pray, let me ask my dearest Mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marry, to save me from—From what? Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guardian of my reputation! Let not your Clarissa be precipitated into a state she wishes not to enter into with any man! And this upon a supposition that otherwise she shall marry herself, and disgrace her whole family.
Oh Madam, please don’t punish me with your anger—I wouldn’t hesitate for a second if I didn’t fear what that would imply if I answered you as you want. Still, whatever that implication might be, your threatened anger will make me speak. I assure you, I don't even know my own heart if it's not completely free. And may I ask my dear Mama, what have I done wrong that I must be forced to marry like a foolish girl to save myself from—What? Please, Madam, protect my reputation! Don’t let your Clarissa be pushed into a situation she doesn’t want to enter with any man! This is based on the assumption that otherwise, she would disgrace her whole family by marrying herself.
Well then, Clary [passing over the force of my plea] if your heart be free—
Well then, Clary [ignoring the impact of my request] if your heart is free—
O my beloved Mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate in my favour. Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate.
O my beloved Mom, please let your usual kindness work in my favor. Don't push me to think about what made me hesitate.
I won't be interrupted, Clary—You have seen in my behaviour to you, on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that I have undertaken the task with some reluctance, because the man is not every thing; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too high—
I won't be interrupted, Clary—You've seen that I've treated you with a genuine maternal care this time; you noticed that I've taken on this task with some hesitance, because a man isn't everything; and because I know you have unrealistic expectations for perfection in a man—
Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!—Is there then any danger that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at?
Dearest Madam, please excuse me this one time! Is there any chance that I might do something unwise for the man you're hinting at?
Again interrupted!—Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You know this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then, ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you think from my indulgence to you, you may?
Again interrupted! Am I going to be questioned and argued with? You know this wouldn’t fly anywhere else. You know it wouldn’t. So what reason, unkind girl, do you have for arguing with me like this, other than that you think you can because I’m so tolerant of you?
What can I say? What can I do? What must that cause be that will not bear being argued upon?
What can I say? What can I do? What could that reason be that can't stand up to discussion?
Again! Clary Harlowe!
Again! Clary Harlowe!
Dearest Madam, forgive me: it was always my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that man—see but the disagreeableness of his person—
Dearest Madam, please forgive me: it has always been my pride and pleasure to obey you. But look at that man—just notice how unpleasant he is—
Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye!—Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as another man has a much more specious person
Now, Clary, I see who you've got your eye on! It's Mr. Solmes, isn't it? He's kind of dull, but that's only because there's another guy who's a lot more charming.
But, Madam, are not his manners equally so?—Is not his person the true representative of his mind?—That other man is not, shall not be, any thing to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden, resists.
But, madam, aren’t his manners the same?—Isn’t his appearance a true reflection of his thoughts?—That other man is not, and will never be, anything to me; just set me free from this one man, whom my heart, against its will, rejects.
Condition thus with your father. Will he bear, do you think, to be thus dialogued with? Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace—What is it that I do not give up?—This very task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offered to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family.
Here’s the paragraph in modern English: So, what's the deal with your dad? Do you think he can handle this kind of conversation? I've asked you, as you value my peace—What is it that I'm not willing to give up?—This very task, since I suspected you wouldn't be easily convinced, is really weighing on me. And will you give up nothing? Haven't you turned down as many offers as have been made to you? If you don't want us to guess who it’s for, just go along with it; because you have to comply, or you'll be seen as defying your entire family.
And saying this, she arose and went from me. But at the chamber-door stopt; and turned back: I will not say below in what a disposition I leave you. Consider of every thing. The matter is resolved upon. As you value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve to comply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will come up to you again. See that I find you as I wish to find you; and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.
And saying this, she stood up and walked away from me. But at the door of the room, she paused and turned back: I won’t go into what frame of mind I’m leaving you in. Think about everything. The decision is made. If you care about your father's blessing, mine, and the happiness of the whole family, decide to go along with it. I will be gone for a few moments, but I’ll come back to you. Make sure I find you as I hope to find you; and since your heart is clear, let your sense of duty guide it.
In about half an hour, my mother returned. She found me in tears. She took my hand: It is my part evermore, said she, to be of the acknowledging side. I believe I have needlessly exposed myself to your opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself.
In about half an hour, my mom came back. She found me crying. She took my hand and said, "It's always my role to be on the accepting side. I think I unnecessarily put myself in your way by the approach I used with you. I started off as if I expected you to say no, and by being too lenient, I brought this on myself."
Do not, my dearest Mamma! do not say so!
Do not, my dear Mom! please don’t say that!
Were the occasion for this debate, proceeded she, to have risen from myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too well know what you can do with me.
If this debate had come from me, she continued, and if I could manage without your agreement, you know what influence you have over me.
Would any body, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, who sees a wife of such a temper, and blessed with such an understanding as my mother is noted for, not only deprived of all power, but obliged to be even active in bringing to bear a point of high importance, which she thinks ought not to be insisted upon?
Would anyone, my dear Miss Howe, want to marry someone who has a wife with such a temper and known for a mind like my mother’s, who is not only stripped of all power but is also forced to actively push for something she believes shouldn't even be insisted upon?
When I came to you a second time, proceeded she, knowing that your opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: and in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinced by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now therefore, this third time, see you; and am come resolved to hear all you have to say: and let me, my dear, by my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it, because it is to you I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous.—Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do to oblige me: and so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere.
When I came to you a second time, she continued, knowing that your resistance wouldn’t help you, I refused to listen to your reasons: and I admit I was wrong, because a young person who enjoys reasoning and used to be swayed by it deserves to have all her objections heard. So now, for the third time, I’m here and I’m ready to hear everything you want to say: and let me, my dear, win your gratitude through my patience. I’ll call it your generosity since I’m speaking to you, who used to have a truly generous spirit. Let me see, if your heart is truly free, what you will do to please me: and as long as you allow your usual good judgment to guide you, I’ll listen to everything you have to say, but with this warning: whatever you say will mean nothing to anyone else.
What a dreadful saying is that! But could I engage your pity, Madam, it would be somewhat.
What a horrible thing to say! But if I could win your sympathy, Ma'am, it would mean something.
You have as much of my pity as of my love. But what is person, Clary, with one of your prudence, and your heart disengaged?
You have as much of my pity as you do my love. But what is a person, Clary, with your level of caution and your heart not involved?
Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be engaged?—O Madam, who can think of marrying when the heart is shocked at the first appearance, and where the disgust must be confirmed by every conversation afterwards?
Should the eye be grossed out when the heart is supposed to be involved?—Oh Madam, who can even think about marrying when the heart recoils at first sight, and where the aversion is only reinforced by every conversation that follows?
This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession. Let me not have cause to regret that noble firmness of mind in so young a creature which I thought your glory, and which was my boast in your character. In this instance it would be obstinacy, and want of duty.—Have you not made objections to several—
This, Clary, is due to your strong opinions. Please don't make me regret that remarkable strength of mind in someone so young, which I believed was your strength and something I took pride in about you. In this case, it would be stubbornness and lack of duty.—Haven't you raised objections to several—
That was to their minds, to their principles, Madam.—But this man—
That was in their minds, based on their principles, Ma'am.—But this guy—
Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe. He has a good mind. He is a virtuous man.
Clary Harlowe is an honest man. He is intelligent. He is a good person.
He an honest man? His a good mind, Madam? He a virtuous man?—
Is he an honest man? Does he have a good mind, Madam? Is he a virtuous man?—
Nobody denies these qualities.
No one denies these qualities.
Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own relations of their just expectations?—Can his mind be good—
Can he really be an honest man if he proposes terms that will strip all his own family of their fair hopes?—Can his mind be good—
You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last person who should make this observation.
You, Clary Harlowe, for whom he sacrifices so much, are the last person who should make this remark.
Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person preferring happiness to fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the use of that, as an instance of duty—
Give me the chance to say, Madam, that someone who values happiness over wealth, like I do; who doesn’t even desire what I have, and can let go of that as a matter of duty—
No more, no more of your merits!—You know you will be a gainer by that cheerful instance of your duty; not a loser. You know you have but cast your bread upon the waters—so no more of that!—For it is not understood as a merit by every body, I assure you; though I think it a high one; and so did your father and uncles at the time—
No more of your good deeds! You know you’ll come out ahead from that positive example of your duty, not behind. You know you’ve just put your bread out there to float—so let's drop that! Not everyone sees it as a virtue, I promise you; although I consider it a great one, and so did your dad and uncles back then—
At the time, Madam!—How unworthily do my brother and sister, who are afraid that the favour I was so lately in—
At the time, Madam!—How unfairly do my brother and sister, who are worried that the favor I recently received—
I hear nothing against your brother and sister—What family feuds have I in prospect, at a time when I hoped to have most comfort from you all!
I have nothing bad to say about your brother and sister—What family drama do I have to look forward to, at a time when I was hoping to find the most comfort from all of you!
God bless my brother and sister in all their worthy views! You shall have no family feuds if I can prevent them. You yourself, Madam, shall tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: but let my actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by the disgraceful prohibitions I have met with has been the case) speak for me.
God bless my brother and sister in all their good intentions! I won’t let any family conflicts happen if I can help it. You, Madam, can tell me what I should tolerate from them, and I will accept it: but let my actions, not their false claims (which I know have been the case due to the unfair restrictions I’ve faced), speak for me.
Just then, up came my father, with a sternness in his looks that made me tremble.—He took two or three turns about my chamber, though pained by his gout; and then said to my mother, who was silent as soon as she saw him—
Just then, my father walked in, wearing a look that made me feel uneasy. He paced around my room a few times, despite being in pain from his gout, and then turned to my mother, who went quiet as soon as she saw him—
My dear, you are long absent.—Dinner is near ready. What you had to say, lay in a very little compass. Surely, you have nothing to do but to declare your will, and my will—But perhaps you may be talking of the preparations—Let us have you soon down—Your daughter in your hand, if worthy of the name.
My dear, you've been gone a long time. Dinner is almost ready. What you wanted to say is quite brief. Surely, all you need to do is express your wishes, just like I need to express mine. But maybe you're discussing the preparations—We’d love to have you back soon—Your daughter in your care, if she’s worthy of that title.
And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that I was unable to say one word to him, or even for a few minutes to my mother.
And down he went, looking at me with such a stern expression that I couldn't say a single word to him, or even to my mom, for a few minutes.
Was not this very intimidating, my dear?
Wasn't this really intimidating, my dear?
My mother, seeing my concern, seemed to pity me. She called me her good child, and kissed me; and told me that my father should not know I had made such opposition. He has kindly furnished us with an excuse for being so long together, said she.—Come, my dear—dinner will be upon table presently—Shall we go down?—And took my hand.
My mom noticed I was worried and seemed to feel sorry for me. She called me her good kid, kissed me, and said my dad shouldn't know I had made such a fuss. "He has kindly given us a reason to be together so long," she said. "Come on, sweetheart—dinner will be ready soon. Should we head downstairs?" And she took my hand.
This made me start: What, Madam, go down to let it be supposed we were talking of preparations!—O my beloved Mamma, command me not down upon such a supposition.
This made me jump: What, Madam, go down to let people think we were talking about preparations!—Oh my dear Mom, please don’t make me go down on such an assumption.
You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you are debating about an absolute duty; and that will not be borne. Did not your father himself some days ago tell you, he would be obeyed? I will a third time leave you. I must say something by way of excuse for you: and that you desire not to go down to dinner—that your modesty on the occasion—
You see, kid, staying together longer means you're arguing about something that's not up for debate; and that won't be accepted. Didn't your dad just tell you a few days ago that he expects you to follow his orders? I'm going to leave you again for the third time. I have to say something to explain your behavior: that you don't want to go down to dinner—that your modesty in this situation—
O Madam! say not my modesty on such an occasion: for that will be to give hope—
O Madam! don't let my modesty be a factor in this situation: because that would be to create hope—
And design you not to give hope?—Perverse girl!—Rising and flinging from me; take more time for consideration!—Since it is necessary, take more time—and when I see you next, let me know what blame I have to cast upon myself, or to bear from your father, for my indulgence to you.
And are you really not going to give me hope?—You stubborn girl!—Getting up and turning away from me; take more time to think it over!—Since it’s important, take your time—and when I see you next, tell me what blame I deserve, or what I have to endure from your father, for being so lenient with you.
She made, however, a little stop at the chamber-door; and seemed to expect that I would have besought her to make the gentlest construction for me; for, hesitating, she was pleased to say, I suppose you would not have me make a report—
She paused briefly at the door to the room, seeming to expect that I would ask her to give me the benefit of the doubt. After hesitating, she kindly said, "I guess you wouldn’t want me to report—"
O Madam, interrupted I, whose favour can I hope for if I lose my mamma's?
O Madam, I interrupted, whose favor can I expect if I lose my mom's?
To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determined upon, to give room for any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about it. And so my mother went down stairs.
To have wanted a good report, you know, my dear, would have meant compromising on something I was too set on to let any of my friends think I had the slightest doubt about it. And so my mother went downstairs.
I will deposit thus far; and, as I know you will not think me too minute in the relation of particulars so very interesting to one you honour with your love, proceed in the same way. As matters stand, I don't care to have papers, so freely written, about me.
I will share up to this point; and since I know you won't consider me overly detailed in sharing specifics that are so important to someone you care about, I'll continue in the same way. As things are, I'm not interested in having documents, so openly written, about me.
Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have any thing ready or not.
Please have Robert call every day, if you can spare him, regardless of whether I have anything ready or not.
I should be glad you would not send him empty handed. What a generosity will it be in you, to write as frequently from friendship, as I am forced to do from misfortune! The letters being taken away will be an assurance that you have them. As I shall write and deposit as I have opportunity, the formality of super and sub-scription will be excused. For I need not say how much I am
I should be glad you wouldn’t send him away empty-handed. What generosity it would be on your part to write as often out of friendship as I have to do out of misfortune! The letters being taken will assure you have them. As I write and send them whenever I can, the usual formalities of greeting and signing off can be overlooked. I don’t need to say how much I am
Your sincere and ever affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.
Your genuinely caring and always affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.
LETTER XVII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
My mother, on her return, which was as soon as she had dined, was pleased to inform me, that she told my father, on his questioning her about my cheerul compliance (for, it seems, the cheerful was all that was doubted) that she was willing, on so material a point, to give a child whom she had so much reason to love (as she condescended to acknowledge were her words) liberty to say all that was in her heart to say, that her compliance might be the freer: letting him know, that when he came up, she was attending to my pleas; for that she found I had rather not marry at all.
My mother, as soon as she got back from dinner, happily told me that she informed my father, when he questioned her about my cheerful agreement (because it turns out that was the only thing in doubt), that she was willing, on such an important matter, to give a child she loved so much (as she acknowledged were her words) the freedom to express everything she felt, so her agreement could be more genuine. She also let him know that when he arrived, she was listening to my concerns; because she realized I would rather not get married at all.
She told me, that to this my father angrily said, let her take care—let her take care—that she give me not ground to suspect her of a preference somewhere else. But, if it be to ease her heart, and not to dispute my will, you may hear her out.
She told me that in response, my father said angrily, let her be careful—let her be careful—not to give me any reason to suspect she has feelings for someone else. However, if it’s to ease her heart and not to go against my wishes, you can listen to her.
So, Clary, said my mother, I am returned in a temper accordingly: and I hope you will not again, by your peremptoriness, shew me how I ought to treat you.
So, Clary, my mother said, I'm back in a bit of a mood: and I hope you won’t show me again, with your insistence, how I should treat you.
Indeed, Madam, you did me justice to say, I have no inclination to marry at all. I have not, I hope, made myself so very unuseful in my papa's family, as—
Indeed, Madam, you did me justice in saying that I have no desire to marry at all. I hope I haven't made myself so useless in my father's family as—
No more of your merits, Clary! You have been a good child. You have eased me of all the family cares: but do not now give more than ever you relieved me from. You have been amply repaid in the reputation your skill and management have given you: but now there is soon to be a period to all those assistances from you. If you marry, there will be a natural, and, if to please us, a desirable period; because your own family will employ all your talents in that way: if you do not, there will be a period likewise, but not a natural one—you understand me, child.
No more of your praise, Clary! You've been a good kid. You've taken a lot of the family worries off my plate, but don’t now give more than you’ve already helped me with. You've been more than compensated with the respect your skills and management have earned you, but there will soon be an end to all the help you provide. If you get married, there will be a natural end—and one that we would like—because your own family will utilize all your talents that way. If you don’t, there will still be an end, but it won’t be a natural one—you understand what I mean, darling.
I wept.
I cried.
I have made inquiry already after a housekeeper. I would have had your good Norton; but I suppose you will yourself wish to have the worthy woman with you. If you desire it, that shall be agreed upon for you.
I've already looked into finding a housekeeper. I would have chosen your good Norton, but I assume you’ll want to have her with you. If you want that, we can arrange it for you.
But, why, dearest Madam, why am I, the youngest, to be precipitated into a state, that I am very far from wishing to enter into with any body?
But, why, dear Madam, why am I, the youngest, being forced into a situation that I really don't want to enter into with anyone?
You are going to question me, I suppose, why your sister is not thought of for Mr. Solmes?
I guess you’re going to ask me why your sister isn’t considered for Mr. Solmes?
I hope, Madam, it will not displease you if I were.
I hope, ma'am, you won't be displeased if I do.
I might refer you for an answer to your father.—Mr. Solmes has reasons for preferring you—
I might suggest you ask your father for an answer. Mr. Solmes has his reasons for choosing you—
And I have reasons, Madam, for disliking him. And why I am—
And I have my reasons, ma'am, for not liking him. And why I am—
This quickness upon me, interrupted my mother, is not to be borne! I am gone, and your father comes, if I can do no good with you.
This urgency affecting me, my mother interrupted, is unacceptable! I’m leaving, and your father is arriving, if I can’t be of any help to you.
O Madam, I would rather die, than—
O Madam, I would rather die than—
She put her hand to my mouth—No peremptoriness, Clary Harlowe: once you declare yourself inflexible, I have done.
She put her hand over my mouth—No being bossy, Clary Harlowe: once you say you won’t change your mind, I'm done.
I wept for vexation. This is all, all, my brother's doings—his grasping views—
I cried out of frustration. This is all, all, my brother's fault—his greedy ambitions—
No reflections upon your brother: he has entirely the honour of the family at heart.
Don't think badly of your brother: he genuinely cares about the family's honor.
I would no more dishonour my family, Madam, than my brother would.
I would never disrespect my family, Madam, any more than my brother would.
I believe it: but I hope you will allow your father, and me, and your uncles, to judge what will do it honour, what dishonour.
I believe it: but I hope you will let your dad, me, and your uncles decide what will bring honor and what will bring dishonor.
I then offered to live single; never to marry at all; or never but with their full approbation.
I then proposed to stay single; never to get married at all; or only if they fully approved.
If you mean to shew your duty, and your obedience, Clary, you must shew it in our way, not in your own.
If you want to show your duty and obedience, Clary, you need to do it our way, not yours.
I hope, Madam, that I have not so behaved hitherto, as to render such a trial of my obedience necessary.
I hope, Madam, that I haven't acted in a way that makes such a test of my obedience necessary.
Yes, Clary, I cannot but say that you have hitherto behaved extremely well: but you have had no trials till now: and I hope, that now you are called to one, you will not fail in it. Parents, proceeded she, when children are young, are pleased with every thing they do. You have been a good child upon the whole: but we have hitherto rather complied with you, than you with us. Now that you are grown up to marriageable years, is the test; especially as your grandfather has made you independent, as we may say, in preference to those who had prior expectations upon that estate.
Yes, Clary, I have to say that you’ve behaved really well up until now: but you haven’t faced any challenges yet. I hope that now that you’re faced with one, you won't let us down. Parents, she continued, are always pleased with everything their young children do. Overall, you’ve been a good child, but we've mostly gone along with you rather than the other way around. Now that you’ve reached the age where you could get married, this is the real test, especially since your grandfather has made you independent, so to speak, instead of giving preference to those who had earlier claims on that estate.
Madam, my grandfather knew, and expressly mentioned in his will his desire, that my father will more than make it up to my sister. I did nothing but what I thought my duty to procure his favour. It was rather a mark of his affection, than any advantage to me: For, do I either seek or wish to be independent? Were I to be queen of the universe, that dignity should not absolve me from my duty to you and to my father. I would kneel for your blessings, were it in the presence of millions—so that—
Madam, my grandfather knew and clearly stated in his will that my father would more than make it up to my sister. I did nothing but what I believed was my duty to gain his favor. It was more a sign of his affection than any benefit to me. Do I want or even wish to be independent? Even if I were queen of the universe, that status wouldn’t free me from my responsibilities to you and my father. I would kneel for your blessings, even in front of millions—so that—
I am loth to interrupt you, Clary; though you could more than once break in upon me. You are young and unbroken: but, with all this ostentation of your duty, I desire you to shew a little more deference to me when I am speaking.
I really don’t want to interrupt you, Clary; even though you could have interrupted me several times. You’re young and inexperienced: but despite all this show of your duty, I’d like you to show a bit more respect to me when I’m talking.
I beg your pardon, dear Madam, and your patience with me on such an occasion as this. If I did not speak with earnestness upon it, I should be supposed to have only maidenly objections against a man I never can endure.
I apologize, dear Madam, and I appreciate your patience with me on an occasion like this. If I didn’t speak sincerely about it, people would think I only had naive objections against a man I can never stand.
Clary Harlowe—!
Clary Harlowe—!
Dearest, dearest Madam, permit me to speak what I have to say, this once—It is hard, it is very hard, to be forbidden to enter into the cause of all these misunderstandings, because I must not speak disrespectfully of one who supposes me in the way of his ambition, and treats me like a slave—
Dearest Madam, please let me say what I need to say just this once—It’s difficult, truly difficult, to be prevented from addressing all these misunderstandings because I can’t speak disrespectfully about someone who thinks of me as an obstacle to his ambitions and treats me like a servant—
Whither, whither, Clary—
Where to, Clary—
My dearest Mamma!—My duty will not permit me so far to suppose my father arbitrary, as to make a plea of that arbitrariness to you—
My dearest Mom!—I can’t allow myself to think of my father as unreasonable enough to use that excuse with you—
How now, Clary!—O girl!
What's up, Clary!—Oh girl!
Your patience, my dearest Mamma:—you were pleased to say, you would hear me with patience.—PERSON in a man is nothing, because I am supposed to be prudent: so my eye is to be disgusted, and my reason not convinced—
Your patience, my dear Mom:—you were happy to say you would listen to me with patience.—A man’s character means nothing, just because I'm expected to be sensible: so my eyes should be repulsed, and my mind not persuaded—
Girl, girl!
Hey, girl!
Thus are my imputed good qualities to be made my punishment; and I am to wedded to a monster—
Thus, my so-called good qualities are turned into my punishment; and I am stuck with a monster—
[Astonishing!—Can this, Clarissa, be from you?
[Astonishing!—Could this, Clarissa, really be from you?
The man, Madam, person and mind, is a monster in my eye.]—And that I may be induced to bear this treatment, I am to be complimented with being indifferent to all men: yet, at other times, and to serve other purposes, be thought prepossessed in favour of a man against whose moral character lie just objections.—Confined, as if, like the giddiest of creatures, I would run away with this man, and disgrace my whole family! O my dearest Mamma! who can be patient under such treatment?
The man, Madam, the person and the mind, is a monster in my eyes. And to make me accept this treatment, I’m supposed to be praised for being indifferent to all men; yet at other times, for different reasons, I’m seen as having a bias in favor of a man whose moral character has valid criticisms against it. I'm trapped, as if I, like the craziest of beings, would run off with this man and bring shame to my entire family! Oh, my dearest Mom! Who can endure such treatment?
Now, Clary, I suppose you will allow me to speak. I think I have had patience indeed with you.—Could I have thought—but I will put all upon a short issue. Your mother, Clarissa, shall shew you an example of that patience you so boldly claim from her, without having any yourself.
Now, Clary, I suppose you will let me speak. I think I’ve been really patient with you. Could I have thought—but I’ll get straight to the point. Your mother, Clarissa, will show you an example of the patience you so boldly demand from her, even though you don’t have any yourself.
O my dear, how my mother's condescension distressed me at the time!—Infinitely more distressed me, than rigour could have done. But she knew, she was to be sure aware, that she was put upon a harsh, upon an unreasonable service, let me say, or she would not, she could not, have had so much patience with me.
Oh my dear, my mother's condescension upset me so much back then!—It bothered me way more than strictness ever could. But she knew, she had to be aware, that she was being tasked with something harsh and unreasonable, or she wouldn't have been so patient with me.
Let me tell you then, proceeded she, that all lies in a small compass, as your father said.—You have been hitherto, as you are pretty ready to plead, a dutiful child. You have indeed had no cause to be otherwise. No child was ever more favoured. Whether you will discredit all your past behaviour; whether, at a time and upon an occasion, that the highest instance of duty is expected from you (an instance that is to crown all); and when you declare that your heart is free—you will give that instance; or whether, having a view to the independence you may claim, (for so, Clary, whatever be your motive, it will be judged,) and which any man you favour, can assert for you against us all; or rather for himself in spite of us—whether, I say, you will break with us all; and stand in defiance of a jealous father, needlessly jealous, I will venture to say, of the prerogatives of his sex, as to me, and still ten times more jealous of the authority of a father;—this is now the point with us. You know your father has made it a point; and did he ever give up one he thought he had a right to carry?
Let me tell you, she continued, that everything is quite simple, as your father mentioned. You have been, as you are quick to point out, a good child. You've really had no reason to be anything else. No child has ever been more favored. Whether you will disregard all your past actions; whether, at a time when the greatest act of duty is expected from you (the act that will finalize everything); and when you say that your heart is free—you will fulfill that duty; or whether, considering the independence you might claim, (because, Clary, no matter your reasoning, that’s how it will be seen) which any man you like can argue for you against all of us; or rather for himself despite us—whether, I mean, you will turn your back on us all; and confront a jealous father, unnecessarily jealous, I’d say, of the privileges of his gender, as it concerns me, and even more jealous of a father's authority—this is what we are discussing now. You know your father has made this a priority; and has he ever given up something he believed he had the right to pursue?
Too true, thought I to myself! And now my brother has engaged my father, his fine scheme will walk alone, without needing his leading-strings; and it is become my father's will that I oppose; not my brother's grasping views.
Too true, I thought! And now my brother has gotten my father involved, his great plan can stand on its own, needing no support; and it has become my father's desire that I resist, not my brother's greedy ambitions.
I was silent. To say the truth, I was just then sullenly silent. My heart was too big. I thought it was hard to be thus given up by my mother; and that she should make a will so uncontroulable as my brother's, her will.—My mother, my dear, though I must not say so, was not obliged to marry against her liking. My mother loved my father.
I was quiet. Honestly, I was just sitting there sulking. My heart felt so heavy. I found it hard to accept that my mother had given up on me like this; and that she would make a will as uncontrollable as my brother's, her decision. My mother, my dear, even though I shouldn't say it, didn't have to marry someone she didn't love. My mother loved my father.
My silence availed me still less.
My silence was even less helpful.
I see, my dear, said she, that you are convinced. Now, my good child—now, my Clary, do I love you! It shall not be known, that you have argued with me at all. All shall be imputed to that modesty which has ever so much distinguished you. You shall have the full merit of your resignation.
“I see, my dear,” she said, “that you’re convinced. Now, my good child—now, my Clary, I truly love you! It won’t be known that you’ve argued with me at all. Everyone will think it’s all due to that modesty which has always set you apart. You will have all the credit for your acceptance.”
I wept.
I cried.
She tenderly wiped the tears from my eyes, and kissed my cheek—Your father expects you down with a cheerful countenance—but I will excuse your going. All your scruples, you see, have met with an indulgence truly maternal from me. I rejoice in the hope that you are convinced. This indeed seems to be a proof of the truth of your agreeable declaration, that your heart is free.
She gently wiped the tears from my eyes and kissed my cheek—Your father expects you to come down looking cheerful—but I’ll let you off this time. All your worries, you see, have received a truly motherly understanding from me. I’m glad to hope that you’re convinced. This really seems to prove that your pleasant claim, that your heart is free, is true.
Did not this seem to border upon cruelty, my dear, in so indulgent a mother?—It would be wicked [would it not] to suppose my mother capable of art?—But she is put upon it, and obliged to take methods to which her heart is naturally above stooping; and all intended for my good, because she sees that no arguing will be admitted any where else!
Didn’t this seem a bit cruel, my dear, coming from such a caring mother?—It would be terrible to think my mother could be manipulative, right?—But she feels pressured and has to resort to tactics that she’s naturally above using; it’s all meant for my benefit because she knows that no one will listen to reason anywhere else!
I will go down, proceeded she, and excuse your attendance at afternoon tea, as I did to dinner: for I know you will have some little reluctances to subdue. I will allow you those; and also some little natural shynesses—and so you shall not come down, if you chuse not to come down. Only, my dear, do not disgrace my report when you come to supper. And be sure behave as you used to do to your brother and sister; for your behaviour to them will be one test of your cheerful obedience to us. I advise as a friend, you see, rather than command as a mother—So adieu, my love. And again she kissed me; and was going.
“I’ll go downstairs,” she said, “and excuse you from attending afternoon tea, just like I did for dinner. I know you’ll have a few small hesitations to overcome. I’ll let you have those, along with some natural shyness—so you don’t have to come down if you don’t want to. Just, my dear, don’t embarrass me when it’s time for supper. And make sure to act as you normally do with your brother and sister; how you treat them will be a measure of your cheerful obedience to us. I’m advising you as a friend, not commanding you as a mother—so farewell, my love.” Then she kissed me again and started to leave.
O my dear Mamma, said I, forgive me!—But surely you cannot believe, I can ever think of having that man!
O my dear Mom, I said, please forgive me!—But surely you can't believe I would ever consider being with that man!
She was very angry, and seemed to be greatly disappointed. She threatened to turn me over to my father and uncles:—she however bid me (generously bid me) consider, what a handle I gave to my brother and sister, if I thought they had views to serve by making my uncles dissatisfied with me.
She was really angry and looked extremely disappointed. She threatened to tell my dad and uncles about what happened. But she also told me (kindly told me) to think about how much trouble I was causing for my brother and sister if I thought they had something to gain by making my uncles upset with me.
I, said she, in a milder accent, have early said all that I thought could be said against the present proposal, on a supposition, that you, who have refused several other (whom I own to be preferable as to person) would not approve of it; and could I have succeeded, you, Clary, had never heard of it. But if I could not, how can you expect to prevail? My great ends in the task I have undertaken, are the preservation of the family peace so likely to be overturned; to reinstate you in the affections of your father and uncles: and to preserve you from a man of violence.—Your father, you must needs think will flame out upon your refusal to comply: your uncles are so
"I," she said in a softer tone, "have already expressed everything I thought could be said against the current proposal, assuming that you, who have turned down several others (whom I admit are more suitable in character), would not support it; and if I had succeeded, you, Clary, would never have known about it. But if I couldn't, how can you expect to succeed? My main goals in this task I've taken on are to maintain the peace of our family, which is so likely to be disrupted; to win back your father's and uncles' affection for you; and to protect you from a violent man. You must think that your father will react angrily if you refuse to go along with this; your uncles are so..."
thoroughly convinced of the consistency of the measure with their favourite views of aggrandizing the family, that they are as much determined as your father: your aunt Hervey and your uncle Hervey are of the same party. And it is hard, if a father and mother, and uncles, and aunt, all conjoined, cannot be allowed to direct your choice—surely, my dear girl, proceeded she [for I was silent all this time], it cannot be that you are the more averse, because the family views will be promoted by the match—this, I assure you, is what every body must think, if you comply not. Nor, while the man, so obnoxious to us all, remains unmarried, and buzzes about you, will the strongest wishes to live single, be in the least regarded. And well you know, that were Mr. Lovelace an angel, and your father had made it a point that you should not have him, it would be in vain to dispute his will. As to the prohibition laid upon you (much as I will own against my liking), that is owing to the belief that you corresponded by Miss Howe's means with that man; nor do I doubt that you did so.
thoroughly convinced that the plan aligns with their desire to enhance the family's status, they are just as determined as your father: your Aunt Hervey and Uncle Hervey are on board as well. It's tough to believe that a father and mother, along with uncles and an aunt, can't be trusted to guide your choices—surely, my dear girl, she continued [since I was quiet this whole time], it’s not true that you’re more opposed to it just because the family's interests would benefit from the match—I'm telling you, everyone will think this if you don’t agree. And as long as that man, who we all dislike, stays single and is around you, your strongest desire to remain single won’t matter at all. You know very well that even if Mr. Lovelace were perfect, if your father insisted you should not be with him, it would be pointless to argue against his decision. Regarding the restrictions placed on you (much as I dislike it), that’s due to the belief that you’ve been in contact with that man through Miss Howe; I have no doubt that you have.
I answered to every article, in such a manner, as I am sure would have satisfied her, could she have been permitted to judge for herself; and I then inveighed with bitterness against the disgraceful prohibitions laid upon me.
I responded to every article in a way that I’m sure would have pleased her if she had been allowed to judge for herself; and then I criticized harshly the shameful restrictions placed on me.
They would serve to shew me, she was pleased to say, how much in earnest my father was. They might be taken off, whenever I thought fit, and no harm done, nor disgrace received. But if I were to be contumacious, I might thank myself for all that would follow.
They would show me, she was happy to say, how serious my father was. They could be removed whenever I decided, and nothing bad would happen, nor would I face any shame. But if I were to be rebellious, I could only blame myself for whatever consequences came after.
I sighed. I wept. I was silent.
I sighed. I cried. I was quiet.
Shall I, Clary, said she, shall I tell your father that these prohibitions are as unnecessary as I hoped they would be? That you know your duty, and will not offer to controvert his will? What say you, my love?
"Should I, Clary," she said, "should I tell your father that these rules are just as unnecessary as I hoped they would be? That you know your responsibilities and won't challenge his wishes? What do you think, my love?"
O Madam, what can I say to questions so indulgently put? I do indeed know my duty: no creature in the world is more willing to practise it: but, pardon me, dearest Madam, if I say, that I must bear these prohibitions, if I am to pay so dear to have them taken off.
O Madam, what can I say to such kindly asked questions? I really do know my duty; there's no one more eager to fulfill it. But, please forgive me, dear Madam, if I say that I have to endure these restrictions if I have to pay so much to have them lifted.
Determined and perverse, my dear mamma called me: and after walking twice or thrice in anger about the room, she turned to me: Your heart free, Clarissa! How can you tell me your heart is free? Such extraordinary prepossessions to a particular person must be owing to extraordinary prepossessions in another's favour! Tell me, Clary, and tell me truly—Do you not continue to correspond with Mr. Lovelace?
Determined and stubborn, my dear mom called me; and after pacing the room in anger a couple of times, she turned to me: "Your heart is free, Clarissa! How can you say your heart is free? Such strong feelings for one person must come from strong feelings for someone else! Tell me, Clary, and be honest—Are you still in touch with Mr. Lovelace?"
Dearest Madam, replied I, you know my motives: to prevent mischief, I answered his letters. The reasons for our apprehensions of this sort are not over.
Dearest Madam, I replied, you know my reasons: to avoid trouble, I responded to his letters. Our concerns about this matter haven't gone away.
I own to you, Clary, (although now I would not have it known,) that I once thought a little qualifying among such violent spirits was not amiss. I did not know but all things would come round again by the mediation of Lord M. and his two sisters: but as they all three think proper to resent for their nephew; and as their nephew thinks fit to defy us all; and as terms are offered, on the other hand, that could not be asked, which will very probably prevent your grandfather's estate going out of the family, and may be a means to bring still greater into it; I see not, that the continuance of your correspondence with him either can or ought to be permitted. I therefore now forbid it to you, as you value my favour.
I have to admit, Clary, (though I don’t want it to get out) that I once thought a bit of compromise among such strong personalities wouldn’t hurt. I didn’t know that everything would eventually work itself out through Lord M. and his two sisters. But since all three of them have decided to hold a grudge for their nephew, and since their nephew has chosen to challenge us all, and since there are offers on the table that simply shouldn't be made, which will likely prevent your grandfather’s estate from leaving the family and could even bring more wealth into it; I don’t see how your continued communication with him can be allowed or should be allowed. Therefore, I’m officially forbidding it, as you value my support.
Be pleased, Madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety to my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for. Would to heaven, the man so hated had not the pretence to make of having been too violently treated, when he meant peace and reconciliation! It would always have been in my own power to have broke with him. His reputed immoralities would have given me a just pretence at any time to do so. But, Madam, as my uncles and my brother will keep no measures; as he has heard what the view is; and his regard for me from resenting their violent treatment of him and his family; what can I do? Would you have me, Madam, make him desperate?
Please, Madam, just tell me how to end this safely for my brother and uncles; that’s all I want. I wish to God that the man everyone hates didn’t pretend to be mistreated when he really wanted peace and reconciliation! I could have ended things with him at any time. His rumored immoralities would have given me a valid reason to do so. But, Madam, since my uncles and my brother won't hold back, and he knows what’s going on; and given his feelings toward me due to their harsh treatment of him and his family; what can I do? Do you want me, Madam, to push him to a breaking point?
The law will protect us, child! offended magistracy will assert itself—
The law will protect us, kid! The offended authorities will make their presence known—
But, Madam, may not some dreadful mischief first happen?—The law asserts not itself, till it is offended.
But, ma'am, can't some terrible trouble happen first? —The law doesn’t take action until it has been violated.
You have made offers, Clary, if you might be obliged in the point in question—Are you really in earnest, were you to be complied with, to break off all correspondence with Mr. Lovelace?—Let me know this.
You’ve made offers, Clary. If you could clarify this point—are you serious about wanting to cut off all communication with Mr. Lovelace if your request is granted? Let me know.
Indeed I am; and I will. You, Madam, shall see all the letters that have passed between us. You shall see I have given him no encouragement independent of my duty. And when you have seen them, you will be better able to direct me how, on the condition I have offered, to break entirely with him.
Indeed I am; and I will. You, Madam, will see all the letters that have passed between us. You will see that I have given him no encouragement apart from my duty. And once you’ve seen them, you’ll be better equipped to guide me on how, under the condition I've proposed, to completely cut ties with him.
I take you at your word, Clarissa—Give me his letters; and the copies of yours.
I believe you, Clarissa—Give me his letters and your copies.
I am sure, Madam, you will keep the knowledge that I write, and what I write—
I’m sure, ma’am, you’ll remember what I write, and what I write—
No conditions with your mother—surely my prudence may be trusted to.
No conditions with your mom—I'm sure you can trust my judgment.
I begged her pardon; and besought her to take the key of the private drawer in my escritoire, where they lay, that she herself might see that I had no reserves to my mother.
I asked her to forgive me and urged her to take the key to the private drawer in my desk, where they were kept, so she could see for herself that I had no secrets from my mother.
She did; and took all his letters, and the copies of mine.—Unconditioned with, she was pleased to say, they shall be yours again, unseen by any body else.
She did; and took all his letters, along with the copies of mine.—Unconditionally, she was happy to say, they will be yours again, without anyone else seeing them.
I thanked her; and she withdrew to read them; saying, she would return them, when she had.
I thanked her, and she went off to read them, saying she would give them back when she was done.
***
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You, my dear, have seen all the letters that passed between Mr. Lovelace and me, till my last return from you. You have acknowledged, that he has nothing to boast of from them. Three others I have received since, by the private conveyance I told you of: the last I have not yet answered.
You, my dear, have seen all the letters that went back and forth between Mr. Lovelace and me, up until my last visit with you. You've admitted that he has no reason to brag about them. I've received three more since then, through the private way I mentioned to you: I haven't answered the last one yet.
In these three, as in those you have seen, after having besought my favour, and, in the most earnest manner, professed the ardour of his passion for me; and set forth the indignities done him; the defiances my brother throws out against him in all companies; the menaces, and hostile appearance of my uncles wherever they go; and the methods they take to defame him; he declares, 'That neither his own honour, nor the honour of his family, (involved as that is in the undistinguishing reflection cast upon him for an unhappy affair which he would have shunned, but could not) permit him to bear these confirmed indignities: that as my inclinations, if not favourable to him, cannot be, nor are, to such a man as the newly-introduced Solmes, he is interested the more to resent my brother's behaviour; who to every body avows his rancour and malice; and glories in the probability he has, through the address of this Solmes, of mortifying me, and avenging himself on him: that it is impossible he should not think himself concerned to frustrate a measure so directly levelled at him, had he not a still higher motive for hoping to frustrate it: that I must forgive him, if he enter into conference with Solmes upon it. He earnestly insists (upon what he has so often proposed) that I will give him leave, in company with Lord M. to wait upon my uncles, and even upon my father—and he promises patience, if new provocations, absolutely beneath a man to bear, be not given:' which by the way I am far from being able to engage for.
In these three, just like those you've seen, after earnestly asking for my support and passionately expressing how much he cares for me; and outlining the insults he's faced; the challenges my brother throws at him in every setting; the threats and hostile attitude of my uncles wherever they go; and the tactics they use to tarnish his reputation; he states, 'That neither his own honor nor his family's honor (which is affected by the unfair judgment directed at him for a troubled situation he would have avoided but couldn't) allows him to endure these repeated insults: that since my feelings, if not in his favor, cannot be favorable to someone like the newly-introduced Solmes, he feels even more compelled to respond to my brother's actions; who openly shows his bitterness and malice to everyone; and boasts about the opportunity he has, thanks to this Solmes, to upset me and get back at him: that it's impossible for him not to feel the need to thwart a plan that targets him directly, unless he has an even greater reason to hope to derail it: that I must forgive him if he discusses it with Solmes. He strongly insists (as he has many times before) that I allow him, along with Lord M., to approach my uncles and even my father—and he promises to be patient if new insults, which no man should tolerate, are not given:' which, by the way, I'm not sure I can guarantee.
In my answer, I absolutely declare, as I tell him I have often done, 'That he is to expect no favour from me against the approbation of my friends: that I am sure their consents for his visiting any of them will never be obtained: that I will not be either so undutiful, or so indiscreet, as to suffer my interests to be separated from the interests of my family, for any man upon earth: that I do not think myself obliged to him for the forbearance I desire one flaming spirit to have with others: that in this desire I require nothing of him, but what prudence, justice, and the laws of his country require: that if he has any expectations of favour from me, on that account, he deceives himself: that I have no inclination, as I have often told him, to change my condition: that I cannot allow myself to correspond with him any longer in this clandestine manner: it is mean, low, undutiful, I tell him; and has a giddy appearance, which cannot be excused: that therefore he is not to expect that I will continue it.
In my response, I clearly state, as I've often mentioned to him, that he shouldn't expect any favors from me at the expense of my friends' approval. I'm sure my friends will never agree to his visiting any of them. I won’t be so disrespectful or foolish as to let my interests come between those of my family for any man on earth. I don't think I owe him anything for the patience I hope one passionate person will show towards others. In this wish, I'm asking nothing of him but what is reasonable, just, and required by the laws of his country. If he thinks he can expect any special treatment from me for that reason, he’s not being realistic. As I've said before, I have no desire to change my situation. I can’t allow myself to keep communicating with him in this secretive way; it's disrespectful, low, and appears reckless, which is inexcusable. Therefore, he shouldn't expect me to continue this.
To this in his last, among other things, he replies, 'That if I am actually determined to break off all correspondence with him, he must conclude, that it is with a view to become the wife of a man, whom no woman of honour and fortune can think tolerable. And in that case, I must excuse him for saying, that he shall neither be able to bear the thoughts of losing for ever a person in whom all his present and all his future hopes are centred; nor support himself with patience under the insolent triumphs of my brother upon it. But that nevertheless he will not threaten either his own life, or that of any other man. He must take his resolutions as such a dreaded event shall impel him at the time. If he shall know that it will have my consent, he must endeavour to resign to his destiny: but if it be brought about by compulsion, he shall not be able to answer for the consequence.'
In his final message, among other things, he responds, "If I’m really set on ending all communication with him, he must assume it’s because I plan to marry a man whom no respectable woman of wealth would find acceptable. In that case, I can’t blame him for saying he won’t be able to bear the thought of losing someone who means everything to him, nor endure the arrogant triumphs of my brother because of it. However, he won’t threaten his own life or that of anyone else. He will have to decide how to act when that unpleasant moment arrives. If he knows it will be with my approval, he should try to accept his fate; but if it happens against his will, he can’t be held responsible for the outcome."
I will send you these letters for your perusal in a few days. I would enclose them; but that it is possible something may happen, which may make my mother require to re-peruse them. When you see them, you will observe how he endeavours to hold me to this correspondence.
I’ll send you these letters to look over in a few days. I would include them now, but something might happen that could make my mother want to read them again. When you see them, you’ll notice how he tries to keep me tied to this correspondence.
***
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In about an hour my mother returned. Take your letters, Clary: I have nothing, she was pleased to say, to tax your discretion with, as to the wording of yours to him: you have even kept up a proper dignity, as well as observed all the rules of decorum; and you have resented, as you ought to resent, his menacing invectives. In a word, I see not, that he can form the least expectations, from what you have written, that you will encourage the passion he avows for you. But does he not avow his passion? Have you the least doubt about what must be the issue of this correspondence, if continued? And do you yourself think, when you know the avowed hatred of one side, and he declared defiances of the other, that this can be, that it ought to be a match?
In about an hour, my mom came back. “Take your letters, Clary: I have nothing, I’m happy to say, to challenge your judgement on, regarding how you worded yours to him. You’ve even maintained a proper dignity and followed all the rules of decorum; you’ve reacted, as you should have, to his threatening insults. In short, I don’t see how he can expect anything from what you’ve written that would lead you to encourage the feelings he claims to have for you. But does he not admit his feelings? Do you have any doubt about what the outcome of this correspondence will be if it continues? And do you really think, given the open hatred from one side and the declared challenges from the other, that this can or should be a match?”
By no means it can, Madam; you will be pleased to observed, that I have said as much to him. But now, Madam, that the whole correspondence is before you, I beg your commands what to do in a situation so very disagreeable.
I definitely can't, Ma'am; you'll be pleased to notice that I've already told him that. But now, Ma'am, that you have the entire correspondence in front of you, please let me know what you'd like me to do in such an unpleasant situation.
One thing I will tell you, Clary—but I charge you, as you would not have me question the generosity of your spirit, to take no advantage of it, either mentally or verbally; that I am so much pleased with the offer of your keys to me, made in so cheerful and unreserved a manner, and in the prudence you have shewn in your letters, that were it practicable to bring every one, or your father only, into my opinion, I should readily leave all the rest to your discretion, reserving only to myself the direction or approbation of your future letters; and to see, that you broke off the correspondence as soon as possible. But as it is not, and as I know your father would have no patience with you, should it be acknowledged that you correspond with Mr. Lovelace, or that you have corresponded with him since the time he prohibited you to do so; I forbid you to continue such a liberty—Yet, as the case is difficult, let me ask you, What you yourself can propose? Your heart, you say, is free. Your own, that you cannot think, as matters circumstanced, that a match with a man so obnoxious as he now is to us all, is proper to be thought of: What do you propose to do?—What, Clary, are your own thoughts of the matter?
One thing I want to say to you, Clary—but please, as someone who values your kind spirit, don't take advantage of it, either in thought or word; I am very pleased with your cheerful and open offer of your keys to me, and the wisdom you've shown in your letters. If it were possible to convince everyone, or just your father, to agree with me, I would easily leave the rest up to your judgment, reserving only the final say on your future letters for myself; and to make sure that you ended the correspondence as soon as possible. But since that's not the case, and I know your father would not tolerate it if he found out you were corresponding with Mr. Lovelace, or that you've been in touch with him since he told you to stop, I must forbid you to continue that kind of communication. Still, given the tricky situation, let me ask you: What do you think you can do? You say your heart is free. Given the circumstances, you can't possibly think a relationship with a man so disliked by all of us is appropriate: What do you plan to do?—What are your own thoughts about this, Clary?
Without hesitation thus I answered—What I humbly propose is this:—'That I will write to Mr. Lovelace (for I have not answered his last) that he has nothing to do between my father and me: that I neither ask his advice nor need it: but that since he thinks he has some pretence for interfering, because of my brother's avowal of the interest of Mr. Solmes in displeasure to him, I will assure him (without giving him any reason to impute the assurance to be in the least favourable to himself) that I will never be that man's.' And if, proceeded I, I may never be permitted to give him this assurance; and Mr. Solmes, in consequence of it, be discouraged from prosecuting his address; let Mr. Lovelace be satisfied or dissatisfied, I will go no farther; nor write another line to him; nor ever see him more, if I can avoid it: and I shall have a good excuse for it, without bringing in any of my family.
Without hesitation, I replied—What I humbly suggest is this:—'I will write to Mr. Lovelace (since I haven't responded to his last message) that he has nothing to do with my father and me. I neither seek his advice nor need it. However, since he seems to think he has some reason to interfere, because of my brother's acknowledgment of Mr. Solmes' interest against my father’s wishes, I will assure him (without giving him any cause to think this assurance is in any way favorable to himself) that I will never be with that man.' And if I am never allowed to give him this assurance, and Mr. Solmes is discouraged from pursuing his interest because of it, then whether Mr. Lovelace is satisfied or not, I will go no further; nor will I write him another message; nor will I see him again if I can help it: and I will have a good reason for it, without involving any of my family.
Ah! my love!—But what shall we do about the terms Mr. Solmes offers? Those are the inducements with every body. He has even given hopes to your brother that he will make exchanges of estates; or, at least, that he will purchase the northern one; for you know it must be entirely consistent with the family-views, that we increase our interest in this country. Your brother, in short, has given a plan that captivates us all. And a family so rich in all its branches, and that has its views to honour, must be pleased to see a very great probability of taking rank one day among the principal in the kingdom.
Ah! my love!—But what are we going to do about the terms Mr. Solmes has offered? Those are the incentives everyone is talking about. He has even given your brother hope that he will trade properties; or at least, that he will buy the northern one; because you know it’s completely in line with our family goals to strengthen our influence in this country. Your brother, in short, has presented a plan that fascinates us all. And a family as wealthy as ours in all its branches, aiming for status, must be pleased to see a strong chance of rising to prominence among the top families in the kingdom.
And for the sake of these views, for the sake of this plan of my brother's, am I, Madam, to be given in marriage to a man I can never endure!—O my dear Mamma, save me, save me, if you can, from this heavy evil.—I had rather be buried alive, indeed I had, than have that man!
And for the sake of these opinions, for the sake of my brother's plan, am I, Madam, supposed to marry a man I can’t stand!—Oh my dear Mom, please save me from this terrible fate if you can.—I would honestly rather be buried alive than be with that man!
She chid me for my vehemence; but was so good as to tell me, That she would sound my uncle Harlowe, who was then below; and if he encouraged her (or would engage to second her) she would venture to talk to my father herself; and I should hear further in the morning.
She scolded me for my passion; but was nice enough to tell me that she would check with my uncle Harlowe, who was downstairs at the time; and if he supported her (or promised to back her up), she would take the chance to talk to my father herself; and I would hear more in the morning.
She went down to tea, and kindly undertook to excuse my attendance at supper.
She went downstairs for tea and graciously offered to excuse me from attending supper.
But is it not a sad thing, I repeat, to be obliged to stand in opposition to the will of such a mother? Why, as I often say to myself, was such a man as this Solmes fixed upon? The only man in the world, surely, that could offer so much, and deserve so little!
But isn’t it a sad thing, I say again, to have to go against the wishes of such a mother? Why, as I often wonder, was a man like this Solmes chosen? He’s the only person in the world who could offer so much and deserve so little!
Little indeed does he deserve!—Why, my dear, the man has the most indifferent of characters. Every mouth is opened against him for his sordid ways—A foolish man, to be so base-minded!—When the difference between the obtaining of a fame for generosity, and incurring the censure of being a miser, will not, prudently managed, cost fifty pounds a year.
Little does he deserve!—Why, my dear, the man has the most indifferent character. Everyone talks against him for his greedy behavior—Such a foolish man to be so narrow-minded!—When the difference between earning a reputation for generosity and being labeled a miser won't, if managed wisely, cost more than fifty pounds a year.
What a name have you got, at a less expense? And what an opportunity had he of obtaining credit at a very small one, succeeding such a wretched creature as Sir Oliver, in fortunes so vast?—Yet has he so behaved, that the common phrase is applied to him, That Sir Oliver will never be dead while Mr. Solmes lives.
What a name you have, for so little cost! And what a chance he had to earn credit at such a small price, following such a miserable person as Sir Oliver, with fortunes so great?—Yet he has acted in such a way that people say, Sir Oliver will never really be gone as long as Mr. Solmes is alive.
The world, as I have often thought, ill-natured as it is said to be, is generally more just in characters (speaking by what it feels) than is usually apprehended: and those who complain most of its censoriousness, perhaps should look inwardly for the occasion oftener than they do.
The world, as I've often thought, is said to be unkind, but it's actually more fair in its judgments (based on feelings) than most people realize. Those who complain the most about its harshness might want to look within themselves for the reasons more often than they do.
My heart is a little at ease, on the hopes that my mother will be able to procure favour for me, and a deliverance from this man; and so I have leisure to moralize. But if I had not, I should not forbear to intermingle occasionally these sorts of remarks, because you command me never to omit them when they occur to my mind: and not to be able to make them, even in a more affecting situation, when one sits down to write, would shew one's self more engaged to self, and to one's own concerns, than attentive to the wishes of a friend. If it be said, that it is natural so to be, what makes that nature, on occasions where a friend may be obliged, or reminded of a piece of instruction, which (writing down) one's self may be the better for, but a fault; which it would set a person above nature to subdue?
My heart feels a bit lighter, hoping that my mom can help me get away from this man; that gives me time to reflect. But even if I didn't have that time, I wouldn't be able to help but occasionally add these kinds of thoughts, because you insist I never leave them out when they come to mind. Not being able to express them, even in a more difficult situation when writing, would show that I'm more focused on myself and my own issues than on what my friend needs. If someone says that's just human nature, then what defines that nature in situations where a friend could benefit from a reminder or a lesson, which writing it down could actually help with? Isn’t that more of a fault to ignore?
LETTER XVIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SAT. MAR. 4.
Would you not have thought something might have been obtained in my favour, from an offer so reasonable, from an expedient so proper, as I imagine, to put a tolerable end, as from myself, to a correspondence I hardly know how otherwise, with safety to some of my family, to get rid of?—But my brother's plan, (which my mother spoke of, and of which I have in vain endeavoured to procure a copy, with a design to take it to pieces, and expose it, as I question not there is room to do,) joined with my father's impatience of contradiction, are irresistible.
Wouldn't you have thought something could have been worked out in my favor from such a reasonable offer and such a sensible solution? I thought it might help to put a decent end to a correspondence that I really don’t know how to manage safely for some of my family. But my brother's plan (which my mother mentioned, and which I've tried unsuccessfully to get a copy of so I could break it down and point out its flaws, as I’m sure there’s plenty of room to do so) combined with my father's intolerance for disagreement is just too much to handle.
I have not been in bed all night; nor am I in the least drowsy. Expectation, and hope, and doubt, (an uneasy state!) kept me sufficiently wakeful. I stept down at my usual time, that it might not be known I had not been in bed; and gave directions in the family way.
I haven't been in bed all night, and I'm not even slightly tired. Expectation, hope, and doubt (what an uncomfortable feeling!) kept me awake. I got up at my usual time so no one would notice that I hadn't slept, and I took care of things around the house.
About eight o'clock, Shorey came to me from my mother with orders to attend her in her chamber.
About eight o'clock, Shorey came to me from my mom with instructions to go to her room.
My mother had been weeping, I saw by her eyes: but her aspect seemed to be less tender, and less affectionate, than the day before; and this, as soon as I entered into her presence, struck me with an awe, which gave a great damp to my spirits.
My mom had been crying, I could tell by her eyes: but she seemed less kind and affectionate than the day before; and this immediately hit me with a sense of dread as soon as I walked into the room, which really brought me down.
Sit down, Clary Harlowe; I shall talk to you by-and-by: and continued looking into a drawer among laces and linens, in a way neither busy nor unbusy.
Sit down, Clary Harlowe; I’ll talk to you in a bit: and I kept looking into a drawer filled with laces and linens, in a way that was neither busy nor idle.
I believe it was a quarter of an hour before she spoke to me (my heart throbbing with the suspense all the time); and then she asked me coldly, What directions I had given for the day?
I think it was about fifteen minutes before she talked to me (my heart racing with suspense the whole time); and then she asked me indifferently what plans I had for the day.
I shewed her the bill of fare for this day, and to-morrow, if, I said, it pleased her to approve of it.
I showed her the menu for today, and tomorrow, if it was okay with her.
She made a small alteration in it; but with an air so cold and so solemn, as added to my emotions.
She made a small change to it, but with such a cold and serious demeanor that it intensified my feelings.
Mr. Harlowe talks of dining out to-day, I think, at my brother Antony's—
Mr. Harlowe is talking about going out to dinner today, I think, at my brother Antony's—
Mr. Harlowe!—Not my father!—Have I not then a father!—thought I.
Mr. Harlowe!—Not my dad!—Do I not have a dad then!—I thought.
Sit down when I bid you.
Sit down when I ask you to.
I sat down.
I took a seat.
You look very sullen, Clary.
You look really down, Clary.
I hope not, Madam.
I hope not, ma'am.
If children would always be children—parents—And there she stopt.
If kids could always be kids—parents—And there she stopped.
She then went to her toilette, and looked into the glass, and gave half a sigh—the other half, as if she would not have sighed if she could have helped it, she gently hem'd away.
She then went to her bathroom, looked in the mirror, and let out a small sigh—she barely suppressed the other half, as if she wouldn't have sighed at all if she could have avoided it.
I don't love to see the girl look so sullen.
I don’t like seeing the girl look so gloomy.
Indeed, Madam, I am not sullen.—And I arose, and, turning from her, drew out my handkerchief; for the tears ran down my cheeks.
Indeed, ma'am, I'm not moody.—I got up, turned away from her, and pulled out my handkerchief; the tears were streaming down my face.
I thought, by the glass before me, I saw the mother in her softened eye cast towards me. But her words confirmed not the hoped-for tenderness.
I thought, by the glass in front of me, I saw the mother in her gentle gaze looking at me. But her words didn’t match the expected warmth.
One of the most provoking things in this world is, to have people cry for what they can help!
One of the most frustrating things in this world is when people cry over what they can change!
I wish to heaven I could, Madam!—And I sobbed again.
I really wish I could, Ma'am!—And I started crying again.
Tears of penitence and sobs of perverseness are mighty well suited!—You may go up to your chamber. I shall talk with you by-and-by.
Tears of regret and cries of wrongdoing go hand in hand!—You can head to your room. I’ll talk to you later.
I courtesied with reverence.
I curtsied respectfully.
Mock me not with outward gestures of respect. The heart, Clary, is what I want.
Don't mock me with fake gestures of respect. It's your heart, Clary, that I really want.
Indeed, Madam, you have it. It is not so much mine as my Mamma's!
Indeed, ma'am, you have it. It's not really mine; it's more my mom's!
Fine talking!—As somebody says, If words were to pass for duty, Clarissa Harlowe would be the dutifulest child breathing.
Great talk!—As someone said, if words counted as actions, Clarissa Harlowe would be the most dutiful child alive.
God bless that somebody!—Be it whom it will, God bless that somebody!—And I courtesied, and, pursuant to her last command, was going.
God bless that person!—Whoever it may be, God bless that person!—And I curtsied, and, following her last command, was on my way.
She seemed struck; but was to be angry with me.
She looked stunned; but she was going to be mad at me.
So turning from me, she spoke with quickness, Whither now, Clary Harlowe?
So turning away from me, she said quickly, "Where to now, Clary Harlowe?"
You commanded me, Madam, to go to my chamber.
You told me to go to my room, ma'am.
I see you are very ready to go out of my presence.—Is your compliance the effect of sullenness, or obedience?—You are very ready to leave me.
I can see you're eager to leave my company. Is your willingness coming from being down, or are you just obeying? You're quick to want to go.
I could hold no longer; but threw myself at her feet: O my dearest Mamma! Let me know all I am to suffer! Let me know what I am to be!—I will bear it, if I can bear it: but your displeasure I cannot bear!
I couldn't take it anymore and threw myself at her feet. "Oh my dearest Mom! Let me know everything I’m going to endure! Tell me what my future holds! I can handle it if I have to, but I can't handle your disappointment!"
Leave me, leave me, Clary Harlowe!—No kneeling!—Limbs so supple! Will so stubborn!—Rise, I tell you.
Leave me, leave me, Clary Harlowe!—No kneeling!—Limbs so flexible! Will so determined!—Get up, I tell you.
I cannot rise! I will disobey my Mamma, when she bids me leave her without being reconciled to me! No sullens, my Mamma: no perverseness: but, worse than either: this is direct disobedience!—Yet tear not yourself from me! [wrapping my arms about her as I kneeled; she struggling to get from me; my face lifted up to hers, with eyes running over, that spoke not my heart if they were not all humility and reverence] You must not, must not, tear yourself from me! [for still the dear lady struggled, and looked this way and that, all in a sweet disorder, as if she knew not what to do].—I will neither rise, nor leave you, nor let you go, till you say you are not angry with me.
I can’t get up! I won't listen to my mom when she tells me to leave her without making up! No sulking, Mom: no stubbornness: but worse than either: this is outright disobedience!—But don't pull away from me! [wrapping my arms around her as I kneel; she’s trying to break free; my face tilted up to hers, with tears in my eyes, showing nothing but humility and respect] You have to stay with me! [because the dear lady keeps struggling, looking around in a sweet confusion, as if she doesn’t know what to do].—I won’t get up, or leave you, or let you go, until you tell me you’re not mad at me.
O thou ever-moving child of my heart! [folding her dear arms about my neck, as mine embraced her knees] Why was this task—But leave me!—You have discomposed me beyond expression! Leave me, my dear!—I won't be angry with you—if I can help it—if you'll be good.
O you ever-moving child of my heart! [folding her dear arms around my neck, as mine hugged her knees] Why was this task—But just go!—You have upset me more than I can say! Go now, my dear!—I won't be mad at you—if I can help it—if you'll be nice.
I arose trembling, and, hardly knowing what I did, or how I stood or walked, withdrew to my chamber. My Hannah followed me as soon as she heard me quit my mother's presence, and with salts and spring-water just kept me from fainting; and that was as much as she could do. It was near two hours before I could so far recover myself as to take up my pen, to write to you how unhappily my hopes have ended.
I got up shaking and, barely aware of what I was doing or how I was standing or walking, went back to my room. Hannah followed me as soon as she heard me leave my mother's side, and with some smelling salts and spring water, she just barely kept me from fainting; that was all she could do. It took me almost two hours to gather myself enough to pick up my pen and write to you about how unfortunately my hopes have turned out.
My mother went down to breakfast. I was not fit to appear: but if I had been better, I suppose I should not have been sent for; since the permission for my attending her down, was given by my father (when in my chamber) only on condition that she found me worthy of the name of daughter. That, I doubt, I shall never be in his opinion, if he be not brought to change his mind as to this Mr. Solmes.
My mom went downstairs for breakfast. I didn't feel ready to go down, but if I had felt better, I guess I wouldn't have been called. My dad only allowed me to join her if she thought I was worthy of being called his daughter. Honestly, I doubt I'll ever be in his good books unless he changes his mind about this Mr. Solmes.
LETTER XIX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [IN ANSWER TO LETTER XV.] SAT. MARCH 4, 12 O'CLOCK.
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [IN ANSWER TO LETTER XV.] SAT. MARCH 4, 12 O'CLOCK.
Hannah has just now brought me from the usual place your favour of yesterday. The contents of it have made me very thoughtful; and you will have an answer in my gravest style.—I to have that Mr. Solmes!—No indeed!—I will sooner—But I will write first to those passages in your letter which are less concerning, that I may touch upon this part with more patience.
Hannah just brought me your usual favor from yesterday. What’s inside has made me very reflective, and you'll receive my most serious response. —Mr. Solmes? Not a chance! I would rather—But first, I'll write about the other parts of your letter that are less urgent, so I can address this issue with more composure.
As to what you mention of my sister's value for Mr. Lovelace, I am not very much surprised at it. She takes such officious pains, and it is so much her subject, to have it thought that she never did, and never could like him, that she gives but too much room to suspect that she does. She never tells the story of their parting, and of her refusal of him, but her colour rises, she looks with disdain upon me, and mingles anger with the airs she gives herself:—anger as well as airs, demonstrating, that she refused a man whom she thought worth accepting: Where else is the reason either for anger or boast?—Poor Bella! She is to be pitied—she cannot either like or dislike with temper! Would to heaven she had been mistress of all her wishes!—Would to heaven she had!
Regarding what you said about my sister's feelings toward Mr. Lovelace, I’m not really surprised. She tries so hard to make it seem like she never liked him and never could, that it actually makes people wonder if she does. She never shares the story of their breakup or her rejection of him without her face reddening, looking at me with disdain, and mixing anger with her pretentious behavior. That anger and arrogance show that she turned down a man she thought was worthy of her attention. Otherwise, what’s the reason for either her anger or her bragging? Poor Bella! She deserves pity—she can’t seem to like or dislike anything calmly! I wish she had been able to control all her desires! Oh, how I wish she had!
As to what you say of my giving up to my father's controul the estate devised me, my motives at the time, as you acknowledge, were not blamable. Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make a bad use of the power willed me. Neither you nor I, my dear, although you now assume the air of a diviner, [pardon me] could have believed that would have happened which has happened, as to my father's part particularly. You were indeed jealous of my brother's views against me; or rather of his predominant love of himself; but I did not think so hardly of my brother and sister as you always did. You never loved them; and ill-will has eyes ever open to the faulty side; as good-will or love is blind even to real imperfections. I will briefly recollect my motives.
Regarding what you said about me surrendering control of the estate my father left me, my reasons at the time, as you acknowledge, were not blameworthy. Your advice to me on the matter was based, as I remember, on your positive opinion of me; believing I wouldn’t misuse the power granted to me. Neither you nor I, my dear, even though you now act like a fortune-teller, [forgive me] could have predicted what actually occurred, especially concerning my father's actions. You were indeed concerned about my brother’s intentions toward me; or rather, his overpowering self-love; but I never thought so poorly of my brother and sister as you always did. You never truly cared for them; and resentment always sees the faults, while love is blind to even real shortcomings. I will briefly outline my reasons.
I found jealousies and uneasiness rising in every breast, where all before was unity and love. The honoured testator was reflected upon: a second childhood was attributed to him; and I was censured, as having taken advantage of it. All young creatures, thought I, more or less, covet independency; but those who wish most for it, are seldom the fittest to be trusted either with the government of themselves, or with power over others. This is certainly a very high and unusual devise to so young a creature. We should not aim at all we have power to do. To take all that good-nature, or indulgence, or good opinion confers, shews a want of moderation, and a graspingness that is unworthy of that indulgence; and are bad indications of the use that may be made of the power bequeathed. It is true, thought I, that I have formed agreeable schemes of making others as happy as myself, by the proper discharge of the stewardship intrusted to me. [Are not all estates stewardships, my dear?] But let me examine myself: Is not vanity, or secret love of praise, a principal motive with me at the bottom?—Ought I not to suspect my own heart? If I set up for myself, puffed up with every one's good opinion, may I not be left to myself?—Every one's eyes are upon the conduct, upon the visits, upon the visiters, of a young creature of our sex, made independent: And are not such subjected, more than any others, to the attempts of enterprisers and fortune-seekers?—And then, left to myself, should I take a wrong step, though with ever so good an intention, how many should I have to triumph over me, how few to pity me!—The more of the one, and the fewer of the other, for having aimed at excelling.
I noticed jealousy and anxiety growing in everyone, where there used to be unity and love. People reflected on the respected deceased; they said he was like a second child, and I was criticized for taking advantage of that. I thought that all young people, to some extent, desire independence; however, those who want it the most are often the least capable of managing themselves or wielding power over others. This is certainly a very high and unusual position for someone so young. We shouldn't try to take everything we're capable of. Taking all that kindness, leniency, or good opinion offers shows a lack of self-control and an unworthy greed; it reflects poorly on how the power given could be used. It's true, I thought, that I have made plans to make others as happy as myself by properly fulfilling the responsibilities entrusted to me. [Aren't all assets responsibilities, my dear?] But let me examine myself: Isn't vanity or a hidden desire for praise a primary motivation for me at heart?—Shouldn't I be cautious of my own feelings? If I go off on my own, inflated by everyone’s good opinion, could I end up alone?—Everyone is watching the behavior, the guests, and the visitors of a young woman made independent: And aren't they more susceptible than anyone else to the advances of opportunists and fortune-seekers?—And if left to my own devices, if I take a wrong step, even with good intentions, how many would revel in my downfall, and how few would feel sorry for me!—The more who take pleasure in that, and the fewer who show pity, because I aimed to excel.
These were some of my reflections at the time: and I have no doubt, but that in the same situation I should do the very same thing; and that upon the maturest deliberation. Who can command or foresee events? To act up to our best judgments at the time, is all we can do. If I have erred, 'tis to worldly wisdom only that I have erred. If we suffer by an act of duty, or even by an act of generosity, is it not pleasurable on reflection, that the fault is in others, rather than in ourselves?—I had much rather have reason to think others unkind, than that they should have any to think me undutiful.
These were some of my thoughts at the time: and I have no doubt that in the same situation I would do the exact same thing; and I say this after careful consideration. Who can control or predict events? All we can do is act according to our best judgment at the time. If I've made a mistake, it's only in relation to worldly wisdom. If we suffer because of a duty or even out of generosity, isn't it somewhat comforting to reflect that the fault lies with others rather than ourselves? — I would much rather believe that others are unkind than to think they have a reason to see me as undutiful.
And so, my dear, I am sure had you.
And so, my dear, I'm sure you did.
And now for the most concerning part of your letter.
And now for the most worrying part of your letter.
You think I must of necessity, as matters are circumstanced, be Solmes's wife. I will not be very rash, my dear, in protesting to the contrary: but I think it never can, and, what is still more, never ought to be!—My temper, I know, is depended upon. But I have heretofore said,* that I have something in me of my father's family, as well as of my mother's. And have I any encouragement to follow too implicitly the example which my mother sets of meekness, and resignedness to the wills of others? Is she not for ever obliged (as she was pleased to hint to me) to be of the forbearing side? In my mother's case, your observation I must own is verified, that those who will bear much, shall have much to bear.** What is it, as she says, that she has not sacrificed to peace?—Yet, has she by her sacrifices always found the peace she has deserved to find? Indeed, no!—I am afraid the very contrary. And often and often have I had reason (on her account) to reflect, that we poor mortals, by our over-solicitude to preserve undisturbed the qualities we are constitutionally fond of, frequently lose the benefits we propose to ourselves from them: since the designing and encroaching (finding out what we most fear to forfeit) direct their batteries against these our weaker places, and, making an artillery (if I may so phrase it) of our hopes and fears, play upon us at their pleasure.
You think I have no choice but to be Solmes's wife, given the situation. I won’t be overly hasty in saying otherwise, but I believe it should never happen, and even more importantly, it shouldn’t!—I know people rely on my temperament. But I’ve mentioned before that I have traits from both my father’s and my mother’s family. Do I have any reason to blindly follow my mother’s example of meekness and submission to others’ will? Isn’t she always forced (as she hinted to me) to be the patient one? In her case, I must admit your observation is true—that those who endure a lot will end up having to endure even more. What, as she says, hasn’t she sacrificed for the sake of peace?—Yet, has she always found the peace she deserves through her sacrifices? Absolutely not!—In fact, it seems quite the opposite. And time and again, I’ve had to reflect (for her sake) that we humans, in our excessive desire to keep our cherished qualities intact, often miss out on the benefits we hope for from them: because those who are scheming and intrusive (recognizing what we fear to lose the most) target our weaker spots, and, building a sort of artillery out of our hopes and fears, attack us whenever they please.
* See Letter IX.
** See Letter X.
* See Letter IX.
** See Letter X.Steadiness of mind, (a quality which the ill-bred and censorious deny to any of our sex) when we are absolutely convinced of being in the right [otherwise it is not steadiness, but obstinacy] and when it is exerted in material cases, is a quality, which, as my good Dr. Lewen was wont to say, brings great credit to the possessor of it; at the same time that it usually, when tried and known, raises such above the attempts of the meanly machinating. He used therefore to inculcate upon me this steadiness, upon laudable convictions. And why may I not think that I am now put upon a proper exercise of it?
Steadiness of mind, a trait that the rude and critical deny to anyone of our gender, when we truly believe we’re right [otherwise it’s not steadiness, just stubbornness], especially when applied to significant matters, is a quality that, as my good Dr. Lewen used to say, brings great respect to the person who possesses it; at the same time, it usually elevates those who are tested and recognized above the schemes of the petty and manipulative. He would often encourage me to maintain this steadiness based on worthy convictions. So why shouldn’t I believe that I am now called to practice it properly?
I said above, that I never can be, that I never ought to be, Mrs. Solmes.—I repeat, that I ought not: for surely, my dear, I should not give up to my brother's ambition the happiness of my future life. Surely I ought not to be the instrument of depriving Mr. Solmes's relations of their natural rights and reversionary prospects, for the sake of further aggrandizing a family (although that I am of) which already lives in great affluence and splendour; and which might be as justly dissatisfied, were all that some of it aim at to be obtained, that they were not princes, as now they are that they are not peers [For when ever was an ambitious mind, as you observe in the case of avarice,* satisfied by acquisition?]. The less, surely, ought I to give into these grasping views of my brother, as I myself heartily despise the end aimed at; as I wish not either to change my state, or better my fortunes; and as I am fully persuaded, that happiness and riches are two things, and very seldom meet together.
I mentioned before that I can never be, and should never be, Mrs. Solmes. I stand by that: I shouldn't sacrifice my future happiness for my brother's ambitions. I certainly shouldn't be the reason Mr. Solmes's relatives lose their natural rights and future benefits just to boost a family (even though I'm part of it) that already has plenty of wealth and prestige. They could just as easily feel dissatisfied if what they want makes them not feel like princes, just like they do now that they aren't peers. After all, when has an ambitious person ever been satisfied with their gains, as you've pointed out regarding greed? I should definitely resist my brother's greedy intentions, especially since I deeply despise the aim itself. I don't want to change my situation or improve my fortunes, and I'm completely convinced that happiness and wealth are two different things that rarely go hand in hand.
* See Letter X.
* See Letter X.
Yet I dread, I exceedingly dread, the conflicts I know I must encounter with. It is possible, that I may be more unhappy from the due observation of the good doctor's general precept, than were I to yield the point; since what I call steadiness is deemed stubbornness, obstinacy, prepossession, by those who have a right to put what interpretation they please upon my conduct.
Yet I fear, I really fear, the struggles I know I have to face. It's possible that I'll end up more miserable by trying to follow the good doctor's general advice than if I just gave in; because what I see as being steady is viewed as stubbornness, obstinacy, or bias by those who have the right to interpret my actions however they want.
So, my dear, were we perfect (which no one can be) we could not be happy in this life, unless those with whom we have to deal (those more especially who have any controul upon us) were governed by the same principles. But then does not the good Doctor's conclusion recur,—That we have nothing to do, but to chuse what is right; to be steady in the pursuit of it; and to leave the issue to Providence?
So, my dear, even if we were perfect (which no one can be), we couldn’t be happy in this life unless those we interact with (especially those who have some control over us) shared the same values. But then isn’t the good Doctor's conclusion coming back to mind—that all we have to do is choose what’s right, stay committed to it, and leave the outcome to Providence?
This, if you approve of my motives, (and if you don't, pray inform me) must be my aim in the present case.
This, if you agree with my intentions, (and if you don't, please let me know) must be my goal in this situation.
But what then can I plead for a palliation to myself of my mother's sufferings on my account? Perhaps this consideration will carry some force with it—That her difficulties cannot last long; only till this great struggle shall be one way or other determined—Whereas my unhappiness, if I comply, will (from an aversion not to be overcome) be for life. To which let me add, That as I have reason to think that the present measures are not entered upon with her own natural liking, she will have the less pain, should they want the success which I think in my heart they ought to want.
But what can I say to ease my mind about my mother's suffering because of me? Maybe this might help—her troubles won’t last long; they’ll only go on until this major issue is resolved one way or another—while my unhappiness, if I give in, will last for life because of an unstoppable aversion. Let me also mention that since I believe she isn’t genuinely happy with what’s happening right now, it will hurt her less if things don’t turn out the way I secretly hope they don’t.
I have run a great length in a very little time. The subject touched me to the quick. My reflections upon it will give you reason to expect from me a perhaps too steady behaviour in a new conference, which, I find, I must have with my mother. My father and brother, as she was pleased to tell me, dine at my uncle Antony's; and that, as I have reason to believe, on purpose to give an opportunity for it.
I have covered a lot of ground in a short time. The topic affected me deeply. My thoughts on it may lead you to expect a somewhat controlled demeanor in my upcoming conversation with my mother. She kindly informed me that my father and brother are having dinner at my uncle Antony's, and I have reason to believe this was done intentionally to create an opportunity for me.
Hannah informs me, that she heard my father high and angry with my mother, at taking leave of her: I suppose for being to favourable to me; for Hannah heard her say, as in tears, 'Indeed, Mr. Harlowe, you greatly distress me!—The poor girl does not deserve—' Hannah heard no more, but that he said, he would break somebody's heart—Mine, I suppose—Not my mother's, I hope.
Hannah tells me that she overheard my father shouting angrily at my mother when he was leaving her. I assume it’s because he thinks she’s being too supportive of me; Hannah heard her say, in tears, “Honestly, Mr. Harlowe, you’re really upsetting me! The poor girl doesn’t deserve—” Hannah didn’t catch anything more, but she heard him say he would break someone’s heart—probably mine, I guess—not my mother’s, I hope.
As only my sister dines with my mother, I thought I should have been commanded down: but she sent me up a plate from her table. I continued my writing. I could not touch a morsel. I ordered Hannah however to eat of it, that I might not be thought sullen.
Since only my sister is having dinner with my mom, I figured I should have been asked to join them, but instead she sent me a plate from her table. I kept writing. I couldn't eat a thing. I told Hannah to have some of it so I wouldn't seem grumpy.
Before I conclude this, I will see whether any thing offers from either of my private correspondencies, that will make it proper to add to it; and will take a turn in the wood-yard and garden for that purpose.
Before I finish this, I will check if anything comes up from my personal correspondences that would be appropriate to include; I will take a stroll in the wood-yard and garden for that reason.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
I am stopped. Hannah shall deposit this. She was ordered by my mother (who asked where I was) to tell me, that she would come up and talk with me in my own closet.—She is coming! Adieu, my dear.
I’m being held up. Hannah is going to take care of this. My mom, who wanted to know where I was, told her to let me know that she would come up and talk to me in my room. —She’s on her way! Goodbye, my dear.
LETTER XX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SAT. AFTERNOON.
The expected conference is over: but my difficulties are increased. This, as my mother was pleased to tell me, being the last persuasory effort that is to be attempted, I will be particular in the account of it as my head and my heart will allow it to be.
The expected conference is over, but my challenges have only grown. This, as my mom was happy to tell me, being the last attempt to persuade me, I will be specific in recounting it as much as my mind and heart will permit.
I have made, said she, as she entered my room, a short as well as early dinner, on purpose to confer with you: and I do assure you, that it will be the last conference I shall either be permitted or inclined to hold with you on the subject, if you should prove as refractory as it is imagined you will prove by some, who are of opinion, that I have not the weight with you which my indulgence deserves. But I hope you will convince as well them as me of the contrary.
"I've prepared a quick and early dinner," she said as she walked into my room, "so we can talk. I assure you this will be the last time I'm allowed or willing to discuss this with you if you turn out to be as stubborn as some believe you will be. They think I don't have the influence over you that my kindness deserves. But I hope you can prove them—and me—wrong."
Your father both dines and sups at your uncle's, on purpose to give us this opportunity; and, according to the report I shall make on his return, (which I have promised shall be a very faithful one,) he will take his measures with you.
Your dad is having dinner and supper at your uncle's to give us this chance; and based on the report I’ll provide when he gets back, (which I promised will be very accurate,) he’ll figure out his next steps with you.
I was offering to speak—Hear, Clarissa, what I have to tell you, said she, before you speak, unless what you have to say will signify to me your compliance—Say—Will it?—If it will, you may speak.
I was about to say—Listen, Clarissa, I need to tell you something, said she. Before you say it, let me ask if what you're about to tell me means you'll agree—Go ahead—Does it? If it does, then you can go ahead and speak.
I was silent.
I didn’t say anything.
She looked with concern and anger upon me—No compliance, I find!—Such a dutiful young creature hitherto!—Will you not, can you not, speak as I would have you speak?—Then [rejecting me as it were with her hand] continue silent.—I, no more than your father, will bear your avowed contradiction.
She looked at me with concern and anger—No compliance, I see!—Such a dutiful young person until now!—Will you not, can you not, speak the way I expect you to?—Then [pushing me away as if with her hand] stay silent.—I, just like your father, won’t tolerate your open defiance.
She paused, with a look of expectation, as if she waited for my consenting answer.
She paused, looking expectant, as if she were waiting for my agreement.
I was still silent; looking down; the tears in my eyes.
I was still silent, looking down with tears in my eyes.
O thou determined girl!—But say—Speak out—Are you resolved to stand in opposition to us all, in a point our hearts are set upon?
Oh you determined girl!—But tell me—Speak up—Are you really planning to stand against us all on something our hearts are set on?
May I, Madam, be permitted to expostulate?—
May I, ma’am, be allowed to express my thoughts?—
To what purpose expostulate with me, Clarissa? Your father is determined. Have I not told you there is no receding; that the honour as well as the interest of the family is concerned? Be ingenuous: you used to be so, even occasionally against yourself:—Who at the long run must submit—all of us to you; or you to all of us?—If you intend to yield at last if you find you cannot conquer, yield now, and with a grace—for yield you must, or be none of our child.
To what end are you trying to reason with me, Clarissa? Your father has made up his mind. Haven't I told you that there’s no turning back; that both the honor and the interests of the family are at stake? Be honest: you used to be so, even sometimes at your own expense:—Who ultimately has to give in—all of us to you; or you to all of us?—If you plan to give in eventually when you realize you can't win, then concede now, and do it gracefully—for you have to yield, or you will not be one of our own.
I wept. I knew not what to say; or rather how to express what I had to say.
I cried. I didn't know what to say, or more specifically, how to express what I needed to say.
Take notice, that there are flaws in your grandfather's will: not a shilling of that estate will be yours, if you do not yield. Your grandfather left it to you, as a reward of your duty to him and to us—You will justly forfeit it, if—
Take notice, there are mistakes in your grandfather's will: not a penny of that estate will be yours if you don’t comply. Your grandfather left it to you as a reward for your duty to him and to us—You will rightfully lose it if—
Permit me, good Madam, to say, that, if it were unjustly bequeathed me, I ought not to wish to have it. But I hope Mr. Solmes will be apprised of these flaws.
Allow me, dear Madam, to say that if it was unfairly given to me, I shouldn't want it. But I hope Mr. Solmes will be made aware of these issues.
This is very pertly said, Clarissa: but reflect, that the forfeiture of that estate, through your opposition, will be attended with the total loss of your father's favour: and then how destitute must you be; how unable to support yourself; and how many benevolent designs and good actions must you give up!
This is quite boldly stated, Clarissa: but think about it, the loss of that estate due to your opposition will result in the complete loss of your father's approval. And then how helpless you'll be; how unable you'll be to take care of yourself; and how many kind plans and good deeds you’ll have to abandon!
I must accommodate myself, Madam, in the latter case, to my circumstance: much only is required where much is given. It becomes me to be thankful for what I have had. I have reason to bless you, Madam, and my good Mrs. Norton, for bringing me up to be satisfied with little; with much less, I will venture to say, than my father's indulgence annually confers upon me.—And then I thought of the old Roman and his lentils.
I have to adapt, Madam, in this case, to my situation: a lot is expected where a lot is given. I should be grateful for what I have received. I have every reason to thank you, Madam, and my good Mrs. Norton, for teaching me to be content with little; I’d say with much less than what my father generously provides for me each year. – And then I thought of the old Roman and his lentils.
What perverseness! said my mother.—But if you depend upon the favour of either or both of your uncles, vain will be that dependence: they will give you up, I do assure you, if your father does, and absolutely renounce you.
"What a twisted thing to say!" my mother exclaimed. "But if you rely on the favor of either or both of your uncles, that reliance will be in vain. I assure you, they will abandon you if your father does and completely disown you."
I am sorry, Madam, that I have had so little merit as to have made no deeper impressions of favour for me in their hearts: but I will love and honour them as long as I live.
I’m sorry, ma'am, that I haven't done enough to make a stronger impression in their hearts: but I will love and honor them for as long as I live.
All this, Clarissa, makes your prepossession in a certain man's favour the more evident. Indeed, your brother and sister cannot go any where, but they hear of these prepossessions.
All of this, Clarissa, makes it even more clear that you have a preference for a certain man. In fact, your brother and sister can’t go anywhere without hearing about these feelings.
It is a great grief to me, Madam, to be made the subject of the public talk: but I hope you will have the goodness to excuse me for observing, that the authors of my disgrace within doors, the talkers of my prepossession without, and the reporters of it from abroad, are originally the same persons.
It deeply saddens me, Madam, to be the topic of public discussion. However, I hope you can forgive me for pointing out that those responsible for my troubles at home, the ones gossiping about my situation outside, and the reporters from afar, are in fact the same people.
She severely chid me for this.
She lectured me for this.
I received her rebukes in silence.
I took her criticisms without saying a word.
You are sullen, Clarissa: I see you are sullen.—And she walked about the room in anger. Then turning to me—You can bear the imputation of sullenness I see!—You have no concern to clear yourself of it. I was afraid of telling you all I was enjoined to tell you, in case you were to be unpersuadable: but I find that I had a greater opinion of your delicacy, of your gentleness, than I needed to have—it cannot discompose so steady, so inflexible a young creature, to be told, as I now tell you, that the settlements are actually drawn; and that you will be called down in a very few days to hear them read, and to sign them: for it is impossible, if your heart be free, that you can make the least objection to them; except it will be an objection with you, that they are so much in your favour, and in the favour of all our family.
You’re being withdrawn, Clarissa: I can see that you’re withdrawn.—And she paced around the room in frustration. Then turning to me—You seem to accept the accusation of being withdrawn!—You don’t seem worried about clearing that up. I was worried about telling you everything I was supposed to share, in case you wouldn't be open to it: but I've realized that I overestimated your sensitivity and kindness—it's unlikely to disturb such a composed and unyielding young person like you to be told, as I’m telling you now, that the settlements are ready; and that you’ll be called down in just a few days to hear them read and to sign them: because if your heart is free, there can be no valid objections to them; unless your objection is that they’re so much in your favor and in the favor of our entire family.
I was speechless, absolutely speechless. Although my heart was ready to burst, yet could I neither weep nor speak.
I was at a loss for words, completely at a loss. Even though my heart felt like it was about to explode, I couldn’t cry or say anything.
I am sorry, said she, for your averseness to this match: [match she was pleased to call it!] but there is no help. The honour and interest of the family, as your aunt has told you, and as I have told you, are concerned; and you must comply.
"I'm sorry," she said, "for your dislike of this match: [match she was pleased to call it!] but there's nothing we can do. The honor and interests of the family, as your aunt has mentioned and as I've told you, are involved; and you have to go along with it."
I was still speechless.
I was still at a loss for words.
She folded the warm statue, as she was pleased to call me, in her arms; and entreated me, for heaven's sake, to comply.
She held the warm statue, as she liked to call me, in her arms; and begged me, for heaven's sake, to agree.
Speech and tears were lent me at the same time.—You have given me life, Madam, said I, clasping my uplifted hands together, and falling on one knee; a happy one, till now, has your goodness, and my papa's, made it! O do not, do not, make all the remainder of it miserable!
Speech and tears came to me at the same time. “You have given me life, Madam,” I said, bringing my hands together and kneeling down. “Your kindness, along with my father's, has made it a happy one until now! Oh, please do not make the rest of it miserable!”
Your father, replied she, is resolved not to see you, till he sees you as obedient a child as you used to be. You have never been put to a test till now, that deserved to be called a test. This is, this must be, my last effort with you. Give me hope, my dear child: my peace is concerned: I will compound with you but for hope: and yet your father will not be satisfied without an implicit, and even a cheerful obedience—Give me but hope, child!
"Your father," she replied, "is determined not to see you until he sees you being the obedient child you used to be. You've never faced a real test until now. This is, and must be, my last attempt with you. Give me hope, my dear child; my peace depends on it. I'll make a deal with you just for hope; however, your father won't be satisfied without complete and even cheerful obedience—Just give me hope, child!"
To give you hope, my dearest, my most indulgent Mamma, is to give you every thing. Can I be honest, if I give a hope that I cannot confirm?
To give you hope, my dearest, my most indulgent Mom, is to give you everything. Can I be honest, if I offer a hope that I cannot validate?
She was very angry. She again called me perverse: she upbraided me with regarding only my own prepossessions, and respecting not either her peace of mind or my own duty:—'It is a grating thing, said she, for the parents of a child, who delighted in her in all the time of her helpless infancy, and throughout every stage of her childhood; and in every part of her education to womanhood, because of the promises she gave of proving the most grateful and dutiful of children; to find, just when the time arrived which should crown their wishes, that child stand in the way of her own happiness, and her parents' comfort,and, refusing an excellent offer and noble settlements, give suspicions to her anxious friends, that she would become the property of a vile rake and libertine, who (be the occasion what it will) defies her family, and has actually embrued his hands in her brother's blood.
She was really angry. She called me selfish again: she scolded me for only thinking about my own feelings, not caring about her peace of mind or my own responsibilities. "It's infuriating," she said, "for the parents of a child who they cherished during her helpless infancy and throughout every stage of her childhood—and who they believed would be the most grateful and dutiful of children—to find that just when the time comes to fulfill their hopes, that child is getting in the way of her own happiness and her parents' comfort. By turning down a great offer and wonderful opportunities, she raises suspicions in her worried friends that she might end up with a worthless jerk and a libertine who, no matter the situation, disrespects her family and has actually stained his hands with her brother's blood."
'I have had a very hard time of it, said she, between your father and you; for, seeing your dislike, I have more than once pleaded for you: but all to no purpose. I am only treated as a too fond mother, who, from motives of a blamable indulgence, encourage a child to stand in opposition to a father's will. I am charged with dividing the family into two parts; I and my youngest daughter standing against my husband, his two brothers, my son, my eldest daughter, and my sister Hervey. I have been told, that I must be convinced of the fitness as well as advantage to the whole (your brother and Mr. Lovelace out of the question) of carrying the contract with Mr. Solmes, on which so many contracts depend, into execution.
"I've had a really tough time, she said, caught between your father and you; because, seeing how much you dislike him, I've pleaded for you more than once, but it hasn't worked at all. I'm seen as just a too caring mother who, out of some blameworthy indulgence, encourages a child to oppose their father's wishes. I'm accused of splitting the family into two sides; me and my youngest daughter against my husband, his two brothers, my son, my oldest daughter, and my sister Hervey. I've been told that I need to recognize the suitability and benefits for everyone (excluding your brother and Mr. Lovelace) of carrying out the agreement with Mr. Solmes, which many other agreements rely on."
'Your father's heart, I tell you once more, is in it: he has declared, that he had rather have no daughter in you, than one he cannot dispose of for your own good: especially if you have owned, that your heart is free; and as the general good of his whole family is to be promoted by your obedience. He has pleaded, poor man! that his frequent gouty paroxysms (every fit more threatening than the former) give him no extraordinary prospects, either of worldly happiness, or of long days: and he hopes, that you, who have been supposed to have contributed to the lengthening of your grandfather's life, will not, by your disobedience, shorten your father's.'
'Your father's heart, I tell you again, is in this: he has stated that he would rather not have a daughter like you than one he cannot guide for your own benefit, especially since you've admitted that your heart is free; and because the overall good of his entire family would be better if you obey him. Poor man, he has argued that his frequent gout attacks (worse with each one) give him little hope for either worldly happiness or long life: and he hopes that you, who are believed to have helped extend your grandfather's life, won't, through your disobedience, cut your father's life short.'
This was a most affecting plea, my dear. I wept in silence upon it. I could not speak to it. And my mother proceeded: 'What therefore can be his motives, Clary Harlowe, in the earnest desire he has to see this treaty perfected, but the welfare and aggrandizement of his family; which already having fortunes to become the highest condition, cannot but aspire to greater distinctions? However slight such views as these may appear to you, Clary, you know, that they are not slight ones to any other of the family: and your father will be his own judge of what is and what is not likely to promote the good of his children. Your abstractedness, child, (affectation of abstractedness, some call it,) savours, let me tell you, of greater particularity, than we aim to carry. Modesty and humility, therefore, will oblige you rather to mistrust yourself of peculiarity, than censure views which all the world pursues, as opportunity offers.'
This was a very moving appeal, my dear. I cried quietly at it. I couldn't respond to it. And my mother continued: 'So what could his motives be, Clary Harlowe, in his strong desire to see this agreement finalized, other than the well-being and advancement of his family; which already has fortunes sufficient to reach the highest status, but must naturally seek even greater distinctions? Even if these ambitions seem small to you, Clary, you know they are anything but small to the rest of the family: and your father will decide what is likely to benefit his children. Your preoccupation, dear, (or some might call it an act of preoccupation) suggests, I must tell you, a greater focus on personal matters than we intend to convey. Therefore, modesty and humility should lead you to question yourself for being different rather than criticize ambitions that everyone strives for as opportunities arise.'
I was still silent; and she proceeded—'It is owing to the good opinion, Clary, which your father has of you, and of your prudence, duty, and gratitude, that he engaged for your compliance, in your absence (before you returned from Miss Howe); and that he built and finished contracts upon it, which cannot be made void, or cancelled.'
I stayed quiet, and she continued, "It's because of your father's high regard for you, Clary, and his belief in your sense, responsibility, and loyalty, that he assured me you would cooperate while you were away (before you came back from Miss Howe); and he made and completed agreements based on that assurance, which cannot be undone or canceled."
But why then, thought I, did they receive me, on my return from Miss Howe, with so much intimidating solemnity?—To be sure, my dear, this argument, as well as the rest, was obtruded upon my mother.
But why, I wondered, did they greet me so seriously when I got back from Miss Howe?—Of course, my dear, this point, like all the others, was forced upon my mother.
She went on, 'Your father has declared, that your unexpected opposition, [unexpected she was pleased to call it,] and Mr. Lovelace's continued menaces and insults, more and more convince him, that a short day is necessary in order to put an end to all that man's hopes, and to his own apprehensions resulting from the disobedience of a child so favoured. He has therefore actually ordered patterns of the richest silks to be sent for from London—'
She continued, "Your father has stated that your unexpected resistance, [unexpected which she's happy to call it,] along with Mr. Lovelace's ongoing threats and insults, are increasingly convincing him that a quick resolution is needed to put an end to that man's hopes and to his own worries stemming from the disobedience of a child so favored. He has therefore actually arranged for samples of the finest silks to be sent for from London—"
I started—I was out of breath—I gasped, at this frightful precipitance—I was going to open with warmth against it. I knew whose the happy expedient must be: female minds, I once heard my brother say, that could but be brought to balance on the change of their state, might easily be determined by the glare and splendour of the nuptial preparations, and the pride of becoming the mistress of a family.—But she was pleased to hurry on, that I might not have time to express my disgusts at such a communication—to this effect: 'Your father therefore, my Clary, cannot, either for your sake, or his own, labour under a suspense so affecting to his repose. He has even thought fit to acquaint me, on my pleading for you, that it becomes me, as I value my own peace, [how harsh to such a wife!] and as I wish, that he does not suspect that I secretly favour the address of a vile rake, (a character which all the sex, he is pleased to say, virtuous and vicious, are but too fond of!) to exert my authority over you: and that this I may the less scrupulously do, as you have owned [the old string!] that your heart is free.'
I started—I was out of breath—I gasped at this shocking speed—I was going to respond with warmth against it. I knew whose happy solution this had to be: female minds, I once heard my brother say, if they could just be balanced on the change in their circumstances, could easily be swayed by the brightness and grandeur of wedding preparations, and the pride of becoming the head of a household.—But she was eager to move on, so I wouldn’t have time to express my disgust at such news—to this effect: 'Your father, my Clary, cannot, either for your sake or his own, deal with a suspense that affects his peace of mind. He even thought it wise to tell me, when I advocated for you, that I should, as I value my own peace, [how harsh to such a wife!] and as I wish, that he doesn’t suspect that I secretly support the advances of a worthless scoundrel, (a type that he claims all women, both good and bad, are unfortunately too attracted to!) to use my authority over you: and that this I can do more freely, since you’ve admitted [the old refrain!] that your heart is free.'
Unworthy reflection in my mother's case, surely, this of our sex's valuing a libertine; since she made choice of my father in preference to several suitors of equal fortune, because they were of inferior reputation for morals!
Unworthy reflection in my mother's case, surely, this of our sex's valuing a libertine; since she chose my father over several suitors of equal fortune, because they had a worse reputation for morals!
'Your father, added she, at his going out, told me what he expected from me, in case I found out that I had not the requisite influence upon you—It was this—That I should directly separate myself from you, and leave you singly to take the consequence of your double disobedience—I therefore entreat you, my dear Clarissa, concluded she, and that in the most earnest and condescending manner, to signify to your father, on his return, your ready obedience; and this as well for my sake as your own.'
"Your father," she said as he was leaving, "told me what he expected from me in case I found out that I didn’t have the influence over you that I needed. His expectation was that I should completely distance myself from you and let you face the consequences of your double disobedience on your own. So, I sincerely urge you, my dear Clarissa," she concluded, in the most earnest and kind way, "to let your father know, when he returns, that you are ready to obey him. This is important for both your sake and mine."
Affected by my mother's goodness to me, and by that part of her argument which related to her own peace, and to the suspicions they had of her secretly inclining to prefer the man so hated by them, to the man so much my aversion, I could not but wish it were possible for me to obey, I therefore paused, hesitated, considered, and was silent for some time. I could see, that my mother hoped that the result of this hesitation would be favourable to her arguments. But then recollecting, that all was owing to the instigations of a brother and sister, wholly actuated by selfish and envious views; that I had not deserved the treatment I had of late met with; that my disgrace was already become the public talk; that the man was Mr. Solmes; and that my aversion to him was too generally known, to make my compliance either creditable to myself or to them: that it would give my brother and sister a triumph over me, and over Mr. Lovelace, which they would not fail to glory in; and which, although it concerned me but little to regard on his account, yet might be attended with fatal mischiefs—And then Mr. Solmes's disagreeable person; his still more disagreeable manners; his low understanding—Understanding! the glory of a man, so little to be dispensed with in the head and director of a family, in order to preserve to him that respect which a good wife (and that for the justification of her own choice) should pay him herself, and wish every body to pay him.—And as Mr. Solmes's inferiority in this respectable faculty of the human mind [I must be allowed to say this to you, and no great self assumption neither] would proclaim to all future, as well as to all present observers, what must have been my mean inducement. All these reflections crowding upon my remembrance; I would, Madam, said I, folding my hands, with an earnestness in which my whole heart was engaged, bear the cruelest tortures, bear loss of limb, and even of life, to give you peace. But this man, every moment I would, at you command, think of him with favour, is the more my aversion. You cannot, indeed you cannot, think, how my whole soul resists him!—And to talk of contracts concluded upon; of patterns; of a short day!—Save me, save me, O my dearest Mamma, save your child, from this heavy, from this insupportable evil—!
Influenced by my mother's kindness and her concerns about her own peace, as well as the suspicions that she secretly preferred the man they despised over the one I disliked so much, I found myself wishing I could comply. So, I paused, hesitated, thought it over, and remained silent for a while. I noticed that my mother hoped my hesitation would support her arguments. However, I remembered that all of this stemmed from the manipulations of a brother and sister driven purely by selfish and envious motives. I hadn’t earned the treatment I had been receiving lately; my disgrace had become public gossip; the man in question was Mr. Solmes; and my aversion to him was well-known enough to make compliance disgraceful for both me and my family. Complying would give my brother and sister a victory over me and Mr. Lovelace that they would take pleasure in – something that, while not concerning me much for Lovelace’s sake, could lead to serious consequences. And then there was Mr. Solmes’s unpleasant appearance, his even more unpleasant manners, and his lack of intelligence—Intelligence! A crucial attribute for someone leading a household, essential for earning the respect a good wife should give him and hope others would show him too. Given Mr. Solmes’s shortcomings in this important area, it would make clear to everyone, both now and in the future, what might have driven me. All these thoughts flooded my mind, and I said, "Madam," folding my hands earnestly, with all my heart engaged, "I would endure the worst tortures, even loss of limbs or life, to bring you peace. But this man, whom I am supposed to think favorably of at your command, I dislike even more. You cannot, truly you cannot imagine how fiercely my whole being rejects him! And to speak of contracts, patterns, or a brief timeframe—please, save me, O my dearest Mom, save your child from this terrible, unbearable evil!"
Never was there a countenance that expressed so significantly, as my mother's did, an anguish, which she struggled to hide, under an anger she was compelled to assume—till the latter overcoming the former, she turned from me with an uplifted eye, and stamping—Strange perverseness! were the only words I heard of a sentence that she angrily pronounced; and was going. I then, half-frantically I believe, laid hold of her gown—Have patience with me, dearest Madam! said I—Do not you renounce me totally!—If you must separate yourself from your child, let it not be with absolute reprobation on your own part!—My uncles may be hard-hearted—my father may be immovable—I may suffer from my brother's ambition, and from my sister's envy!—But let me not lose my Mamma's love; at least, her pity.
Never was there a face that communicated so deeply, as my mother's did, a pain she tried to hide beneath a mask of anger she felt forced to wear—until the anger eclipsed the pain, and she turned away from me with her eyes raised and her foot stamping—“Strange stubbornness!” were the only words I caught from the sentence she said in frustration as she walked away. In that moment, half-despairing, I grabbed her dress—“Please be patient with me, dear Mom!” I said—“Don’t completely renounce me!”—“If you have to distance yourself from your child, don’t do it with total disdain!”—“My uncles might be cruel—my father might be unyielding—I might suffer from my brother's ambition and my sister's jealousy!”—“But don’t let me lose my mom's love; or at least, her pity.”
She turned to me with benigner rays—You have my love! You have my pity! But, O my dearest girl—I have not yours.
She turned to me with kinder eyes—You have my love! You have my sympathy! But, oh my dearest girl—I don’t have yours.
Indeed, indeed, Madam, you have: and all my reverence, all my gratitude, you have!—But in this one point—Cannot I be this once obliged?—Will no expedient be accepted? Have I not made a very fair proposal as to Mr. Lovelace?
Indeed, yes, Madam, you have: and all my respect, all my gratitude, you have!—But on this one point—Can’t I be granted this once?—Will no solution be accepted? Haven't I made a pretty good proposal regarding Mr. Lovelace?
I wish, for both our sakes, my dear unpersuadable girl, that the decision of this point lay with me. But why, when you know it does not, why should you thus perplex and urge me?—To renounce Mr. Lovelace is now but half what is aimed at. Nor will any body else believe you in earnest in the offer, if I would. While you remain single, Mr. Lovelace will have hopes—and you, in the opinion of others, inclinations.
I wish, for our both benefit, my dear stubborn girl, that the choice in this matter was mine. But why, when you know it isn’t, do you continue to confuse and push me?—To give up Mr. Lovelace is only part of what you're trying to achieve. Plus, no one else will believe you really mean your offer, even if I did. As long as you stay single, Mr. Lovelace will still have hope—and others will think you have feelings for him.
Permit me, dearest Madam, to say, that your goodness to me, your patience, your peace, weigh more with me, than all the rest put together: for although I am to be treated by my brother, and, through his instigations, by my father, as a slave in this point, and not as a daughter, yet my mind is not that of a slave. You have not brought me up to be mean.
Let me say, dear Madam, that your kindness, your patience, and your calmness mean more to me than everything else combined. Even though my brother and, influenced by him, my father are treating me like a slave in this situation rather than as a daughter, my thoughts are not those of a slave. You have not raised me to be small-minded.
So, Clary! you are already at defiance with your father! I have had too much cause before to apprehend as much—What will this come to?—I, and then my dear mamma sighed—I, am forced to put up with many humours—
So, Clary! You're already at odds with your father! I've had too many reasons before to suspect this—What will it lead to?—I, and then my dear mom sighed—I have to deal with a lot of moods—
That you are, my ever-honoured Mamma, is my grief. And can it be thought, that this very consideration, and the apprehension of what may result from a much worse-tempered man, (a man who has not half the sense of my father,) has not made an impression upon me, to the disadvantage of the married life? Yet 'tis something of an alleviation, if one must bear undue controul, to bear it from a man of sense. My father, I have heard you say, Madam, was for years a very good-humoured gentleman—unobjectionable in person and manners—but the man proposed to me—
That you are, my dear Mom, is my sorrow. And can it be believed that this very thought, along with the fear of what could come from a much more difficult man (a man who doesn't have half the sense my father did), hasn’t affected me, to the detriment of married life? Still, it’s somewhat comforting, if one must endure unfair control, to endure it from a man of intelligence. My father, I’ve heard you say, Mom, was for many years a very good-natured gentleman—unobjectionable in looks and behavior—but the man proposed to me—
Forbear reflecting upon your father: [Did I, my dear, in what I have repeated, and I think they are the very words, reflect upon my father?] it is not possible, I must say again, and again, were all men equally indifferent to you, that you should be thus sturdy in your will. I am tired out with your obstinacy—The most unpersuadable girl—You forget, that I must separate myself from you, if you will not comply. You do not remember that you father will take you up, where I leave you. Once more, however, I will put it to you,—Are you determined to brave your father's displeasure?—Are you determined to defy your uncles?—Do you choose to break with us all, rather than encourage Mr. Solmes?—Rather than give me hope?
Stop thinking about your father: [Did I, my dear, in what I just repeated, really think about my father?] It’s just not possible, I have to say again and again, that if all men were equally indifferent to you, you could be this determined. I'm worn out by your stubbornness—The most unyielding girl—You forget that I will have to separate from you if you won’t cooperate. You don’t realize that your father will take you away from me when I leave you. Once more, though, I’ll ask you—Are you set on facing your father's anger?—Are you set on defying your uncles?—Do you really want to cut ties with all of us rather than encourage Mr. Solmes?—Rather than give me hope?
Dreadful alternative—But is not my sincerity, is not the integrity of my heart, concerned in the answer? May not my everlasting happiness be the sacrifice? Will not the least shadow of the hope you just now demanded from me, be driven into absolute and sudden certainty? Is it not sought to ensnare, to entangle me in my own desire of obeying, if I could give answers that might be construed into hope?—Forgive me, Madam: bear with your child's boldness in such a cause as this!—Settlements drawn!—Patterns sent for!—An early day!—Dear, dear Madam, how can I give hope, and not intend to be this man's?
Dreadful choice—But isn’t my honesty, isn’t the integrity of my heart, involved in the answer? Could my everlasting happiness be the price? Wouldn’t even the slightest hint of the hope you just asked for be turned into complete and sudden certainty? Am I not being lured, caught up in my own desire to obey, if I were to give answers that could be taken as hopeful?—Forgive me, Madam: please tolerate your child's boldness in a matter like this!—Settlements prepared!—Samples requested!—An upcoming day!—Dear, dear Madam, how can I offer hope and not intend to belong to this man?
Ah, girl, never say your heart is free! You deceive yourself if you think it is.
Ah, girl, never say your heart is free! You’re only fooling yourself if you think it is.
Thus to be driven [and I wrung my hands through impatience] by the instigations of a designing, an ambitious brother, and by a sister, that—
Thus to be pushed [and I wrung my hands in frustration] by the provocations of a scheming, ambitious brother, and by a sister, that—
How often, Clary, must I forbid your unsisterly reflections?—Does not your father, do not your uncles, does not every body, patronize Mr. Solmes? And let me tell you, ungrateful girl, and unmovable as ungrateful, let me repeatedly tell you, that it is evident to me, that nothing but a love unworthy of your prudence can make you a creature late so dutiful, now so sturdy. You may guess what your father's first question on his return will be. He must know, that I can do nothing with you. I have done my part. Seek me, if your mind change before he comes back: you have yet a little more time, as he stays supper. I will no more seek you, nor to you.—And away she flung.
How often, Clary, must I tell you to stop your unsisterly thoughts? Doesn’t your father, your uncles, and everyone else support Mr. Solmes? And let me remind you, ungrateful girl, as ungrateful as you are stubborn, it’s clear to me that only a love unworthy of your good sense could change you from being so obedient to so defiant. You can imagine what your father’s first question will be when he returns. He needs to know that I can’t do anything with you. I’ve done my part. Come to me if you change your mind before he gets back: you still have a bit of time, since he’s staying for dinner. I won’t come looking for you anymore.—And with that, she stormed off.
What could I do but weep?
What else could I do but cry?
I am extremely affected on my mother's account—more, I must needs say, than on my own. And indeed, all things considered, and especially, that the measure she is engaged in, is (as I dare say it is) against her own judgment, she deserves more compassion than myself.—Excellent woman! What pity, that meekness and condescension should not be attended with the due rewards of those charming graces!—Yet had she not let violent spirits (as I have elsewhere observed with no small regret) find their power over hers, it could not have been thus.
I’m really affected by what my mom is going through—more than I am about my own situation. And honestly, when you think about it, especially since what she's doing is (as I believe it is) against her better judgment, she deserves more sympathy than I do. What a wonderful woman! It’s such a shame that her kindness and humility don’t come with the appreciation they deserve! But if she hadn’t allowed strong personalities (as I’ve noted with some regret before) to have such an influence over her, things wouldn’t have turned out this way.
But here, run away with my pen, I suffer my mother to be angry with me on her own account. She hinted to me, indeed, that I must seek her, if my mind changed; which is a condition that amounts to a prohibition of attending her: but, as she left me in displeasure, will it not have a very obstinate appearance, and look like a kind of renunciation of her mediation in my favour, if I go not down before my father returns, to supplicate her pity, and her kind report to him?
But here, take my pen and run with it; I let my mother be mad at me for her own reasons. She suggested that I should seek her out if I change my mind, which pretty much means I’m not supposed to visit her. However, since she left me upset, won’t it seem really stubborn and look like I'm rejecting her help on my behalf if I don’t go to her before my father gets back to ask for her compassion and a good word with him?
I will attend her. I had rather all the world should be angry with me than my mamma!
I will take care of her. I'd rather the whole world be mad at me than my mom!
Mean time, to clear my hands from papers of such a nature, Hannah shall deposit this. If two or three letters reach you together, they will but express from one period to another, the anxieties and difficulties which the mind of your unhappy but ever affectionate friend labours under.
In the meantime, to get rid of papers like this, Hannah will drop this off. If two or three letters arrive together, they will simply reflect the worries and struggles that your unhappy but always loving friend is dealing with.
LETTER XXI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SAT. NIGHT.
I have been down. I am to be unlucky in all I do, I think, be my intentions ever so good. I have made matters worse instead of better: as I shall now tell you.
I’ve been feeling low. I think I’m just unlucky in everything I do, no matter how good my intentions are. I've made things worse instead of better, as I’m about to explain.
I found my mother and sister together in my sister's parlour. My mother, I fear, by the glow of her fine face, (and as the browner, sullener glow in her sister's confirmed,) had been expressing herself with warmth, against her unhappier child: perhaps giving such an account of what had passed, as should clear herself, and convince Bella, and, through her, my brother and uncles, of the sincere pains she had taken with me.
I found my mom and sister together in my sister’s living room. My mom, I’m afraid, with the way her face lit up (and the darker, more brooding look on her sister’s face confirmed it), had been passionately expressing herself about her less fortunate child: maybe explaining what happened in a way that would make her look good and convince Bella and, through her, my brother and uncles, of the genuine effort she had put into helping me.
I entered like a dejected criminal; and besought the favour of a private audience. My mother's return, both looks and words, gave but too much reason for my above surmise.
I walked in like a downcast criminal and asked for a private meeting. My mother's reaction, both in her expression and her words, confirmed my suspicions all too well.
You have, said she [looking at me with a sternness that never sits well on her sweet features] rather a requesting than a conceding countenance, Clarissa Harlowe: if I am mistaken, tell me so; and I will withdraw with you wherever you will.—Yet whether so, or not, you may say what you have to say before your sister.
"You have," she said [looking at me with a seriousness that doesn't usually suit her sweet face], "more of a pleading look than a yielding one, Clarissa Harlowe. If I'm wrong, let me know, and I’ll step back with you wherever you want." —But whether that's true or not, you can say what you need to say in front of your sister.
My mother, I thought, might have withdrawn with me, as she knows that I have not a friend in my sister.
My mom, I thought, might have pulled away with me since she knows I don't have a friend in my sister.
I come down, Madam, said I, to beg of you to forgive me for any thing you may have taken amiss in what passed above respecting your honoured self; and that you will be pleased to use your endeavours to soften my papa's displeasure against me, on his return.
I come down, ma'am, I said, to ask you to forgive me for anything you might have found upsetting in what was said earlier about you; and that you will help soften my dad's anger towards me when he gets back.
Such aggravating looks; such lifting up of hands and eyes; such a furrowed forehead, in my sister!
Such annoying looks; such raising of hands and eyes; such a furrowed forehead, in my sister!
My mother was angry enough without all that; and asked me to what purpose I came down, if I were still so intractable.
My mom was already pretty upset without all that, and she asked me why I came down if I was still being so stubborn.
She had hardly spoken the words, when Shorey came in to tell her, that Mr. Solmes was in the hall, and desired admittance.
She had barely finished speaking when Shorey walked in to tell her that Mr. Solmes was in the hall and wanted to come in.
Ugly creature! What, at the close of day, quite dark, brought him hither?—But, on second thoughts, I believe it was contrived, that he should be here at supper, to know the result of the conference between my mother and me, and that my father, on his return, might find us together.
Ugly creature! What, at the end of the day, brought him here in the dark?—But, thinking it over, I believe it was planned for him to be here for dinner, to see what happened during the meeting between my mother and me, so that my father would find us together when he got back.
I was hurrying away, but my mother commanded me (since I had come down only, as she said, to mock her) not to stir; and at the same time see if I could behave so to Mr. Solmes, as might encourage her to make the favourable report to my father which I had besought her to make.
I was rushing off, but my mom told me (since I had come down only, as she said, to tease her) not to move; and at the same time, to see if I could act in a way toward Mr. Solmes that might convince her to give my dad the good report I had asked her to give.
My sister triumphed. I was vexed to be so caught, and to have such an angry and cutting rebuke given me, with an aspect much more like the taunting sister than the indulgent mother, if I may presume to say so: for she herself seemed to enjoy the surprise upon me.
My sister won. I was frustrated to be so caught off guard and to receive such an angry and harsh scolding, looking more like the teasing sister than the caring mother, if I can say that: because she seemed to take pleasure in my surprise.
The man stalked in. His usual walk is by pauses, as if (from the same vacuity of thought which made Dryden's clown whistle) he was telling his steps: and first paid his clumsy respects to my mother; then to my sister; next to me, as if I was already his wife, and therefore to be last in his notice; and sitting down by me, told us in general what weather it was. Very cold he made it; but I was warm enough. Then addressing himself to me: And how do you find it, Miss? was his question; and would have taken my hand.
The man walked in. He usually moved in pauses, as if, much like Dryden's clown who whistled, he was counting his steps: first, he awkwardly greeted my mother; then my sister; and finally me, as if I were already his wife and therefore last on his mind. Sitting down next to me, he casually mentioned what the weather was like. He made it sound very cold, but I felt warm enough. Then he turned to me and asked, “And how do you find it, Miss?” and reached for my hand.
I withdrew it, I believe with disdain enough. My mother frowned. My sister bit her lip.
I pulled it back, probably with enough disdain. My mom frowned. My sister bit her lip.
I could not contain myself: I was never so bold in my life; for I went on with my plea, as if Mr. Solmes had not been there.
I couldn't hold back: I had never been this bold in my life; I kept going with my plea, as if Mr. Solmes wasn't even there.
My mother coloured, and looked at him, at my sister, and at me. My sister's eyes were opener and bigger than ever I saw them before.
My mom colored and looked at him, my sister, and me. My sister's eyes were wider and bigger than I had ever seen them before.
The man understood me. He hemmed, and removed from one chair to another.
The man got me. He hesitated and moved from one chair to another.
I went on, supplicating for my mother's favourable report: Nothing but invincible dislike, said I—
I continued, begging for my mother's positive opinion: Nothing but strong dislike, I said—
What would the girl be at, interrupted my mother? Why, Clary! Is this a subject!—Is this!—Is this!—Is this a time—And again she looked upon Mr. Solmes.
What is the girl up to? my mother interrupted. Why, Clary! Is this a topic!—Is this!—Is this!—Is this the right time—And again she looked at Mr. Solmes.
I am sorry, on reflection, that I put my mamma into so much confusion—To be sure it was very saucy in me.
I’m sorry, looking back, that I caused my mom so much confusion—It was definitely pretty cheeky of me.
I beg pardon, Madam, said I. But my papa will soon return. And since I am not permitted to withdraw, it is not necessary, I humbly presume, that Mr. Solmes's presence should deprive me of this opportunity to implore your favourable report; and at the same time, if he still visit on my account [looking at him] to convince him, that it cannot possibly be to any purpose—
I apologize, Madam, I said. But my dad will be back soon. And since I'm not allowed to leave, I hope it’s not too much to ask that Mr. Solmes's presence doesn’t take away this chance for me to ask for your positive recommendation; and at the same time, if he’s still here because of me [looking at him], to show him that it really won’t do any good—
Is the girl mad? said my mother, interrupting me.
"Is the girl crazy?" my mother asked, cutting me off.
My sister, with the affectation of a whisper to my mother—This is—This is spite, Madam, [very spitefully she spoke the word,] because you commanded her to stay.
My sister, whispering to my mother, said, “This is—this is spite, Madam,” [she said the word very spitefully] “because you told her to stay.”
I only looked at her, and turning to my mother, Permit me, Madam, said I, to repeat my request. I have no brother, no sister!—If I ever lose my mamma's favour, I am lost for ever!
I just looked at her, and turning to my mom, I said, "Please, Ma'am, let me repeat my request. I have no brother, no sister! If I ever lose my mom's favor, I’ll be lost forever!"
Mr. Solmes removed to his first seat, and fell to gnawing the head of his hazel; a carved head, almost as ugly as his own—I did not think the man was so sensible.
Mr. Solmes moved to his first seat and started chewing on the head of his hazel stick; it had a carved head, almost as ugly as his own—I didn’t think the guy was that perceptive.
My sister rose, with a face all over scarlet; and stepping to the table, where lay a fan, she took it up, and, although Mr. Solmes had observed that the weather was cold, fanned herself very violently.
My sister got up, her face bright red, and walked over to the table where a fan was lying. She picked it up and, even though Mr. Solmes had pointed out that it was chilly, she fanned herself vigorously.
My mother came to me, and angrily taking my hand, led me out of that parlour into my own; which, you know, is next to it—Is not this behaviour very bold, very provoking, think you, Clary?
My mom came to me, and in a huff took my hand, leading me out of that living room into my own; which, as you know, is right next to it—don’t you think this behavior is pretty bold and really annoying, Clary?
I beg your pardon, Madam, if it has that appearance to you. But indeed, my dear Mamma, there seem to be snares laying in wait for me. Too well I know my brother's drift. With a good word he shall have my consent for all he wishes to worm me out of—neither he, nor my sister, shall need to take half this pains—
I’m sorry, ma’am, if it seems that way to you. But honestly, my dear Mom, it feels like there are traps set for me. I know exactly what my brother is up to. With a kind word, he’ll get my approval for everything he’s trying to manipulate me into—neither he nor my sister will need to go through half this effort—
My mother was about to leave me in high displeasure.
My mom was about to leave me really upset.
I besought her to stay: One favour, but one favour, dearest Madam, said I, give me leave to beg of you—
I begged her to stay: Just one favor, dear Madam, I said, please allow me to ask you—
What would the girl?
What would the girl do?
I see how every thing is working about.—I never, never can think of Mr. Solmes. My papa will be in tumults when he is told that I cannot. They will judge of the tenderness of your heart to a poor child who seems devoted by every one else, from the willingness you have already shewn to hearken to my prayers. There will be endeavours used to confine me, and keep me out of your presence, and out of the presence of every one who used to love me [this, my dear Miss Howe, is threatened]. If this be effected; if it be put out of my power to plead my own cause, and to appeal to you, and to my uncle Harlowe, of whom only I have hope; then will every ear be opened against me, and every tale encouraged—It is, therefore, my humble request, that, added to the disgraceful prohibitions I now suffer under, you will not, if you can help it, give way to my being denied your ear.
I can see how everything is going. I can never think about Mr. Solmes. My dad will be in an uproar when he finds out that I can't. They'll judge how kind your heart is to a poor girl who seems abandoned by everyone else, based on how willing you've already been to listen to my pleas. There will be attempts to confine me and keep me away from you and everyone else who used to care about me [this, my dear Miss Howe, is a threat]. If that happens; if I'm prevented from pleading my case and appealing to you and my uncle Harlowe, who is my only hope, then everyone will turn against me, and every story will be fueled—So, I'm humbly asking that, in addition to the shameful restrictions I'm under now, you won’t, if you can help it, allow me to be denied your attention.
Your listening Hannah has given you this intelligence, as she does many others.
Your listening, Hannah, has shared this information with you, as she does with many others.
My Hannah, Madam, listens not—My Hannah—
My Hannah, ma'am, isn't listening—My Hannah—
No more in Hannah's behalf—Hannah is known to make mischief—Hannah is known—But no more of that bold intermeddler—'Tis true your father threatened to confine you to your chamber, if you complied not, in order the more assuredly to deprive you of the opportunity of corresponding with those who harden your heart against his will. He bid me tell you so, when he went out, if I found you refractory. But I was loth to deliver so harsh a declaration; being still in hope that you would come down to us in a compliant temper. Hannah has overheard this, I suppose; and has told you of it; as also, that he declared he would break your heart, rather than you should break his. And I now assure you, that you will be confined, and prohibited making teasing appeals to any of us: and we shall see who is to submit, you to us, or every body to you.
No more about Hannah—everyone knows she stirs up trouble—everyone knows that. But no more of that bold meddler. It’s true your father threatened to keep you locked in your room if you didn’t obey, just to make sure you wouldn’t have the chance to talk to those who turn your heart against him. He asked me to tell you that when he left, if I found you being difficult. But I didn’t want to deliver such a harsh message; I was still hoping you would come down to us in a more agreeable mood. I assume Hannah overheard this and has told you, along with that he said he would break your heart before letting you break his. And I assure you now that you will be locked away and won't be allowed to make any more annoying requests to any of us. We will see who has to submit, you to us, or everyone else to you.
Again I offered to clear Hannah, and to lay the latter part of the intelligence to my sister's echo, Betty Barnes, who had boasted of it to another servant: but I was again bid to be silent on that head. I should soon find, my mother was pleased to say, that others could be as determined as I was obstinate: and once for all would add, that since she saw that I built upon her indulgence, and was indifferent about involving her in contentions with my father, she would now assure me, that she was as much determined against Mr. Lovelace, and for Mr. Solmes and the family schemes, as any body; and would not refuse her consent to any measures that should be thought necessary to reduce a stubborn child to her duty.
Once again, I tried to defend Hannah and wanted to share the rest of the news with my sister's friend, Betty Barnes, who had already mentioned it to another servant. But I was told to stay quiet about it again. My mother was happy to point out that I would soon realize there were others just as stubborn as I was. She made it clear that since I seemed to rely on her leniency and didn’t mind her getting into conflicts with my father, she was just as determined against Mr. Lovelace and in favor of Mr. Solmes and the family plans as anyone else. She wouldn’t hesitate to give her consent to anything deemed necessary to get a disobedient child back in line.
I was ready to sink. She was so good as to lend me her arm to support me.
I felt like I was going to collapse. She kindly offered me her arm for support.
And this, said I, is all I have to hope for from my Mamma?
And this, I said, is all I can expect from my Mom?
It is. But, Clary, this one further opportunity I give you—Go in again to Mr. Solmes, and behave discreetly to him; and let your father find you together, upon civil terms at least.
It is. But, Clary, I'm giving you one more chance—Go talk to Mr. Solmes again, act politely towards him, and let your father see you both together, at least on friendly terms.
My feet moved [of themselves, I think] farther from the parlour where he was, and towards the stairs; and there I stopped and paused.
My feet moved on their own, I think, away from the room where he was and toward the stairs; and there I stopped and hesitated.
If, proceeded she, you are determined to stand in defiance of us all—then indeed you may go up to your chamber (as you are ready to do)—And God help you!
If you’re set on going against all of us—then feel free to head up to your room (like you want to do)—and good luck!
God help me, indeed! for I cannot give hope of what I cannot intend—But let me have your prayers, my dear Mamma!—Those shall have mine, who have brought me into all this distress.
God help me, truly! I can't offer any hope for what I can't intend—But please keep me in your thoughts, my dear Mom!—I will pray for those who have put me in all this trouble.
I was moving to go up—
I was getting ready to head up—
And will you go up, Clary?
And are you going to go up, Clary?
I turned my face to her: my officious tears would needs plead for me: I could not just then speak, and stood still.
I turned to her: my eager tears had to speak for me; I couldn't find the words at that moment and just stood there.
Good girl, distress me not thus!—Dear, good girl, do not thus distress me! holding out her hand; but standing still likewise.
Good girl, don’t upset me like this!—Dear, sweet girl, please don’t stress me out! she said, reaching out her hand; but she stood still too.
What can I do, Madam?—What can I do?
What should I do, ma'am?—What should I do?
Go in again, my child—Go in again, my dear child!—repeated she; and let your father find you together.
Go in again, my child—Go in again, my dear child!—she repeated; and let your father find you together.
What, Madam, to give him hope?—To give hope to Mr. Solmes?
What, ma'am, to give him hope?—To give hope to Mr. Solmes?
Obstinate, perverse, undutiful Clarissa! with a rejecting hand, and angry aspect; then take your own way, and go up!—But stir not down again, I charge you, without leave, or till your father's pleasure be known concerning you.
Obstinate, stubborn, disobedient Clarissa! With a dismissive hand and an angry look; go ahead, do what you want, and head up!—But don't come back down without permission, or until your father has made his feelings clear about you.
She flung away from me with high indignation: and I went up with a very heavy heart; and feet as slow as my heart was heavy.
She tore away from me in anger, and I walked away with a very heavy heart and feet that felt as slow as my heart was heavy.
***
Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.
My father is come home, and my brother with him. Late as it is, they are all shut up together. Not a door opens; not a soul stirs. Hannah, as she moves up and down, is shunned as a person infected.
My father has come home, and my brother is with him. Even though it’s late, they’re all shut up together. No doors are opening; no one is moving. Hannah, as she walks back and forth, is avoided like she’s contagious.
***
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The angry assembly is broken up. My two uncles and my aunt Hervey are sent for, it seems, to be here in the morning to breakfast. I shall then, I suppose, know my doom. 'Tis past eleven, and I am ordered not to go to bed.
The angry crowd is dispersed. My two uncles and my aunt Hervey are called in and are supposed to be here for breakfast in the morning. I guess I will then know my fate. It’s past eleven, and I’ve been told not to go to bed.
TWELVE O'CLOCK.
12:00 PM.
This moment the keys of every thing are taken from me. It was proposed to send for me down: but my father said, he could not bear to look upon me.—Strange alteration in a few weeks!—Shorey was the messenger. The tears stood in her eyes when she delivered her message.
This moment, I’ve lost control of everything. They suggested sending for me, but my father said he couldn’t bear to see me. —What a strange change in just a few weeks! —Shorey was the messenger. Tears welled up in her eyes as she delivered the message.
You, my dear, are happy—May you always be so—and then I can never be wholly miserable. Adieu, my beloved friend!
You, my dear, are happy—may you always stay that way—and then I can never be completely miserable. Goodbye, my beloved friend!
LETTER XXII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SUNDAY MORNING, MARCH 5.
Hannah has just brought me from the private place in the garden-wall, a letter from Mr. Lovelace, deposited last night, signed also by Lord M.
Hannah just brought me a letter from Mr. Lovelace, which was left last night, and it’s also signed by Lord M. from the private spot in the garden wall.
He tells me in it, 'That Mr. Solmes makes it his boast, that he is to be married in a few days to one of the shyest women in England: that my brother explains his meaning: This shy creature, he says, is me; and he assures every one, that his younger sister is very soon to be Mr. Solmes's wife. He tells me of the patterns bespoken which my mother mentioned to me.'
He tells me, "Mr. Solmes is bragging that he's going to marry one of the shyest women in England. My brother clarifies what he means: this shy woman, he says, is me; and he assures everyone that his younger sister will soon be Mr. Solmes's wife. He tells me about the patterns my mom mentioned to me."
Not one thing escapes him that is done or said in this house.
Not a single thing goes unnoticed by him that happens or is said in this house.
'My sister, he says, reports the same things; and that with such particular aggravations of insult upon him, that he cannot but be extremely piqued, as well at the manner, as from the occasion; and expresses himself with great violence upon it.
'My sister, he says, reports the same things; and with such specific insults directed at him that he can't help but be extremely offended, both by the way it's done and the reasons behind it; and he talks about it with a lot of anger.'
'He knows not, he says, what my relations' inducements can be to prefer such a man as Solmes to him. If advantageous settlements be the motive, Solmes shall not offer what he will refuse to comply with.
'He doesn't understand, he says, why my family would prefer a guy like Solmes over him. If favorable arrangements are the reason, Solmes won't propose anything he won't agree to.'
'As to his estate and family; the first cannot be excepted against: and for the second, he will not disgrace himself by a comparison so odious. He appeals to Lord M. for the regularity of his life and manners ever since he has made his addresses to me, or had hope of my favour.'
'Regarding his estate and family; the first is beyond reproach: and as for the second, he wouldn't want to lower himself by making such an unpleasant comparison. He looks to Lord M. as proof of the consistency of his life and behavior since he started courting me or had hopes for my favor.'
I suppose he would have his Lordship's signing to this letter to be taken as a voucher for him.
I guess he would want his Lordship's signature on this letter to serve as proof for him.
'He desires my leave (in company with my Lord), in a pacific manner, to attend my father and uncles, in order to make proposals that must be accepted, if they will see him, and hear what they are: and tells me, that he will submit to any measures that I shall prescribe, in order to bring about a reconciliation.'
'He wants my permission (along with my Lord) to peacefully meet with my father and uncles to make proposals that must be accepted if they choose to see him and hear what he has to say. He tells me that he will agree to any steps I suggest to help achieve a reconciliation.'
He presumes to be very earnest with me, 'to give him a private meeting some night, in my father's garden, attended by whom I please.'
He assumes he can be really serious with me, 'to have a private meeting one night in my dad's garden, with whoever I want there.'
Really, my dear, were you to see his letter, you would think I had given him great encouragement, and that I am in direct treaty with him; or that he is sure that my friends will drive me into a foreign protection; for he has the boldness to offer, in my Lord's name, an asylum to me, should I be tyrannically treated in Solmes's behalf.
Honestly, my dear, if you saw his letter, you would think I had given him a lot of encouragement and that I'm in direct talks with him; or that he believes my friends will push me towards seeking protection abroad; because he has the nerve to offer, in my Lord's name, a safe place for me if I'm treated unfairly on Solmes's account.
I suppose it is the way of this sex to endeavour to entangle the thoughtless of ours by bold supposals and offers, in hopes that we shall be too complaisant or bashful to quarrel with them; and, if not checked, to reckon upon our silence, as assents voluntarily given, or concessions made in their favour.
I guess it’s just how this gender operates, trying to trap the careless among us with daring suggestions and proposals, hoping we’ll be too accommodating or shy to challenge them; and if we're not stopped, they assume our silence means we agree willingly or that we’ve made compromises in their favor.
There are other particulars in this letter which I ought to mention to you: but I will take an opportunity to send you the letter itself, or a copy of it.
There are other details in this letter that I should mention to you, but I will take the chance to send you the letter itself or a copy of it.
For my own part, I am very uneasy to think how I have been drawn on one hand, and driven on the other, into a clandestine, in short, into a mere loverlike correspondence, which my heart condemns.
For my part, I feel really uncomfortable thinking about how I've been pulled in one direction and pushed in another, into a secret, basically romantic correspondence, which my heart disapproves of.
It is easy to see, if I do not break it off, that Mr. Lovelace's advantages, by reason of my unhappy situation, will every day increase, and I shall be more and more entangled. Yet if I do put an end to it, without making it a condition of being freed from Mr. Solmes's address—May I, my dear, is it best to continue it a little longer, in order to extricate myself out of the other difficulty, by giving up all thoughts of Mr. Lovelace?—Whose advice can I now ask but yours.
It's easy to see that if I don't end this, Mr. Lovelace will have more and more advantages because of my unfortunate situation, and I’ll become increasingly trapped. But if I do end it without also cutting off Mr. Solmes's interest—What do you think, my dear? Is it better to keep it going a bit longer to help me get out of the other problem by completely giving up on Mr. Lovelace?—Whose advice can I ask now except yours?
All my relations are met. They are at breakfast together. Mr. Solmes is expected. I am excessively uneasy. I must lay down my pen.
All my family and friends are here. They're having breakfast together. Mr. Solmes is expected soon. I'm really anxious. I need to put my pen down.
***
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They are all going to church together. Grievously disordered they appear to be, as Hannah tells me. She believes something is resolved upon.
They’re all going to church together. They seem really out of sorts, as Hannah tells me. She thinks something is decided.
SUNDAY NOON.
SUNDAY 12 PM.
What a cruel thing is suspense!—I will ask leave to go to church this afternoon. I expect to be denied. But, if I do not ask, they may allege, that my not going is owing to myself.
What a cruel thing suspense is!—I’m going to request permission to go to church this afternoon. I expect to be denied. But if I don’t ask, they might say that my not going is my own choice.
***
Understood! Please provide the text for modernization.
I desired to speak with Shorey. Shorey came. I directed her to carry to my mother my request for permission to go to church this afternoon. What think you was the return? Tell her, that she must direct herself to her brother for any favour she has to ask.—So, my dear, I am to be delivered up to my brother!
I wanted to talk to Shorey. Shorey came. I asked her to take my request to my mother for permission to go to church this afternoon. What do you think her response was? Tell her that she needs to ask her brother for any favor she has. So, my dear, I am to be handed over to my brother!
I was resolved, however, to ask of him this favour. Accordingly, when they sent me up my solitary dinner, I gave the messenger a billet, in which I made it my humble request through him to my father, to be permitted to go to church this afternoon.
I was determined to ask him for this favor. So, when they brought me my lonely dinner, I handed the messenger a note, in which I humbly requested him to ask my father for permission to go to church this afternoon.
This was the contemptuous answer: 'Tell her, that her request will be taken into consideration to-morrow.'
This was the disdainful response: "Tell her that her request will be considered tomorrow."
Patience will be the fittest return I can make to such an insult. But this method will not do with me; indeed it will not! And yet it is but the beginning, I suppose, of what I am to expect from my brother, now I am delivered up to him.
Patience will be the best response I can give to such an insult. But this approach won’t work with me; it really won’t! And yet, I suppose this is just the start of what I can expect from my brother now that I’m handed over to him.
On recollection, I thought it best to renew my request. I did. The following is a copy of what I wrote, and what follows that, of the answer sent me.
On reflection, I thought it was best to repeat my request. I did. The following is a copy of what I wrote, and what comes next is the response I received.
SIR,
Sir,
I know not what to make of the answer brought to my request of being permitted to go to church this afternoon. If you designed to shew your pleasantry by it, I hope that will continue; and then my request will be granted.
I don’t know what to think of the response to my request to go to church this afternoon. If you meant to be funny with it, I hope that continues; and then my request will be granted.
You know, that I never absented myself, when well, and at home, till the two last Sundays; when I was advised not to go. My present situation is such, that I never more wanted the benefit of the public prayers.
You know that I never missed church when I was well and at home, until the last two Sundays when I was advised not to go. Right now, I really need the support of public prayers more than ever.
I will solemnly engage only to go thither, and back again.
I will seriously commit to only going there and coming back.
I hope it cannot be thought that I would do otherwise.
I hope it's not believed that I would act any differently.
My dejection of spirits will give a too just excuse on the score of indisposition for avoiding visits. Nor will I, but by distant civilities, return the compliments of any of my acquaintances. My disgraces, if they are to have an end, need not be proclaimed to the whole world. I ask this favour, therefore, for my reputation's sake, that I may be able to hold up my head in the neighbourhood, if I live to see an end of the unmerited severities which seem to be designed for
My low spirits will provide a valid reason for skipping visits. I won’t be responding to the compliments of my acquaintances except with distant pleasantries. If my misfortunes are ever going to end, they don’t need to be announced to everyone. I'm asking for this favor for the sake of my reputation, so I can hold my head high in the community if I live to see an end to the unfair punishments that seem to be aimed at me.
Your unhappy sister, CL. HARLOWE.
Your upset sister, CL. HARLOWE.
TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
To Miss Clarissa Harlowe
For a girl to lay so much stress upon going to church, and yet resolve to defy her parents, in an article of the greatest consequence to them, and to the whole family, is an absurdity. You are recommended, Miss, to the practice of your private devotions. May they be efficacious upon the mind of one of the most pervicacious young creatures that ever was heard of! The intention is, I tell you plainly, to mortify you into a sense of your duty. The neighbours you are so solicitous to appear well with, already know, that you defy that. So, Miss, if you have a real value for your reputation, shew it as you ought. It is yet in your own power to establish or impair it.
For a girl to put so much emphasis on going to church, yet decide to go against her parents in a matter that’s so important to them and the entire family, is ridiculous. I suggest, Miss, that you focus on your private prayers. May they help you with the mindset of one of the most stubborn young women ever known! The goal is, to be clear, to make you realize your responsibilities. The neighbors you're so eager to impress already see that you disregard that. So, Miss, if you truly care about your reputation, show it as you should. It's still in your power to build it up or damage it.
JA. HARLOWE.
JA. HARLOWE.
Thus, my dear Miss Howe, has my brother got me into his snares; and I, like a poor silly bird, the more I struggle, am the more entangled.
Thus, my dear Miss Howe, my brother has trapped me in his schemes; and I, like a helpless little bird, get more stuck the more I struggle.
LETTER XXIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE MONDAY MORNING, MARCH 6.
They are resolved to break my heart. My poor Hannah is discharged—disgracefully discharged!—Thus it was.
They are determined to crush me emotionally. My poor Hannah has been let go—let go in the most disgraceful way!—And that’s how it happened.
Within half an hour after I had sent the poor girl down for my breakfast, that bold creature Betty Barnes, my sister's confidant and servant, (if a favourite maid and confidant can be deemed a servant,) came up.
Within half an hour after I had sent the poor girl down for my breakfast, that bold character Betty Barnes, my sister's confidant and maid (if a favorite maid and confidant can be considered a servant), came up.
What, Miss, will you please to have for breakfast?
What would you like for breakfast, miss?
I was surprised. What will I have for breakfast, Betty!—How!—What!—How comes it!—Then I named Hannah. I could not tell what to say.
I was surprised. What am I having for breakfast, Betty!—How!—What!—How is that possible!—Then I mentioned Hannah. I didn't know what to say.
Don't be surprised, Miss:—but you'll see Hannah no more in this house.
Don't be surprised, Miss, but you won't be seeing Hannah in this house anymore.
God forbid!—Is any harm come to Hannah?—What! What is the matter with Hannah?
God forbid! Has something happened to Hannah? What’s wrong with Hannah?
Why, Miss, the short and the long is this: Your papa and mamma think Hannah has staid long enough in the house to do mischief; and so she is ordered to troop [that was the confident creature's word]; and I am directed to wait upon you in her stead.
Why, Miss, the long and short of it is this: Your mom and dad think Hannah has been in the house long enough to cause trouble; so she’s been told to leave [that was her confident way of saying it]; and I’ve been instructed to come to you instead.
I burst into tears. I have no service for you, Betty Barnes; none at all. But where is Hannah? Cannot I speak with the poor girl? I owe her half a year's wages. May I not see the honest creature, and pay her her wages? I may never see her again perhaps; for they are resolved to break my heart.
I broke down in tears. I have no help for you, Betty Barnes; none whatsoever. But where is Hannah? Can I not talk to the poor girl? I owe her six months' pay. Can I not see the honest girl and give her what I owe? I might never see her again; they are determined to break my heart.
And they think you are resolved to break theirs: so tit for tat, Miss.
And they think you're set on breaking theirs: so it's a fair exchange, Miss.
Impertinent I called her; and asked her, if it were upon such confident terms that her service was to begin.
I called her rude and asked if that's how confidently her service was going to start.
I was so very earnest to see the poor maid, that (to oblige me, as she said) she went down with my request.
I was so eager to see the poor maid that, to help me out, as she said, she went down with my request.
The worthy creature was as earnest to see me; and the favour was granted in presence of Shorey and Betty.
The creature was just as eager to see me, and the favor was granted in front of Shorey and Betty.
I thanked her, when she came up, for her past service to me.
I thanked her when she approached me for all her help in the past.
Her heart was ready to break. And she began to vindicate her fidelity and love; and disclaimed any mischief she had ever made.
Her heart was about to break. She started to defend her loyalty and love, and insisted that she had never caused any harm.
I told her, that those who occasioned her being turned out of my service, made no question of her integrity: that her dismission was intended for an indignity to me: that I was very sorry to be obliged to part with her, and hoped she would meet with as good a service.
I told her that the people who caused her to be let go from my service had no doubts about her honesty: that her departure was meant as an insult to me: that I was really sorry to have to part ways with her, and I hoped she would find another job just as good.
Never, never, wringing her hands, should she meet with a mistress she loved so well. And the poor creature ran on in my praises, and in professions of love to me.
Never, never, wringing her hands, should she meet with a mistress she loved so much. And the poor thing kept going on about my praises and professing her love for me.
We are all apt, you know, my dear, to praise our benefactors, because they are our benefactors; as if every body did right or wrong, as they obliged or disobliged us. But this good creature deserved to be kindly treated; so I could have no merit in favouring one whom it would have been ungrateful not to distinguish.
We all tend to praise those who do us favors, simply because they help us, as if everyone is good or bad based solely on how they treat us. But this kind person deserved to be treated well; so I would gain no credit for being kind to someone it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge.
I gave her a little linen, some laces, and other odd things; and instead of four pounds which were due to her, ten guineas: and said, if ever I were again allowed to be my own mistress, I would think of her in the first place.
I gave her some linen, a few laces, and other random things; and instead of the four pounds I owed her, I gave her ten guineas. I said that if I ever got to be my own boss again, I would think of her first.
Betty enviously whispered Shorey upon it.
Betty whispered enviously to Shorey about it.
Hannah told me, before their faces, having no other opportunity, that she had been examined about letters to me, and from me: and that she had given her pockets to Miss Harlowe, who looked into them, and put her fingers in her stays, to satisfy herself that she had not any.
Hannah told me, right in front of them, since she had no other chance, that she had been questioned about the letters to me and from me. She said she had let Miss Harlowe check her pockets, and Miss Harlowe even searched her stays to make sure she wasn't hiding anything.
She gave me an account of the number of my pheasants and bantams; and I said, they should be my own care twice or thrice a day.
She told me how many pheasants and bantams I had, and I said I would take care of them myself two or three times a day.
We wept over each other at parting. The girl prayed for all the family.
We cried as we said goodbye to each other. The girl prayed for the whole family.
To have so good a servant so disgracefully dismissed, is very cruel: and I could not help saying that these methods might break my heart, but not any other way answer the end of the authors of my disgraces.
To have such a good servant dismissed in such a disgraceful way is very cruel: and I couldn't help but say that these methods might break my heart, but they won't achieve the goals of those who caused my disgrace.
Betty, with a very saucy fleer, said to Shorey, There would be a trial of skill about that she fancied. But I took no notice of it. If this wench thinks that I have robbed her young mistress of a lover, as you say she has given out, she may believe that it is some degree of merit in herself to be impertinent to me.
Betty, with a cheeky smirk, said to Shorey, "I think there’s going to be a competition over that." But I ignored it. If this girl thinks I’ve taken her young mistress's lover, as you say she claims, she can believe it gives her some kind of right to be rude to me.
Thus have I been forced to part with my faithful Hannah. If you can command the good creature to a place worthy of her, pray do for my sake.
Thus, I’ve been forced to say goodbye to my loyal Hannah. If you can find a suitable place for her, please do it for my sake.
LETTER XXIV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE MONDAY, NEAR 12 O'CLOCK.
The enclosed letter was just now delivered to me. My brother has carried all his points.
The attached letter was just delivered to me. My brother has made all his arguments.
I send you also the copy of my answer. No more at this time can I write—!
I’m also sending you a copy of my response. I can’t write any more right now—!
MONDAY, MAR. 6. MISS CLARY,
MONDAY, MAR. 6. MS. CLARY,
By command of your father and mother I write expressly to forbid you to come into their presence, or into the garden when they are there: nor when they are not there, but with Betty Banes to attend you; except by particular license or command.
By the order of your parents, I'm writing to specifically forbid you from coming into their presence or entering the garden when they're there. You also can't go there when they're not around unless Betty Banes is with you, unless you have special permission or instruction.
On their blessings, you are forbidden likewise to correspond with the vile Lovelace; as it is well known you did by means of your sly Hannah. Whence her sudden discharge. As was fit.
You are also forbidden to communicate with the terrible Lovelace, as you clearly did through your sneaky Hannah, which is why she was abruptly let go. That was the right thing to do.
Neither are you to correspond with Miss Howe; who has given herself high airs of late; and might possibly help on your correspondence with that detested libertine. Nor, in short, with any body without leave.
You're also not supposed to communicate with Miss Howe, who has been acting really stuck-up lately and might actually encourage your correspondence with that hated libertine. In short, don’t talk to anyone without permission.
You are not to enter into the presence of either of your uncles, without their leave first obtained. It is a mercy to you, after such a behaviour to your mother, that your father refuses to see you.
You are not allowed to see either of your uncles without their permission first. It’s a blessing for you, after how you treated your mother, that your father doesn’t want to see you.
You are not to be seen in any apartment of the house you so lately governed as you pleased, unless you are commanded down.
You should not be seen in any part of the house you just managed as you wanted, unless you are told to come down.
In short, you are strictly to confine yourself to your chamber, except now and then, in Betty Barnes's sight (as aforesaid) you take a morning or evening turn in the garden: and then you are to go directly, and without stopping at any apartment in the way, up or down the back stairs, that the sight of so perverse a young creature may not add to the pain you have given every body.
In short, you are strictly required to stay in your room, except now and then, when you can take a morning or evening stroll in the garden under Betty Barnes's watchful eye. When you do, you must go straight up or down the back stairs without stopping in any other rooms, so that the sight of such a troublesome young person doesn’t add to the discomfort you’ve already caused everyone.
The hourly threatenings of your fine fellow, as well as your own unheard-of obstinacy, will account to you for all this. What a hand has the best and most indulgent of mothers had with you, who so long pleaded for you, and undertook for you; even when others, from the manner of your setting out, despaired of moving you!—What must your perverseness have been, that such a mother can give you up! She thinks it right so to do: nor will take you to favour, unless you make the first steps, by a compliance with your duty.
The constant threats from your great friend, along with your own incredible stubbornness, explain all of this. Just think of how much effort the best and most supportive of mothers has invested in you, advocating for you and believing in you; even when others lost hope because of how you started out!—What must your defiance have been that such a mother can no longer support you? She believes it’s the right thing to do: she won’t favor you again unless you take the initiative and start fulfilling your responsibilities.
As for myself, whom perhaps you think hardly of [in very good company, if you do, that is my sole consolation]; I have advised, that you may be permitted to pursue your own inclinations, (some people need no greater punishment than such a permission,) and not to have the house encumbered by one who must give them the more pain for the necessity she has laid them under of avoiding the sight of her, although in it.
As for me, whom you might not think highly of (you're not alone in that, it's my only comfort); I've suggested that you should be allowed to follow your own desires (for some, just that freedom is punishment enough), and not have the house burdened by someone who only causes you more pain because you feel you have to avoid seeing her, even while you're in the same space.
If any thing I have written appear severe or harsh, it is still in your power (but perhaps will not always be so) to remedy it; and that by a single word.
If anything I've written seems too harsh or strict, you still have the ability (though it might not always be the case) to fix it with just a single word.
Betty Barnes has orders to obey you in all points consistent with her duty to those whom you owe it, as well as she.
Betty Barnes has instructions to follow you in every way that aligns with her responsibilities to those you both owe it to.
JA. HARLOWE. TO JAMES HARLOWE, JUNIOR, ESQ. SIR,
JA. HARLOWE. TO JAMES HARLOWE, JUNIOR, ESQ. SIR,
I will only say, That you may congratulate yourself on having so far succeeded in all your views, that you may report what you please of me, and I can no more defend myself, than if I were dead. Yet one favour, nevertheless, I will beg of you. It is this—That you will not occasion more severities, more disgraces, that are necessary for carrying into execution your further designs, whatever they be, against
I’ll just say this: you can feel proud of how you’ve managed to achieve your goals so far, and you can say whatever you want about me. I can’t defend myself any more than if I were dead. Still, I have one request. Please don’t impose any more harsh treatment or humiliations than what’s necessary to carry out your future plans, whatever they might be, against
Your unhappy sister, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your unhappy sister, Clarissa Harlowe.
LETTER XXV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY, MARCH 7.
By my last deposit, you will see how I am driven, and what a poor prisoner I am.—No regard had to my reputation. The whole matter is now before you. Can such measures be supposed to soften?—But surely they can only mean to try and frighten me into my brother's views!—All my hope is, to be able to weather this point till my cousin Morden comes from Florence; and he is soon expected: yet, if they are determined upon a short day, I doubt he will not be here in time enough to save me.
By my last deposit, you'll see how desperate I am and what a miserable situation I'm in.—No one cares about my reputation. The entire situation is now in your hands. Can these tactics really be expected to soften me?—They must just be trying to scare me into agreeing with my brother's views!—All I can do is hope to get through this until my cousin Morden arrives from Florence; he’s expected soon. But if they insist on a quick resolution, I worry he won't get here in time to help me.
It is plain by my brother's letter, that my mother has not spared me, in the report she was pleased to make of the conference between herself and me: yet she was pleased to hint to me, that my brother had views which she would have had me try to disappoint. But indeed she had engaged to give a faithful account of what was to pass between herself and me: and it was, doubtless, much more eligible to give up a daughter, than to disoblige a husband, and every other person of the family.
It's clear from my brother's letter that my mom didn't hold back in her description of our conversation. She hinted that my brother had plans that she wanted me to try to undermine. However, she had promised to give an honest account of our discussion, and it was definitely easier for her to give up a daughter than to upset a husband or anyone else in the family.
They think they have done every thing by turning away my poor Hannah: but as long as the liberty of the garden, and my poultry-visits, are allowed me, they will be mistaken.
They think they've done everything by pushing away my poor Hannah, but as long as I can enjoy the freedom of the garden and my visits to see the chickens, they will be wrong.
I asked Mrs. Betty, if she had any orders to watch or attend me; or whether I was to ask her leave whenever I should be disposed to walk in the garden, or to go feed my bantams?—Lord bless her! what could I mean by such a question! Yet she owned, that she had heard, that I was not to go into the garden, when my father, mother, or uncles were there.
I asked Mrs. Betty if she had any instructions to watch over me or if I needed to ask her for permission whenever I wanted to walk in the garden or feed my chickens. —Goodness, what was I thinking with that question! Still, she admitted that she had heard I wasn’t allowed in the garden when my parents or uncles were around.
However, as it behoved me to be assured on this head, I went down directly, and staid an hour, without question or impediment; and yet a good part of the time, I walked under and in sight, as I may say, of my brother's study window, where both he and my sister happened to be. And I am sure they saw me, by the loud mirth they affected, by way of insult, as I suppose.
However, since I needed to be sure about this, I went down right away and stayed for an hour without any questions or interruptions. During most of that time, I walked around where my brother's study window was, which was clearly in sight of him and my sister. I'm certain they saw me, judging by the loud laughter they put on, which I assume was meant to be insulting.
So this part of my restraint was doubtless a stretch of the authority given him. The enforcing of that may perhaps come next. But I hope not.
So this part of my self-control was definitely a stretch of the authority given to him. Enforcing that might come next. But I hope it doesn't.
TUESDAY NIGHT.
Tues night.
Since I wrote the above, I ventured to send a letter by Shorey to my mother. I desired her to give it into her own hand, when nobody was by.
Since I wrote the above, I decided to send a letter with Shorey to my mother. I asked her to give it to her personally when no one else was around.
I shall enclose a copy of it. You will see that I would have it thought, that now Hannah is gone, I have no way to correspond out of the house. I am far from thinking all I do right. I am afraid this is a little piece of art, that is not so. But this is an afterthought. The letter went first.
I’ll attach a copy of it. You’ll see that now that Hannah is gone, I have no way to communicate from outside the house. I often think that not everything I do is right. I worry this is a minor issue, and it’s not really the case. But this is just a later thought. The letter was sent first.
HONOURED MADAM,
Dear Madam,
Having acknowledged to you, that I had received letters from Mr. Lovelace full of resentment, and that I answered them purely to prevent further mischief, and having shewn you copies of my answers, which you did not disapprove of, although you thought fit, after you had read them, to forbid me any further correspondence with him, I think it my duty to acquaint you, that another letter from him has since come to my hand, in which he is very earnest with me to permit him to wait on my papa, or you, or my two uncles, in a pacific way, accompanied by Lord M.: on which I beg your commands.
I want to let you know that I got some angry letters from Mr. Lovelace and that I replied just to avoid more trouble. I showed you copies of my replies, which you didn’t disapprove of, even though you decided to forbid me from any more contact with him after reading them. I feel it’s my responsibility to inform you that I’ve received another letter from him, where he’s very eager for me to let him meet with my dad, you, or my two uncles in a peaceful manner, along with Lord M. Please let me know what you’d like me to do.
I own to you, Madam, that had not the prohibition been renewed, and had not Hannah been so suddenly dismissed my service, I should have made the less scruple to have written an answer, and to have commanded her to convey it to him, with all speed, in order to dissuade him from these visits, lest any thing should happen on the occasion that my heart aches but to think of.
I admit to you, Madam, that if the ban hadn't been reinstated, and if Hannah hadn't been dismissed from my service so abruptly, I wouldn't have hesitated to write a response and instruct her to deliver it to him quickly, to try and convince him to stop these visits, for fear that something might happen that makes my heart ache just to think about.
And here I cannot but express my grief, that I should have all the punishment and all the blame, who, as I have reason to think, have prevented great mischief, and have not been the occasion of any. For, Madam, could I be supposed to govern the passions of either of the gentlemen?—Over the one indeed I have had some little influence, without giving him hitherto any reason to think he has fastened an obligation upon me for it.—Over the other, Who, Madam, has any?—I am grieved at heart, to be obliged to lay so great a blame at my brother's door, although my reputation and my liberty are both to be sacrificed to his resentment and ambition. May not, however, so deep a sufferer be permitted to speak out?
And here I can’t help but express my sadness that I should bear all the punishment and all the blame, even though I believe I've prevented serious trouble and haven't caused any. Because, Madam, could anyone really expect me to control the emotions of either of the gentlemen?—I do have a little influence over one, but I've not given him any reason to think he owes me for it. As for the other, who, Madam, can control him?—It pains me deeply to have to place so much blame on my brother, even though my reputation and my freedom are at stake due to his anger and ambition. Can’t a person who has suffered so much be allowed to speak their mind?
This communication being as voluntarily made, as dutifully intended, I humbly presume to hope, that I shall not be required to produce the letter itself. I cannot either in honour or prudence do that, because of the vehemence of his style; for having heard [not, I assure you, by my means, or through Hannah's] of some part of the harsh treatment I have met with; he thinks himself entitled to place it to his own account, by reason of speeches thrown out by some of my relations, equally vehement.
This message is made voluntarily and with sincere intent, so I sincerely hope I won’t be asked to show the actual letter. I can’t do that out of honor or common sense, due to the intensity of his tone. Having heard—though I assure you it wasn't through me or Hannah—about some of the harsh treatment I’ve experienced, he believes he can take credit for it because of statements made by some of my relatives, which were equally intense.
If I do not answer him, he will be made desperate, and think himself justified (thought I shall not think him so) in resenting the treatment he complains of: if I do, and if, in compliment to me, he forbears to resent what he thinks himself entitled to resent; be pleased, Madam, to consider the obligation he will suppose he lays me under.
If I don’t respond to him, he’ll become desperate and feel justified (even though I won’t think he is) in reacting to the way he claims he’s been treated. But if I do respond, and he holds back from reacting to what he believes he has the right to react to out of respect for me, please think about the obligation he’ll think he’s putting on me.
If I were as strongly prepossessed in his favour as is supposed, I should not have wished this to be considered by you. And permit me, as a still further proof that I am not prepossessed, to beg of you to consider, Whether, upon the whole, the proposal I made, of declaring for the single life (which I will religiously adhere to) is not the best way to get rid of his pretensions with honour. To renounce him, and not be allowed to aver, that I will never be the other man's, will make him conclude (driven as I am driven) that I am determined in that other man's favour.
If I were as biased in his favor as everyone thinks, I wouldn't have wanted you to consider this. And let me offer you another proof that I'm not biased: please think about whether my suggestion to commit to being single (which I will stick to) is not the best way to dismiss his claims with dignity. If I turn him down and can't say that I will never be with another man, he will assume (given my current situation) that I’m set on that other man.
If this has not its due weight, my brother's strange schemes must be tried, and I will resign myself to my destiny with all the acquiescence that shall be granted to my prayers. And so leaving the whole to your own wisdom, and whether you choose to consult my papa and uncles upon this humble application, or not; or whether I shall be allowed to write an answer to Mr. Lovelace, or not [and if allowed to do so, I beg your direction by whom to send it]; I remain,
If this doesn't carry enough weight, my brother's odd plans will have to be considered, and I will accept my fate with all the patience that my prayers allow. So, I leave the decision to your wisdom, whether you decide to discuss this humble request with my dad and uncles or not; and whether I'm allowed to write a reply to Mr. Lovelace or not [and if I can, please let me know who I should send it to]; I remain,
Honoured Madam, Your unhappy, but ever dutiful daughter, CL. HARLOWE.
Honored Madam, Your unhappy but always dutiful daughter, CL. HARLOWE.
WEDNESDAY MORNING.
Wednesday morning.
I have just received an answer to the enclosed letter. My mother, you will observe, has ordered me to burn it: but, as you will have it in your safekeeping, and nobody else will see it, her end will be equally answered, as if it were burnt. It has neither date nor superscription.
I just got a response to the enclosed letter. My mother, as you’ll notice, has ordered me to burn it. However, since you’ll keep it safe and no one else will see it, her purpose will be just as fulfilled as if it were actually burned. It has no date or address on it.
CLARISSA,
CLARISSA
Say not all the blame and all the punishment is yours. I am as much blamed, and as much punished, as you are; yet am more innocent. When your obstinacy is equal to any other person's passion, blame not your brother. We judged right, that Hannah carried on your correspondencies. Now she is gone, and you cannot write [we think you cannot] to Miss Howe, nor she to you, without our knowledge, one cause of uneasiness and jealousy is over.
Don't say all the blame and punishment belong to you. I'm just as blamed and punished as you are, yet I'm more innocent. When your stubbornness matches anyone else's passion, don't blame your brother. We were right to think that Hannah was handling your correspondence. Now she's gone, and you can't write to Miss Howe, nor can she write to you, without us knowing. One source of uneasiness and jealousy is gone.
I had no dislike of Hannah. I did not tell her so; because somebody was within hearing when she desired to pay her duty to me at going. I gave her a caution, in a raised voice, To take care, wherever she went to live next, if there were any young ladies, how she made parties, and assisted in clandestine correspondencies. But I slid two guineas into her hand: nor was I angry to hear that you were still more bountiful to her. So much for Hannah.
I didn't have any problem with Hannah. I didn't say anything because someone was around when she wanted to say goodbye. I raised my voice to warn her to be careful about how she organized gatherings and handled secret communications wherever she moved next, especially if there were young ladies involved. But I secretly slipped two guineas into her hand; I wasn't upset to hear that you were even more generous with her. That's all about Hannah.
I don't know what to write, about your answering that man of violence. What can you think of it, that such a family as ours, should have such a rod held over it?—For my part, I have not owned that I know you have corresponded. By your last boldness to me [an astonishing one it was, to pursue before Mr. Solmes the subject I was forced to break from above-stairs!] you may, as far as I know, plead, that you had my countenance for your correspondence with him; and so add to the uneasiness between your father and me. You were once my comfort, Clarissa; you made all my hardships tolerable:—But now!—However, nothing, it is plain, can move you; and I will say no more on that head: for you are under your father's discipline now; and he will neither be prescribed to, nor entreated.
I don't know what to say about your response to that violent man. How can you even think that a family like ours should be under such a threat? For my part, I haven’t admitted that I know about your communication with him. With your last bold move [which was quite shocking, to bring up the issue in front of Mr. Solmes after I had to pull away from it upstairs!] you could, as far as I see, argue that you had my support for your exchanges with him; and that just adds to the tension between your father and me. You once brought me comfort, Clarissa; you made all my struggles bearable:— But now!—Anyway, it’s clear that nothing can sway you; and I won’t say more about it: because you’re under your father’s control now; and he won’t be told what to do, nor will he be persuaded.
I should have been glad to see the letter you tell me of, as I saw the rest. You say, both honour and prudence forbid you to shew it to me.—O Clarissa! what think you of receiving letters that honour and prudence forbid you to shew to a mother!—But it is not for me to see it, if you would choose to shew it me. I will not be in your secret. I will not know that you did correspond. And, as to an answer, take your own methods. But let him know it will be the last you will write. And, if you do write, I won't see it: so seal it up (if you do) and give it to Shorey; and she—Yet do not think I give you license to write.
I should have been happy to see the letter you mentioned, just like I saw the others. You say that both honor and caution prevent you from showing it to me.—Oh Clarissa! what do you think about receiving letters that honor and caution forbid you from showing to a mother?—But it's not for me to see it, even if you wanted to show it to me. I won’t be a part of your secret. I won’t know that you corresponded. As for a reply, do it however you wish. Just let him know it will be the last one you write. And if you do write, I won’t read it: so seal it up (if you do) and give it to Shorey; and she—But don’t think I’m giving you permission to write.
We will be upon no conditions with him, nor will you be allowed to be upon any. Your father and uncles would have no patience were he to come. What have you to do to oblige him with your refusal of Mr. Solmes?—Will not that refusal be to give him hope? And while he has any, can we be easy or free from his insults? Were even your brother in fault, as that fault cannot be conquered, is a sister to carry on a correspondence that shall endanger her brother? But your father has given his sanction to your brother's dislikes, your uncles', and every body's!—No matter to whom owing.
We can’t have anything to do with him, and you won’t be allowed to either. Your father and uncles wouldn’t stand for him coming around. What do you gain by refusing Mr. Solmes? Doesn’t that just give him hope? As long as he has hope, can we really feel safe or free from his disrespect? Even if your brother is at fault, should a sister risk a relationship that could put her brother in danger? But your father has supported your brother’s feelings, along with your uncles’ and everyone else’s! It doesn’t matter who it comes from.
As to the rest, you have by your obstinacy put it out of my power to do any thing for you. Your father takes it upon himself to be answerable for all consequences. You must not therefore apply to me for favour. I shall endeavour to be only an observer: Happy, if I could be an unconcerned one!—While I had power, you would not let me use it as I would have used it. Your aunt has been forced to engage not to interfere but by your father's direction. You'll have severe trials. If you have any favour to hope for, it must be from the mediation of your uncles. And yet, I believe, they are equally determined: for they make it a principle, [alas! they never had children!] that that child, who in marriage is not governed by her parents, is to be given up as a lost creature!
As for everything else, your stubbornness has made it impossible for me to help you. Your father is taking responsibility for all the outcomes. So, you shouldn't turn to me for any support. I will try to be just a watcher: I would be happy if I could be an uninterested one! When I had the power, you wouldn't let me use it the way I wanted. Your aunt has had to promise not to interfere except at your father's request. You will face tough challenges. If you have any hope of support, it has to come through your uncles. Yet, I believe they are just as determined: they have a principle (unfortunately, they never had children!) that any child who isn't guided by her parents in marriage is considered a lost cause!
I charge you, let not this letter be found. Burn it. There is too much of the mother in it, to a daughter so unaccountably obstinate.
I urge you, don’t let anyone find this letter. Destroy it. There’s too much of a mother in it for a daughter who’s so inexplicably stubborn.
Write not another letter to me. I can do nothing for you. But you can do every thing for yourself.
Write me no more letters. I can't help you. But you can do everything for yourself.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
Now, my dear, to proceed with my melancholy narrative.
Now, my dear, let's continue with my sad story.
After this letter, you will believe, that I could have very little hopes, that an application directly to my father would stand me in any stead: but I thought it became me to write, were it but to acquit myself to myself, that I have left nothing unattempted that has the least likelihood to restore me to his favour. Accordingly I wrote to the following effect:
After this letter, you will see that I had very little hope that applying directly to my father would help me at all. However, I felt it was important to write, even if just to clear my own conscience, that I have tried everything I could to win back his favor. So, I wrote something like this:
I presume not, I say, to argue with my Papa; I only beg his mercy and indulgence in this one point, on which depends my present, and perhaps my future, happiness; and beseech him not to reprobate his child for an aversion which it is not in her power to conquer. I beg, that I may not be sacrificed to projects, and remote contingencies. I complain of the disgraces I suffer in this banishment from his presence, and in being confined to my chamber. In every thing but this one point, I promise implicit duty and resignation to his will. I repeat my offers of a single life; and appeal to him, whether I have ever given him cause to doubt my word. I beg to be admitted to his, and to my mamma's, presence, and that my conduct may be under their own eye: and this with the more earnestness, as I have too much reason to believe that snares are laid for me; and tauntings and revilings used on purpose to make a handle of my words against me, when I am not permitted to speak in my own defence. I conclude with hoping, that my brother's instigations may not rob an unhappy child of her father.
I don’t mean to argue with my dad; I just ask for his mercy and understanding on this one issue, which affects my current and possibly future happiness. I plead with him not to reject me for a dislike that I can’t overcome. I ask that I’m not sacrificed to plans and distant possibilities. I complain about the shame I endure being away from him and being locked in my room. Other than this one issue, I promise to obey and accept his decisions completely. I repeat my offer to remain single and ask him if I’ve ever given him a reason to doubt my word. I ask to be allowed to see him and my mom, and for my actions to be monitored by them directly. I ask this earnestly, as I have good reason to believe that traps are being set for me, and that insults and accusations are being thrown around deliberately to twist my words against me when I’m not allowed to defend myself. I end with the hope that my brother’s encouragement won’t take away an unhappy child’s father.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
This is the answer, sent without superscription, and unsealed, although by Betty Barnes, who delivered it with an air, as if she knew the contents.
This is the answer, sent without a heading and unsealed, though it was delivered by Betty Barnes, who had a certain attitude, as if she knew what it said.
WEDNESDAY.
Weds.
I write, perverse girl; but with all the indignation that your disobedience deserves. To desire to be forgiven a fault you own, and yet resolve to persevere in, is a boldness, no more to be equaled, than passed over. It is my authority you defy. Your reflections upon a brother, that is an honour to us all, deserve my utmost resentment. I see how light all relationship sits upon you. The cause I guess at, too. I cannot bear the reflections that naturally arise from this consideration. Your behaviour to your too-indulgent and too-fond mother——But, I have no patience—Continue banished from my presence, undutiful as you are, till you know how to conform to my will. Ingrateful creature! Your letter but upbraid me for my past indulgence. Write no more to me, till you can distinguish better; and till you are convinced of your duty to
I’m writing this to you, you stubborn girl, with all the anger that your disobedience deserves. Wanting to be forgiven for a mistake you admit to, while still planning to keep making it, is a level of boldness that can’t be overlooked. You’re challenging my authority. Your comments about a brother who brings us all honor deserve my deepest resentment. I can see how little you value our relationships. I can guess the reason why, and I can’t stand the thoughts that come from that. Your behavior towards your overly indulgent and loving mother—But I’m losing my patience. Stay away from me until you learn to follow my wishes. Ungrateful creature! Your letter is just a reminder of my past leniency. Don’t write to me again until you can show better judgment and understand your obligations to
A JUSTLY INCENSED FATHER. ***
An understandably angry father.
This angry letter was accompanied by one from my mother, unsealed, and unsuperscribed also. Those who take so much pains to confederate every one against me, I make no doubt, obliged her to bear her testimony against the poor girl.
This angry letter was accompanied by one from my mother, unsealed and also unsigned. I have no doubt that those who go to great lengths to turn everyone against me forced her to speak out against the poor girl.
My mother's letter being a repetition of some of the severe things that passed between herself and me, of which I have already informed you, I shall not need to give you the contents—only thus far, that she also praises my brother, and blames me for my freedoms with him.
My mom's letter is pretty much a recap of some of the harsh things that happened between us, which I've already told you about, so I won't go into the details—just this much: she also praises my brother and criticizes me for being too open with him.
LETTER XXVI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY MORN., MARCH 9.
I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace, although I had not answered his former.
I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace, even though I hadn't replied to his previous one.
This man, somehow or other, knows every thing that passes in our family. My confinement; Hanna's dismission; and more of the resentments and resolutions of my father, uncles, and brother, than I can possibly know, and almost as soon as the things happen, which he tells me of. He cannot come at these intelligencies fairly.
This man, for some reason, knows everything that goes on in our family. My confinement, Hanna's dismissal, and even the resentments and decisions of my father, uncles, and brother, more than I could possibly know, and almost as soon as things happen, he tells me about them. He can't get this information honestly.
He is excessively uneasy upon what he hears; and his expressions, both of love to me, and resentment to them, are very fervent. He solicits me, 'To engage my honour to him never to have Mr. Solmes.'
He is overly anxious about what he hears; and his feelings, both of love for me and anger towards them, are very intense. He urges me to promise him that I will never be with Mr. Solmes.
I think I may fairly promise him that I will not.
I think I can honestly promise him that I won't.
He begs, 'That I will not think he is endeavouring to make to himself a merit at any man's expense, since he hopes to obtain my favour on the foot of his own; nor that he seeks to intimidate me into a consideration for him. But declares, that the treatment he meets with from my family is of such a nature, that he is perpetually reproached for not resenting it; and that as well by Lord M. and Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty, as by all his other friends: and if he must have no hope from me, he cannot answer for what his despair will make him do.'
He pleads, 'Please don’t think I'm trying to earn points at someone else's expense, as I’m hoping to win your favor based on my own actions; nor am I trying to scare you into considering me. But I must say, the way my family treats me is such that I'm constantly being criticized for not standing up to it; both by Lord M., Lady Sarah, and Lady Betty, as well as all my other friends. If I have no hope from you, I can't be responsible for what my despair might lead me to do.'
Indeed, he says, 'his relations, the ladies particularly, advise him to have recourse to a legal remedy: But how, he asks, can a man of honour go to law for verbal abuses given by people entitled to wear swords?'
Indeed, he says, 'his family, especially the women, advise him to seek a legal remedy. But how, he asks, can a man of honor take legal action over insults from people who are allowed to carry swords?'
You see, my dear, that my mother seems as apprehensive of mischief as myself; and has indirectly offered to let Shorey carry my answer to the letter he sent me before.
You see, my dear, that my mother seems just as worried about trouble as I am; and she has subtly suggested letting Shorey take my reply to the letter he sent me earlier.
He is full of the favours of the ladies of his family to me: to whom, nevertheless, I am personally a stranger; except, that I once saw Miss Patty Montague at Mrs. Knolly's.
He is showering me with the kindness of the women in his family, even though I’m a complete stranger to them; the only one I’ve met is Miss Patty Montague, whom I saw once at Mrs. Knolly's.
It is natural, I believe, for a person to be the more desirous of making new friends, in proportion as she loses the favour of old ones. Yet had I rather appear amiable in the eyes of my own relations, and in your eyes, than in those of all the world besides—but these four ladies of his family have such excellent characters, that one cannot but wish to be thought well of by them. Cannot there be a way to find out, by Mrs. Fortescue's means, or by Mr. Hickman, who has some knowledge of Lord M. [covertly, however,] what their opinions are of the present situation of things in our family; and of the little likelihood there is, that ever the alliance once approved of by them, can take effect?
I think it’s only natural for someone to want to make new friends more when they lose the favor of old ones. Still, I would prefer to seem likable to my family and to you than to everyone else. But these four ladies from his family have such great reputations that it’s hard not to want to be seen positively by them. Is there a way to find out through Mrs. Fortescue or Mr. Hickman, who knows a bit about Lord M. [without raising suspicion], what they think about our family’s current situation and how unlikely it is that the alliance they once approved of can actually happen?
I cannot, for my own part, think so well of myself, as to imagine, that they can wish their kinsman to persevere in his views with regard to me, through such contempts and discouragements.—Not that it would concern me, should they advise him to the contrary. By my Lord's signing Mr. Lovelace's former letter; by Mr. Lovelace's assurances of the continued favour of all his relations; and by the report of others; I seem still to stand high in their favour. But, methinks, I should be glad to have this confirmed to me, as from themselves, by the lips of an indifferent person; and the rather, because of their fortunes and family; and take it amiss (as they have reason) to be included by ours in the contempt thrown upon their kinsman.
I can't really think too highly of myself to believe that they want their relative to keep pursuing his feelings for me, despite all the disrespect and discouragements. Not that it would bother me if they advised him otherwise. Since my Lord signed Mr. Lovelace's previous letter, and Mr. Lovelace assures me that all his family still supports him, along with what others have said, it seems I still have their favor. But I would like to hear this confirmed directly from them through a neutral party, especially considering their status and family, and I would understand why they would be upset if they feel that our family is contributing to the disrespect directed at their relative.
Curiosity at present is all my motive: nor will there ever, I hope, be a stronger, notwithstanding your questionable throbs—even were the merits of Mr. Lovelace much greater than they are.
Curiosity is all I’m motivated by right now, and I hope it will always be my strongest motivation, despite your confusing feelings—even if Mr. Lovelace's qualities were far greater than they actually are.
***
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I have answered his letters. If he takes me at my word, I shall need to be less solicitous for the opinions of his relations in my favour: and yet one would be glad to be well thought of by the worthy.
I have replied to his letters. If he believes what I say, I won’t need to worry as much about what his family thinks of me: but still, it would be nice to have a good reputation among good people.
This is the substance of my letter:
This is the main point of my letter:
'I express my surprise at his knowing (and so early) all that passes here.'
"I’m surprised that he knows everything that’s going on here (and so early)."
I assure him, 'That were there not such a man in the world as himself, I would not have Mr. Solmes.'
I assure him, "If there weren't a man like him in the world, I wouldn't choose Mr. Solmes."
I tell him, 'That to return, as I understand he does, defiances for defiances, to my relations, is far from being a proof with me, either of his politeness, or of the consideration he pretends to have for me.
I tell him, "The fact that he responds to my family's challenges with challenges of his own isn’t, in my opinion, a sign of his politeness or the respect he claims to have for me."
'That the moment I hear he visits any of my friends without their consent, I will make a resolution never to see him more, if I can help it.'
'The moment I find out he visits any of my friends without their permission, I will decide to never see him again, if I can avoid it.'
I apprize him, 'That I am connived at in sending this letter (although no one has seen the contents) provided it shall be the last I will ever write to him: that I had more than once told him, that the single life was my choice; and this before Mr. Solmes was introduced as a visitor in our family: that Mr. Wyerley, and other gentlemen, knew it to be my choice, before himself was acquainted with any of us: that I had never been induced to receive a line from him on the subject, but that I thought he had not acted ungenerously by my brother; and yet had not been so handsomely treated by my friends, as he might have expected: but that had he even my friends on his side, I should have very great objections to him, were I to get over my choice of a single life, so really preferable to me as it is; and that I should have declared as much to him, had I not regarded him as more than a common visiter. On all these accounts, I desire, that the one more letter, which I will allow him to deposit in the usual place, may be the very last; and that only, to acquaint me with his acquiescence that it shall be so; at least till happier times.'
I inform him, 'That I'm okay with sending this letter (even though no one has seen what it says) as long as it's the last one I'll ever write to him: that I’ve told him more than once that being single is my choice; and I said this before Mr. Solmes came to visit our family: that Mr. Wyerley and other gentlemen knew it was my choice before he even met any of us: that I had never been persuaded to accept a letter from him about this, but I thought he hadn’t treated my brother unfairly; yet I also hadn’t been treated as well by my friends as he might have expected: but even if he had my friends on his side, I would still have serious objections to him, even if I were to reconsider my choice of being single, which I truly prefer; and I would have told him this if I didn’t see him as more than just a casual visitor. For all these reasons, I want this one more letter that I’ll allow him to leave in the usual spot to be the very last one; and that it should only say that he agrees it will be so, at least until happier times.'
This last I put in that he may not be quite desperate. But, if he take me at my word, I shall be rid of one of my tormentors.
This last part I added so he won't feel totally hopeless. But if he takes me seriously, I'll be free from one of my annoyances.
I have promised to lay before you all his letters, and my answers: I repeat that promise: and am the less solicitous, for that reason, to amplify upon the contents of either. But I cannot too often express my vexation, to be driven to such streights and difficulties, here at home, as oblige me to answer letters, (from a man I had not absolutely intended to encourage, and to whom I had really great objections,) filled as his are with such warm protestations, and written to me with a spirit of expectation.
I promised to show you all his letters and my responses. I repeat that promise and feel less pressure to elaborate on their contents for that reason. However, I can’t express enough how frustrated I am to be in such tough situations at home that force me to respond to letters from someone I never intended to encourage and had serious objections to, especially since his letters are packed with such heartfelt declarations and written with a tone of expectation.
For, my dear, you never knew so bold a supposer. As commentators find beauties in an author, to which the author perhaps was a stranger; so he sometimes compliments me in high strains of gratitude for favours, and for a consideration, which I never designed him; insomuch that I am frequently under a necessity of explaining away the attributed goodness to him, which, if I shewed, I should have the less opinion of myself.
For, my dear, you never knew someone as bold in their assumptions. Just as commentators find beauty in an author that the author might not even be aware of, he sometimes praises me in lofty terms of gratitude for favors and considerations that I never intended for him. As a result, I often find myself having to clarify the kindness he attributes to me, which, if I really showed, would make me think less of myself.
In short, my dear, like a restiff horse, (as I have heard described by sportsmen,) he pains one's hands, and half disjoints one's arms, to rein him in. And, when you see his letters, you must form no judgment upon them, till you have read my answers. If you do, you will indeed think you have cause to attribute self-deceit, and throbs, and glows, to your friend: and yet, at other times, the contradictory nature complains, that I shew him as little favour, and my friends as much inveteracy, as if, in the rencontre betwixt my brother and him, he had been the aggressor; and as if the catastrophe had been as fatal, as it might have been.
In short, my dear, like a restless horse (as I've heard described by sports enthusiasts), he makes your hands ache and almost dislocates your arms trying to control him. And when you see his letters, you shouldn't form any judgment until you've read my replies. If you do, you'll truly think you have reason to blame self-deception, and turmoil, and excitement on your friend; yet, at other times, the conflicting nature causes complaints that I show him as little kindness and my friends as much hostility, as if, during the encounter between my brother and him, he had been the one to attack first; and as if the outcome had been as disastrous as it could have been.
If he has a design by this conduct (sometimes complaining of my shyness, at others exalting in my imaginary favours) to induce me at one time to acquiesce with his compliments; at another to be more complaisant for his complaints; and if the contradiction be not the effect of his inattention and giddiness; I shall think him as deep and as artful (too probably, as practised) a creature, as ever lived; and were I to be sure of it, should hate him, if possible, worse than I do Solmes.
If he is trying with this behavior (sometimes criticizing my shyness, other times reveling in my imagined affections) to make me either accept his compliments or be more accommodating to his complaints; and if this contradiction isn't just due to his carelessness and confusion; I would consider him as clever and manipulative (likely experienced) as anyone who has ever lived; and if I were sure of it, I would hate him, if possible, even more than I hate Solmes.
But enough for the present of a creature so very various.
But that's enough for now about a creature so diverse.
LETTER XXVII
MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE THURSDAY NIGHT, MARCH 9.
I have not patience with any of the people you are with. I know not what to advise you to do. How do you know that you are not punishable for being the cause, though to your own loss, that the will of your grandfather is not complied with?—Wills are sacred things, child. You see, that they, even they, think so, who imagine they suffer by a will, through the distinction paid you in it.
I have no patience for any of the people you're around. I don’t know what to tell you to do. How can you be sure you won't be held responsible for causing, even at your own expense, the fact that your grandfather's wishes aren't being followed?—Wills are serious matters, kid. You see, even those who feel affected by a will because of the special treatment you get recognize this.
I allow of all your noble reasonings for what you did at the time: But, since such a charming, such a generous instance of filial duty is to go thus unrewarded, why should you not resume?
I understand all your noble reasons for what you did back then. But since such a delightful and generous display of being a good child is going without reward, why shouldn’t you try again?
Your grandfather knew the family-failing. He knew what a noble spirit you had to do good. He himself, perhaps, [excuse me, my dear,] had done too little in his life-time; and therefore he put it in your power to make up for the defects of the whole family. Were it to me, I would resume it. Indeed I would.
Your grandfather understood the family's shortcomings. He recognized your noble spirit and desire to do good. Perhaps he felt he hadn't done enough in his lifetime, and that's why he made it possible for you to make up for the family's flaws. If it were up to me, I would take on that responsibility again. I really would.
You will say, you cannot do it, while you are with them. I don't know that. Do you think they can use you worse than they do? And is it not your right? And do they not make use of your own generosity to oppress you? Your uncle Harlowe is one trustee; your cousin Morden is the other: insist upon your right to your uncle; and write to your cousin Morden about it. This, I dare say, will make them alter their behaviour to you.
You might say you can’t do it while you’re with them. I’m not so sure about that. Do you really think they can treat you any worse than they already do? And don’t you have a right to stand up for yourself? Aren’t they taking advantage of your kindness to hold you down? Your uncle Harlowe is one of the trustees; your cousin Morden is the other. Stand firm on your rights with your uncle, and reach out to your cousin Morden about this. I’m confident this will make them change how they treat you.
Your insolent brother—what has he to do to controul you?—Were it me [I wish it were for one month, and no more] I'd shew him the difference. I would be in my own mansion, pursuing my charming schemes, and making all around me happy. I would set up my own chariot. I would visit them when they deserved it. But when my brother and sister gave themselves airs, I would let them know, that I was their sister, and not their servant: and, if that did not do, I would shut my gates against them; and bid them go and be company for each other.
Your rude brother—what does he have to control you? If it were me [I wish it were for one month, and no more], I’d show him the difference. I’d be in my own home, following my enjoyable plans, and making everyone around me happy. I’d get my own chariot. I’d visit them when they earned it. But when my brother and sister acted high and mighty, I’d make it clear that I was their sister, not their servant: and if that didn’t work, I’d close my gates to them and tell them to keep each other company.
It must be confessed, however, that this brother and sister of yours, judging as such narrow spirits will ever judge, have some reason for treating you as they do. It must have long been a mortification to them (set disappointed love on her side, and avarice on his, out of the question) to be so much eclipsed by a younger sister. Such a sun in a family, where there are none but faint twinklers, how could they bear it! Why, my dear, they must look upon you as a prodigy among them: and prodigies, you know, though they obtain our admiration, never attract our love. The distance between you and them is immense. Their eyes ache to look up at you. What shades does your full day of merit cast upon them! Can you wonder, then, that they should embrace the first opportunity that offered, to endeavour to bring you down to their level?
I have to admit, though, that this brother and sister of yours, judging as small-minded people often do, have some reason for treating you the way they do. It must have been a constant source of embarrassment for them (putting aside disappointed love on her part and greed on his) to be overshadowed by a younger sister. With such a bright star in a family of dim lights, how could they handle it? Honestly, they must see you as a wonder among them: and wonders, as you know, while they earn our admiration, don’t usually inspire our affection. The gap between you and them is huge. Their eyes hurt from trying to look up at you. What shadows does your shining success cast on them! Can you really be surprised that they seize the first chance they get to try to bring you down to their level?
Depend upon it, my dear, you will have more of it, and more still, as you bear it.
Count on it, my dear, you will get more of it, and even more, as you endure it.
As to this odious Solmes, I wonder not at your aversion to him. It is needless to say any thing to you, who have so sincere any antipathy to him, to strengthen your dislike: Yet, who can resist her own talents? One of mine, as I have heretofore said, is to give an ugly likeness. Shall I indulge it?—I will. And the rather, as, in doing so, you will have my opinion in justification of your aversion to him, and in approbation of a steadiness that I ever admired, and must for ever approve of, in your temper.
Regarding that loathsome Solmes, I’m not surprised by your dislike for him. There’s no need to say anything to you, who already has such a strong aversion to him, to reinforce your feelings. But who can ignore their own skills? One of mine, as I’ve mentioned before, is to create an unpleasant image. Shall I indulge in it?—I will. And especially because, in doing so, you’ll see my opinion supporting your dislike for him and praising the consistency that I’ve always admired and will forever respect in your character.
'I was twice in this wretch's company. At one of the times your Lovelace was there. I need not mention to you, who have such a pretty curiosity, (though at present, only a curiosity, you know,) the unspeakable difference.
'I was with this miserable person twice. During one of those times, your Lovelace was also there. I don’t need to point out the huge difference to you, who has such an interesting curiosity, (though right now, it’s only a curiosity, you know.)'
'Lovelace entertained the company in his lively gay way, and made every body laugh at one of his stories. It was before this creature was thought of for you. Solmes laughed too. It was, however, his laugh: for his first three years, at least, I imagine, must have been one continual fit of crying; and his muscles have never yet been able to recover a risible tone. His very smile [you never saw him smile, I believe; never at least gave him cause to smile] is so little natural to his features, that it appears to him as hideous as the grin of a man in malice.
'Lovelace entertained the group with his lively and cheerful manner, making everyone laugh with one of his stories. This was before anyone thought of him for you. Solmes laughed too. However, that laugh seemed unusual for him; I imagine that for his first three years, at least, he must have spent most of the time crying, and his muscles have never really been able to regain their ability to smile. His very smile [I doubt you’ve ever seen him smile; or at least, you never gave him a reason to] looks so unnatural on his face that it comes across as grotesque, like the grin of someone who is malicious.
'I took great notice of him, as I do of all the noble lords of the creation, in their peculiarities; and was disgusted, nay, shocked at him, even then. I was glad, I remember, on that particular occasion, to see his strange features recovering their natural gloominess; though they did this but slowly, as if the muscles which contributed to his distortions, had turned upon rusty springs.
'I paid a lot of attention to him, like I do with all the noble lords of creation and their quirks; and I was disgusted, even shocked by him, even back then. I remember feeling relieved on that particular occasion to see his strange features returning to their usual gloominess; although it happened slowly, as if the muscles that caused his distortions were functioning on rusty springs.'
'What a dreadful thing must even the love of such a husband be! For my part, were I his wife! (But what have I done to myself, to make such a supposition?) I should never have comfort but in his absence, or when I was quarreling with him. A splenetic woman, who must have somebody to find fault with, might indeed be brought to endure such a wretch: the sight of him would always furnish out the occasion, and all her servants, for that reason, and for that only, would have cause to blame their master. But how grievous and apprehensive a thing it must be for his wife, had she the least degree of delicacy, to catch herself in having done something to oblige him?
What a terrible thing the love of such a husband must be! If I were his wife! (But what have I done to myself to think like that?) I would only find comfort when he wasn't around or when we were arguing. A bitter woman, who needs someone to blame, might be able to put up with such a jerk: just seeing him would give her a reason to complain, and all her servants would have a reason to criticize their master just for that. But how painful and anxiety-inducing it must be for his wife, if she had even a little sensitivity, to realize she had done something to please him?
'So much for his person. As to the other half of him, he is said to be an insinuating, creeping mortal to any body he hopes to be a gainer by: an insolent, overbearing one, where he has no such views: And is not this the genuine spirit of meanness? He is reported to be spiteful and malicious, even to the whole family of any single person who has once disobliged him; and to his own relations most of all. I am told, that they are none of them such wretches as himself. This may be one reason why he is for disinheriting them.
So much for his personality. As for the other side of him, people say he’s a sneaky, obsequious guy to anyone he thinks he can benefit from, but he’s arrogant and overbearing to those he doesn't have any interest in. Isn’t that the true definition of meanness? He’s described as spiteful and malicious, even towards the entire family of anyone who has upset him; and he treats his own relatives the worst. I've heard that none of them are as awful as he is. This might be one reason he wants to cut them out of his will.
'My Kitty, from one of his domestics, tells me, that his tenants hate him: and that he never had a servant who spoke well of him. Vilely suspicious of their wronging him (probably from the badness of his own heart) he is always changing.
'My Kitty, from one of his staff, tells me that his tenants can’t stand him and that he’s never had a servant say anything nice about him. Deeply suspicious that they are doing him wrong (likely because of his own bad nature), he is always switching things up.'
'His pockets, they say, are continually crammed with keys: so that, when he would treat a guest, (a friend he has not out of your family), he is half as long puzzling which is which, as his niggardly treat might be concluded in. And if it be wine, he always fetches it himself. Nor has he much trouble in doing so; for he has very few visiters—only those, whom business or necessity brings: for a gentleman who can help it, would rather be benighted, than put up at his house.'
His pockets, they say, are always stuffed with keys, so that when he wants to host a guest (someone who's not from your family), he spends just as much time figuring out which key belongs to what as he would have spent serving his generous treat. And if it's wine, he always goes to get it himself. He doesn't have much trouble doing that either, because he hardly has any visitors—only those who come out of necessity or business; a gentleman who can avoid it would rather stay out late than stay at his place.
Yet this is the man they have found out (for considerations as sordid as those he is governed by) for a husband, that is to say, for a lord and master, for Miss Clarissa Harlowe!
Yet this is the guy they've discovered (due to reasons as dirty as the ones he follows) to be a husband, that is to say, a lord and master, for Miss Clarissa Harlowe!
But, perhaps, he may not be quite so miserable as he is represented. Characters extremely good, or extremely bad, are seldom justly given. Favour for a person will exalt the one, as disfavour will sink the other. But your uncle Antony has told my mother, who objected to his covetousness, that it was intended to tie him up, as he called it, to your own terms; which would be with a hempen, rather than a matrimonial, cord, I dare say. But, is not this a plain indication, that even his own recommenders think him a mean creature; and that he must be articled with—perhaps for necessaries? But enough, and too much, of such a wretch as this!—You must not have him, my dear,—that I am clear in—though not so clear, how you will be able to avoid it, except you assert the independence to which your estate gives you a title.
But maybe he isn't as miserable as everyone says. Characters that are either extremely good or extremely bad are rarely depicted accurately. Being liked can lift someone up, while being disliked can bring them down. Your uncle Antony told my mother, who was concerned about his greed, that it was meant to tie him down, as he put it, to your own terms; which I assume would be with a rope, rather than a marriage bond. But isn’t this a clear sign that even those who support him see him as a low person? And that he must be contracted with—maybe just for necessities? But enough, and too much, about such a despicable person!—You can’t marry him, my dear—I’m certain of that—though I’m not so sure how you’ll manage to avoid it, unless you assert the independence that your estate grants you.
***
Understood. Please provide the text for modernization.
Here my mother broke in upon me. She wanted to see what I had written. I was silly enough to read Solmes's character to her.
Here my mom interrupted me. She wanted to see what I had written. I was foolish enough to read Solmes's character to her.
She owned, that the man was not the most desirable of men; and that he had not the happiest appearance: But what, said she, is person in a man? And I was chidden for setting you against complying with your father's will. Then followed a lecture on the preference to be given in favour of a man who took care to discharge all his obligations to the world, and to keep all together, in opposition to a spendthrift or profligate. A fruitful subject you know, whether any particular person be meant by it, or not.
She admitted that the man wasn't the most attractive or appealing person; and that he didn’t look very happy. But what, she asked, matters most in a man? And I was scolded for trying to convince you not to go along with your father's wishes. Then there was a discussion about preferring a man who made sure to fulfill all his responsibilities and keep everything in order, rather than a wasteful or reckless person. It's a topic that can be explored deeply, regardless of whether it refers to someone specific or not.
Why will these wise parents, by saying too much against the persons they dislike, put one upon defending them? Lovelace is not a spendthrift; owes not obligations to the world; though, I doubt not, profligate enough. Then, putting one upon doing such but common justice, we must needs be prepossessed, truly!—And so perhaps we are put upon curiosities first, that is to say, how such a one or his friends may think of one: and then, but too probably, comes in a distinguishing preference, or something that looks exceedingly like it.
Why do these wise parents, by speaking too much against the people they dislike, force someone to defend them? Lovelace isn’t a spendthrift; he doesn’t owe anyone anything, although I’m sure he’s quite reckless. So, by making someone act out even basic fairness, we must really be biased, right?—And maybe we start out just curious about how that person or their friends view us; but then, quite likely, we end up with a clear preference, or something that really resembles it.
My mother charged me at last, to write that side over again.—But excuse me, my good Mamma! I would not have the character lost upon any consideration; since my vein ran freely into it: and I never wrote to please myself, but I pleased you. A very good reason why—we have but one mind between us—only, that sometimes you are a little too grave, methinks; I, no doubt, a little too flippant in your opinion.
My mom finally asked me to rewrite that part. But sorry, Mom! I wouldn’t want to lose that character for anything because I really got into it. I never wrote to satisfy myself; I wrote to please you. There’s a good reason for that—we share one mind, even though sometimes you can be a bit too serious, and I might be a bit too casual for your taste.
This difference in our tempers, however, is probably the reason that we love one another so well, that in the words of Norris, no third love can come in betwixt. Since each, in the other's eye, having something amiss, and each loving the other well enough to bear being told of it (and the rather perhaps as neither wishes to mend it); this takes off a good deal from that rivalry which might encourage a little (if not a great deal) of that latent spleen, which in time might rise into envy, and that into ill-will. So, my dear, if this be the case, let each keep her fault, and much good may do her with it: and what an hero or heroine must he or she be, who can conquer a constitutional fault? Let it be avarice, as in some I dare not name: let it be gravity, as in my best friend: or let it be flippancy, as in—I need not say whom.
This difference in our personalities, however, is probably why we love each other so much, that in Norris's words, no third love can come between us. Each of us sees something off in the other, and we care for each other enough to handle being told about it (maybe even more so because neither of us wants to change). This helps reduce the rivalry that could stir up any hidden irritation, which might eventually grow into jealousy, and then into a dislike. So, my dear, if this is true, let's each keep our flaws, and I hope they serve us well: what a hero or heroine one must be to conquer an inherent flaw! Let it be greed, as in some I wouldn’t dare name; let it be seriousness, as in my best friend; or let it be frivolity, as in—I need not mention anyone specific.
It is proper to acquaint you, that I was obliged to comply with my mother's curiosity, [my mother has her share, her full share, of curiosity, my dear,] and to let her see here-and-there some passages in your letters—
It’s only fair to let you know that I had to satisfy my mom’s curiosity, [my mom has her fair share of curiosity, my dear,] and show her a few parts of your letters—
I am broken in upon—but I will tell you by-and-by what passed between my mother and me on this occasion—and the rather, as she had her GIRL, her favourite HICKMAN, and your LOVELACE, all at once in her eye, in her part of the conversation.
I’m interrupted, but I’ll share later what happened between my mom and me during this time—especially since she had her GIRL, her favorite HICKMAN, and your LOVELACE all in mind during this conversation.
Thus it was.
So it was.
'I cannot but think, Nancy, said she, after all, that there is a little hardship in Miss Harlowe's case: and yet (as her mother says) it is a grating thing to have a child, who was always noted for her duty in smaller points, to stand in opposition to her parents' will in the greater; yea, in the greatest of all. And now, to middle the matter between both, it is pity, that the man they favour has not that sort of merit which a person of a mind so delicate as that of Miss Harlowe might reasonably expect in a husband.—But then, this man is surely preferable to a libertine: to a libertine too, who has had a duel with her own brother; fathers and mothers must think so, were it not for that circumstance—and it is strange if they do not know best.'
"I can’t help but think, Nancy," she said, "that there’s a bit of unfairness in Miss Harlowe's situation. And yet (as her mother says), it’s frustrating to have a child, who was always recognized for her sense of duty in smaller matters, to go against her parents' wishes in the bigger ones; yes, the biggest of all. And now, to balance things for both sides, it’s a shame that the man they support doesn’t have the kind of qualities that someone as refined as Miss Harlowe should reasonably expect in a husband. But still, this man is definitely better than a libertine, especially one who has even fought a duel with her own brother; parents must see it that way, despite that particular situation—and it’s odd if they don’t know what’s best."
And so they must, thought I, from their experience, if no little dirty views give them also that prepossession in one man's favour, which they are so apt to censure their daughters for having in another's—and if, as I may add in your case, they have no creeping, old, musty uncle Antonys to strengthen their prepossessions, as he does my mother's. Poor, creeping, positive soul, what has such an old bachelor as he to do, to prate about the duties of children to parents; unless he had a notion that parents owe some to their children? But your mother, by her indolent meekness, let me call it, has spoiled all the three brothers.
And so they probably do, I thought, from their experience, unless some petty, biased opinions make them favor one man, which they often criticize their daughters for doing with someone else—and if, as in your case, they don’t have a creeping, old, out-of-touch Uncle Antonys to reinforce their biases, like he does for my mother. Poor, feeble, stubborn soul, what does an old bachelor like him know about the responsibilities of children toward parents, unless he believes parents have some responsibilities toward their children too? But your mother, with her lazy gentleness—if I may put it that way—has spoiled all three brothers.
'But you see, child, proceeded my mother, what a different behaviour MINE is to YOU. I recommend to you one of the soberest, yet politest, men in England—'
'But you see, kid, my mother continued, how different my behavior is compared to yours. I’m suggesting one of the most level-headed, yet courteous, men in England—'
I think little of my mother's politest, my dear. She judges of honest Hickman for her daughter, as she would have done, I suppose, twenty years ago, for herself.
I don't think much of my mother's politeness, my dear. She evaluates honest Hickman for her daughter just as she would have, I guess, twenty years ago for herself.
'Of a good family, continued my mother; a fine, clear, and improving estate [a prime consideration with my mother, as well as with some other folks, whom you know]: and I beg and I pray you to encourage him: at least not to use him the worse, for his being so obsequious to you.'
'From a good family, my mother continued; a nice, clear, and growing estate [something that was really important to my mother, as well as to some other people you know]: and I ask you to support him: at least don’t treat him any worse just because he’s so eager to please you.'
Yes, indeed! To use him kindly, that he may treat me familiarly—but distance to the men-wretches is best—I say.
Yes, absolutely! If I treat him kindly, he might feel comfortable around me—but it's better to keep a distance from those poor men—I insist.
'Yet all will hardly prevail upon you to do as I would have you. What would you say, were I to treat you as Miss Harlowe's father and mother treat her?
'Yet no one will really convince you to do what I want you to do. What would you think if I treated you the way Miss Harlowe's parents treat her?'
'What would I say, Madam!—That's easily answered. I would say nothing. Can you think such usage, and to such a young lady, is to be borne?
'What would I say, Madam!—That's easy to answer. I would say nothing. Can you believe such treatment, especially toward a young lady, is acceptable?'
'Come, come, Nancy, be not so hasty: you have heard but one side; and that there is more to be said is plain, by your reading to me but parts of her letters. They are her parents. They must know best. Miss Harlowe, as fine a child as she is, must have done something, must have said something, (you know how they loved her,) to make them treat her thus.
'Come on, Nancy, don’t be so quick to judge: you’ve only heard one side of the story, and it’s clear there’s more to it since you’ve only read me parts of her letters. They are her parents. They must know best. Miss Harlowe, as wonderful as she is, must have done or said something, (you know how much they loved her,) to make them treat her this way.'
'But if she should be blameless, Madam, how does your own supposition condemn them?'
'But if she is innocent, Madam, how can your own assumption judge them?'
Then came up Solmes's great estate; his good management of it—'A little too NEAR indeed,' was the word!—[O how money-lovers, thought I, will palliate! Yet my mother is a princess in spirit to this Solmes!] 'What strange effects, added she, have prepossession and love upon young ladies!'
Then came up Solmes's large estate; his skillful management of it—'A little too close, indeed,' was the phrase!—[Oh how those who love money, I thought, will justify! Yet my mother is a true princess in spirit compared to this Solmes!] 'What strange effects, she added, do preconceptions and love have on young women!'
I don't know how it is, my dear; but people take high delight in finding out folks in love. Curiosity begets curiosity. I believe that's the thing.
I don't know why it is, my dear, but people really enjoy discovering who's in love. Curiosity creates more curiosity. I think that's what it is.
She proceeded to praise Mr. Lovelace's person, and his qualifications natural and acquired. But then she would judge as mothers will judge, and as daughters are very loth to judge: but could say nothing in answer to your offer of living single; and breaking with him—if—if—[three or four if's she made of one good one, if] that could be depended on.
She went on to compliment Mr. Lovelace’s looks and both his natural and learned qualities. However, she judged as mothers often do, which daughters are usually reluctant to accept. She couldn’t respond to your suggestion of remaining single and ending things with him—if—if—[she made three or four “if” statements out of one solid one, if] that could be trusted.
But still obedience without reserve, reason what I will, is the burden of my mother's song: and this, for my sake, as well as for yours.
But still, unconditional obedience, no matter how I think about it, is the core message of my mother's song: and this is for my sake as well as for yours.
I must needs say, that I think duty to parents is a very meritorious excellence. But I bless God I have not your trials. We can all be good when we have no temptation nor provocation to the contrary: but few young persons (who can help themselves too as you can) would bear what you bear.
I have to say that I think being dutiful to parents is really commendable. But I thank God that I don’t have your struggles. It’s easy for anyone to be good when there’s no temptation or provocation to do otherwise, but few young people (especially those who can stand up for themselves like you can) would endure what you’re going through.
I will now mention all that is upon my mind, in relation to the behaviour of your father and uncles, and the rest of them, because I would not offend you: but I have now a higher opinion of my own sagacity, than ever I had, in that I could never cordially love any one of your family but yourself. I am not born to like them. But it is my duty to be sincere to my friend: and this will excuse her Anna Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
I will now share everything that's on my mind regarding the behavior of your father, uncles, and the others, because I don't want to upset you. However, I truly believe I understand things better than I ever did, since I could never genuinely care for anyone in your family except for you. I'm just not meant to like them. But it's my responsibility to be honest with my friend, and this will justify Anna Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe.
I ought indeed to have excepted your mother; a lady to be reverenced: and now to be pitied. What must have been her treatment, to be thus subjugated, as I may call it? Little did the good old viscount think, when he married his darling, his only daughter, to so well-appearing a gentleman, and to her own liking too, that she would have been so much kept down. Another would call your father a tyrant, if I must not: all the world that know him, do call him so; and if you love your mother, you should not be very angry at the world for taking that liberty.
I really should have excluded your mother; she's a woman to be respected and now to be pitied. What must she have gone through to be so completely controlled, as I might say? The good old viscount certainly didn't realize when he married off his beloved, only daughter to such a charming gentleman, who she liked too, that she would end up so restrained. Someone else might call your father a tyrant, even if I won't; everyone who knows him does. And if you care about your mother, you shouldn't be too upset with the world for saying that.
Yet, after all, I cannot help thinking, that she is the less to be pitied, as she may be said (be the gout, or what will, the occasion of his moroseness) to have long behaved unworthy of her birth and fine qualities, in yielding so much as she yields to encroaching spirits [you may confine the reflection to your brother, if it will pain you to extend it]; and this for the sake of preserving a temporary peace to herself; which was the less worth endeavouring to preserve, as it always produced a strength in the will of others, which subjected her to an arbitrariness that of course grew, and became established, upon her patience.—And now to give up the most deserving of her children (against her judgment) a sacrifice to the ambition and selfishness of the least deserving!—But I fly from this subject—having I fear, said too much to be forgiven—and yet much less than is in my heart to say upon the over-meek subject.
But after all, I can’t help but think that she’s less to be pitied, since she has long acted unworthy of her background and great qualities by giving in so much to controlling people [you can limit this thought to your brother if it hurts to think of others]; all to keep a temporary peace for herself; which was less worth striving for, since it only made others bolder, putting her in a position where their control grew stronger over time because of her patience. —And now to give up her most deserving child (against her better judgment) as a sacrifice to the ambition and selfishness of the least deserving!—But I want to avoid this topic—having, I fear, said too much to be forgiven—and yet much less than what I really want to express about this overly meek situation.
Mr. Hickman is expected from London this evening. I have desired him to inquire after Lovelace's life and conversation in town. If he has not inquired, I shall be very angry with him. Don't expect a very good account of either. He is certainly an intriguing wretch, and full of inventions.
Mr. Hickman is supposed to arrive from London this evening. I’ve asked him to check on Lovelace’s life and how he’s been acting in town. If he hasn’t done that, I’ll be really upset with him. Don’t expect a good report about either. He’s definitely a scheming villain and full of lies.
Upon my word, I most heartily despise that sex! I wish they would let our fathers and mothers alone; teasing them to tease us with their golden promises, and protestations and settlements, and the rest of their ostentatious nonsense. How charmingly might you and I live together, and despise them all!—But to be cajoled, wire-drawn, and ensnared, like silly birds, into a state of bondage, or vile subordination; to be courted as princesses for a few weeks, in order to be treated as slaves for the rest of our lives. Indeed, my dear, as you say of Solmes, I cannot endure them!—But for your relations [friends no more will I call them, unworthy as they are even of the other name!] to take such a wretch's price as that; and to the cutting off of all reversions from his own family:—How must a mind but commonly just resist such a measure!
I absolutely despise that gender! I wish they would leave our parents alone; teasing them to tease us with their empty promises, claims, and flashy nonsense. How wonderfully could you and I live together, looking down on them all!—But instead, we are manipulated, stretched thin, and trapped, like silly birds, into a life of bondage or degrading submission; courted like princesses for a few weeks just to be treated as slaves for the rest of our lives. Honestly, my dear, as you say about Solmes, I can’t stand them!—But for your relatives [friends I can’t even call them anymore, as they don’t deserve that title!] to accept such a wretch’s price as that; and to cut off all future possibilities from his own family:—How can anyone in their right mind accept such a situation?
Mr. Hickman shall sound Lord M. upon the subject you recommend. But beforehand, I can tell you what he and what his sisters will say, when they are sounded. Who would not be proud of such a relation as Miss Clarissa Harlowe?—Mrs. Fortescue told me, that they are all your very great admirers.
Mr. Hickman will talk to Lord M. about the topic you suggested. But first, I can tell you what he and his sisters will say when they discuss it. Who wouldn't be proud to have someone like Miss Clarissa Harlowe in the family? Mrs. Fortescue mentioned to me that they are all really big fans of yours.
If I have not been clear enough in my advice about what you shall do, let me say, that I can give it in one word: it is only by re-urging you to RESUME. If you do, all the rest will follow.
If I haven't been clear enough in my advice about what you should do, let me say it in one word: it’s to RESUME. If you do that, everything else will fall into place.
We are told here, that Mrs. Norton, as well as your aunt Hervey, has given her opinion on the implicit side of the question. If she can think, that the part she has had in your education, and your own admirable talents and acquirements, are to be thrown away upon such a worthless creature as Solmes, I could heartily quarrel with her. You may think I say this to lessen your regard for the good woman. And perhaps not wholly without cause, if you do. For, to own the truth, methinks, I don't love her so well as I should do, did you love her so apparently less, that I could be out of doubt, that you love me better.
We’re told here that Mrs. Norton, along with your aunt Hervey, has shared her thoughts on the implicit side of the issue. If she believes that her involvement in your education, along with your amazing talents and skills, should be wasted on someone as useless as Solmes, I could really take issue with her. You might think I’m saying this to lessen your opinion of the good woman, and maybe there’s some truth to that if you do. Honestly, I don’t feel as fond of her as I would if you didn’t seem to care for her as much, which would make me certain that you love me more.
Your mother tells you, 'That you will have great trials: that you are under your father's discipline.'—The word is enough for me to despise them who give occasion for its use.—'That it is out of her power to help you!' And again: 'That if you have any favour to hope for, it must be by the mediation of your uncles.' I suppose you will write to the oddities, since you are forbid to see them. But can it be, that such a lady, such a sister, such a wife, such a mother, has no influence in her own family? Who, indeed, as you say, if this be so, would marry, that can live single? My choler is again beginning to rise. RESUME, my dear: and that is all I will give myself time to say further, lest I offend you when I cannot serve you—only this, that I am
Your mom tells you, "You’re going to face some tough challenges because you're under your dad's rules." —That’s enough for me to look down on those who make it necessary to say such things. —"That she can’t help you!" And again: "If you want any support, it’ll have to come from your uncles." I guess you’ll reach out to those oddballs since you can’t see them. But really, how can such a lady, such a sister, such a wife, such a mother have no say in her own family? Who, like you said, would choose to marry if they could live alone? I'm getting worked up again. Just continue, my dear; that’s all I’ll say for now to avoid upsetting you when I can’t help you—just this, that I am
Your truly affectionate friend and servant, ANNA HOWE.
Your truly caring friend and servant, ANNA HOWE.
LETTER XXVIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE FRIDAY, MARCH 10.
You will permit me, my dear, to touch upon a few passages in your last letter, that affect me sensibly.
You will allow me, my dear, to mention a few parts of your last letter that really touch me.
In the first place, you must allow me to say, low as I am in spirits, that I am very angry with you, for your reflections on my relations, particularly on my father and mother, and on the memory of my grandfather. Nor, my dear, does your own mother always escape the keen edge of your vivacity. One cannot one's self forbear to write or speak freely of those we love and honour, when grief from imagined hard treatment wrings the heart: but it goes against one to hear any body else take the same liberties. Then you have so very strong a manner of expression where you take a distaste, that when passion has subdued, and I come (upon reflection) to see by your severity what I have given occasion for, I cannot help condemning myself.
First of all, I have to say, even though I'm feeling down, I'm really angry with you for your comments about my family, especially my parents and the memory of my grandfather. Also, my dear, your own mother doesn’t always escape the sharp edge of your wit. It’s hard not to express freely about those we love and respect when we’re upset over imagined mistreatment: but it really bothers me to hear someone else take the same liberties. You have such a strong way of expressing your dislike that once the passion cools down, I find myself reflecting on your harshness and realizing what I’ve done wrong, and I can’t help but criticize myself.
But least of all can I bear that you should reflect upon my mother. What, my dear, if her meekness should not be rewarded? Is the want of reward, or the want even of a grateful acknowledgement, a reason for us to dispense with what we think our duty? They were my father's lively spirits that first made him an interest in her gentle bosom. They were the same spirits turned inward, as I have heretofore observed,* that made him so impatient when the cruel malady seized him. He always loved my mother: And would not LOVE and PITY excusably, nay laudably, make a good wife (who was an hourly witness of his pangs, when labouring under a paroxysm, and his paroxysms becoming more and more frequent, as well as more and more severe) give up her own will, her own likings, to oblige a husband, thus afflicted, whose love for her was unquestionable?—And if so, was it not too natural [human nature is not perfect, my dear] that the husband thus humoured by the wife, should be unable to bear controul from any body else, much less contradiction from his children?
But above all, I can't stand the thought of you judging my mother. What if her kindness goes unrecognized? Does the lack of recognition or even a simple thank you mean we should ignore what we believe is our duty? It was my father's lively spirit that first drew him to her gentle nature. Those same feelings, turned inwards, as I’ve pointed out before,* made him so restless when that cruel illness took hold. He always loved my mother. And wouldn’t LOVE and PITY justifiably, even commendably, lead a good wife—who constantly witnessed his suffering during a fit, especially since his fits became more frequent and more intense—to set aside her own desires to support a husband in such distress, whose love for her was undeniable? —And if that's the case, isn’t it too natural [human nature isn't perfect, my dear] for a husband, spoiled by his wife’s kindness, to be unable to tolerate control from anyone else, let alone opposition from his children?
* See Letter V.
* See Letter V.
If then you would avoid my highest displeasure, you must spare my mother: and, surely, you will allow me, with her, to pity, as well as to love and honour my father.
If you want to avoid my greatest anger, you need to protect my mother: and, of course, you will let me, along with her, feel pity, as well as love and respect for my father.
I have no friend but you to whom I can appeal, to whom I dare complain. Unhappily circumstanced as I am, it is but too probable that I shall complain, because it is but too probably that I shall have more and more cause given me for complaint. But be it your part, if I do, to sooth my angry passions, and to soften my resentments; and this the rather, as you know what an influence your advice has upon me; and as you must also know, that the freedoms you take with my friends, can have no other tendency, but to weaken the sense of my duty to them, without answering any good end to myself.
I have no friend except you that I can turn to, no one I can safely complain to. Given how unfortunate my situation is, it's likely that I will complain, because I'll probably have more and more reasons to do so. But if I do vent, it's your job to calm my anger and ease my resentments; especially since you know how much your advice affects me. Plus, you must realize that the liberties you take with my friends only serve to weaken my sense of responsibility towards them, without benefiting me in any way.
I cannot help owning, however, that I am pleased to have you join with me in opinion of the contempt which Mr. Solmes deserves from me. But yet, permit me to say, that he is not quite so horrible a creature as you make him: as to his person, I mean; for with regard to his mind, by all I have heard, you have done him but justice: but you have such a talent at an ugly likeness, and such a vivacity, that they sometimes carry you out of verisimilitude. In short, my dear, I have known you, in more instances than one, sit down resolved to write all that wit, rather than strict justice, could suggest upon the given occasion. Perhaps it may be thought, that I should say the less on this particular subject, because your dislike of him arises from love to me: But should it not be our aim to judge of ourselves, and of every thing that affects us, as we may reasonably imagine other people would judge of us and of our actions?
I can't help but admit that I'm glad you share my opinion about how much contempt Mr. Solmes deserves from me. However, let me say that he's not as terrible as you make him out to be—at least when it comes to his appearance; regarding his mind, based on what I've heard, you've been spot on. But you have a knack for creating unflattering portraits, and your lively descriptions sometimes stray from reality. In short, my dear, I've seen you sit down more than once determined to write what was clever rather than what was fair about a given situation. Some might think I should say less on this topic since your dislike for him comes from your love for me. But shouldn't we aim to judge ourselves and everything that affects us the way we think others would perceive us and our actions?
As to the advice you give, to resume my estate, I am determined not to litigate with my father, let what will be the consequence to myself. I may give you, at another time, a more particular answer to your reasonings on this subject: but, at present, will only observe, that it is in my opinion, that Lovelace himself would hardly think me worth addressing, were he to know this would be my resolution. These men, my dear, with all their flatteries, look forward to the PERMANENT. Indeed, it is fit they should. For love must be a very foolish thing to look back upon, when it has brought persons born to affluence into indigence, and laid a generous mind under obligation and dependence.
Regarding the advice you've given about reclaiming my estate, I've decided not to get into a legal battle with my father, no matter what the outcome is for me. I might give you a more detailed response to your arguments about this later, but for now, I just want to say that I believe Lovelace wouldn’t consider me worth pursuing if he knew I felt this way. These guys, my dear, despite all their flattery, are always looking for something lasting. And honestly, they should. Love would seem incredibly foolish to reflect on if it leads people who are meant for wealth into poverty and makes a generous spirit reliant on others.
You very ingeniously account for the love we bear to one another, from the difference in our tempers. I own, I should not have thought of that. There may possibly be something in it: but whether there be or not, whenever I am cool, and give myself time to reflect, I will love you the better for the correction you give, be as severe as you will upon me. Spare me not, therefore, my dear friend, whenever you think me in the least faulty. I love your agreeable raillery: you know I always did: nor, however over-serious you think me, did I ever think you flippant, as you harshly call it. One of the first conditions of our mutual friendship was, each should say or write to the other whatever was upon her mind, without any offence to be taken: a condition, that is indeed indispensable in friendship.
You cleverly explain the love we have for each other by pointing out the differences in our personalities. I have to admit, I wouldn't have thought of that. There might be some truth to it, but whether it's true or not, whenever I take a moment to cool down and reflect, I'll love you even more for the honest feedback you give me, no matter how harsh it may be. So please don’t hold back, my dear friend, whenever you think I’m at all in the wrong. I appreciate your playful teasing; you know I always have. And even if you think I'm being too serious, I've never seen you as flippant, despite what you harshly call it. One of the core principles of our friendship was that we could say or write anything to each other without it being taken the wrong way—this condition is truly essential in friendship.
I knew your mother would be for implicit obedience in a child. I am sorry my case is so circumstanced, that I cannot comply. It would be my duty to do so, if I could. You are indeed very happy, that you have nothing but your own agreeable, yet whimsical, humours to contend with, in the choice she invites you to make of Mr. Hickman. How happy I should be, to be treated with so much lenity!—I should blush to have my mother say, that she begged and prayed me, and all in vain, to encourage a man so unexceptionable as Mr. Hickman.
I knew your mom would expect a child to obey without question. I’m sorry that my situation makes it impossible for me to do that. I would definitely do my duty if I could. You’re really lucky that all you have to deal with are your own enjoyable yet quirky moods when it comes to the choice your mom is offering you about Mr. Hickman. How happy I would be to be treated with such understanding! I would be embarrassed to hear my mom saying that she begged and pleaded with me, all in vain, to give a chance to a man as great as Mr. Hickman.
Indeed, my beloved Miss Howe, I am ashamed to have your mother say, with ME in her view, 'What strange effects have prepossession and love upon young creatures of our sex!' This touches me the more sensibly, because you yourself, my dear, are so ready to persuade me into it.
Indeed, my dear Miss Howe, I'm embarrassed to hear your mother say, with ME in her mind, 'What strange effects do preconceptions and love have on young people like us!' This affects me even more deeply because you, my dear, are so eager to convince me of it.
I should be very blamable to endeavour to hide any the least bias upon my mind, from you: and I cannot but say—that this man—this Lovelace—is a man that might be liked well enough, if he bore such a character as Mr. Hickman bears; and even if there were hopes of reclaiming him. And further still I will acknowledge, that I believe it possible that one might be driven, by violent measures, step by step, as it were, into something that might be called—I don't know what to call it—a conditional kind of liking, or so. But as to the word LOVE—justifiable and charming as it is in some cases, (that is to say, in all the relative, in all the social, and, what is still beyond both, in all our superior duties, in which it may be properly called divine;) it has, methinks, in the narrow, circumscribed, selfish, peculiar sense, in which you apply it to me, (the man too so little to be approved of for his morals, if all that report says of him be true,) no pretty sound with it. Treat me as freely as you will in all other respects, I will love you, as I have said, the better for your friendly freedom. But, methinks, I could be glad that you would not let this imputation pass so glibly from your pen, or your lips, as attributable to one of your own sex, whether I be the person or not: since the other must have a double triumph, when a person of your delicacy (armed with such contempts of them all, as you would have one think) can give up a friend, with an exultation over her weakness, as a silly, love-sick creature.
I should be really wrong to try to hide even the slightest bias I have from you. I have to say that this guy—this Lovelace—could be somewhat likable if he had a reputation like Mr. Hickman’s, or if there were hope of changing him. I’ll also admit that I think it’s possible for someone to be pushed step by step, through extreme measures, into a kind of—I don’t know what to call it—conditional liking or something. But when it comes to the word LOVE—though it’s justifiable and charming in certain situations (like in all relationships, in social contexts, and especially in our higher duties, where it could even be called divine)—it feels, to me, that in the narrow, selfish, and peculiar way you use it regarding me (especially since this man is hardly a good reflection of morals, if everything they say about him is true), it doesn’t sound appealing at all. Treat me however you want in every other way; I will love you, as I’ve said, even more for your friendly openness. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t let this sort of accusation slip so easily from your pen or your lips, whether it’s aimed at me or someone of your own gender. Because it gives the other person a double victory when someone as delicate as you—who seems to hold all others in such contempt—can toss aside a friend, celebrating her weakness as if she were just a silly, lovesick fool.
I could make some other observations upon the contents of your last two letters; but my mind is not free enough at present. The occasion for the above stuck with me; and I could not help taking the earliest notice of them.
I could share some other thoughts about what you wrote in your last two letters, but I’m not in the right headspace at the moment. The reason for this stuck with me, and I couldn't wait to acknowledge them.
Having written to the end of my second sheet, I will close this letter, and in my next, acquaint you with all that has happened here since my last.
Having finished my second page, I’ll wrap up this letter, and in my next one, I’ll fill you in on everything that’s happened here since my last update.
LETTER XXIX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SATURDAY, MARCH 11.
I have had such taunting messages, and such repeated avowals of ill offices, brought me from my brother and sister, if I do no comply with their wills, (delivered, too, with provoking sauciness by Betty Barnes,) that I have thought it proper, before I entered upon my intended address to my uncles, in pursuance of the hint given me in my mother's letter, to expostulate a little with them. But I have done it in such a manner, as will give you (if you please to take it as you have done some parts of my former letters) great advantage over me. In short, you will have more cause than ever, to declare me far gone in love, if my reasons for the change of my style in these letters, with regard to Mr. Lovelace, do not engage your more favourable opinion.—For I have thought proper to give them their own way: and, since they will have it, that I have a preferable regard for Mr. Lovelace, I give them cause rather to confirm their opinion than doubt it.
I've received such teasing messages and constant claims of betrayal from my brother and sister when I don’t go along with what they want, (delivered with annoying sass by Betty Barnes,) that I thought it best, before I talked to my uncles as suggested in my mother’s letter, to address them a bit. But I’ve done it in such a way that, if you choose to interpret it like you have some parts of my earlier letters, it will give you a significant advantage over me. In short, you’ll have even more reason to say I’m hopelessly in love if my reasons for changing my tone in these letters about Mr. Lovelace don’t earn your more favorable opinion. —So, I’ve decided to let them have their way: and since they insist that I have a special affection for Mr. Lovelace, I’m giving them more reason to support their belief rather than question it.
These are my reasons in brief, for the alteration of my style.
These are my reasons, briefly, for changing my style.
In the first place, they have grounded their principal argument for my compliance with their will, upon my acknowledgement that my heart is free; and so, supposing I give up no preferable person, my opposition has the look of downright obstinacy in their eyes; and they argue, that at worst, my aversion to Solmes is an aversion that may be easily surmounted, and ought to be surmounted in duty to my father, and for the promotion of family views.
First of all, they base their main argument for me to go along with what they want on my admission that I’m free to choose; so, if I don’t give up someone better, my resistance just seems like stubbornness to them. They claim that, at worst, my dislike for Solmes is something that can be easily overcome and should be for the sake of my father and to support our family goals.
Next, although they build upon this argument in order to silence me, they seem not to believe me, but treat me as disgracefully, as if I were in love with one of my father's footmen: so that my conditional willingness to give up Mr. Lovelace has procured me no favour.
Next, even though they use this argument to shut me up, they don’t actually believe me and treat me terribly, as if I were in love with one of my father's footmen. So, my hesitant willingness to give up Mr. Lovelace hasn’t earned me any favor.
In the next place, I cannot but think, that my brother's antipathy to Mr. Lovelace is far from being well grounded: the man's inordinate passion for the sex is the crime that is always rung in my ears: and a very great one it is: But, does my brother recriminate upon him thus in love to me?—No—his whole behaviour shews me, that that is not his principal motive, and that he thinks me rather in his way than otherwise.
Next, I can't help but think that my brother's dislike for Mr. Lovelace isn't really justified. My brother constantly points out the man's excessive attraction to women, which is a serious issue. But does my brother criticize him like this out of concern for me? No—his entire behavior indicates that this isn't his main reason, and it seems he actually thinks I'm more of an obstacle than anything else.
It is then the call of justice, as I may say, to speak a little in favour of a man, who, although provoked by my brother, did not do him all the mischief he could have done him, and which my brother had endeavoured to do him. It might not be amiss therefore, I thought, to alarm them a little with apprehension, that the methods they are taking with me are the very reverse of those they should take to answer the end they design by them. And after all, what is the compliment I make Mr. Lovelace, if I allow it to be thought that I do really prefer him to such a man as him they terrify me with? Then, my Miss Howe [concluded I] accuses me of a tameness which subject me to insults from my brother: I will keep that dear friend in my eye; and for all these considerations, try what a little of her spirit will do—sit it ever so awkwardly upon me.
It's only fair to speak up for a man who, even though my brother provoked him, didn’t cause as much trouble as he could have. My brother had tried to do him harm. I thought it might be wise to give them a little scare, to show them that the way they're treating me is completely the opposite of what they should be doing to achieve their goals. And honestly, what compliment am I giving Mr. Lovelace if I let it be believed that I truly prefer him over someone like my brother, who intimidates me? Then, my Miss Howe [I concluded] accuses me of being too passive, which leaves me open to my brother’s insults. I'll keep that dear friend in mind and, considering all this, see how a bit of her spirit works for me—even if it feels a bit awkward.
In this way of thinking, I wrote to my brother and sister. This is my letter to him.
In this way of thinking, I wrote to my brother and sister. This is my letter to him.
TREATED as I am, and, in a great measure, if not wholly, by your instigations, Brother, you must permit me to expostulate with you upon the occasion. It is not my intention to displease you in what I am going to write: and yet I must deal freely with you: the occasion calls for it.
TREATED as I am, and, largely if not entirely, due to your encouragement, Brother, you need to allow me to express my thoughts with you on this matter. I don't intend to upset you with what I'm about to write, but I have to speak openly: the situation demands it.
And permit me, in the first place, to remind you, that I am your sister; and not your servant; and that, therefore, the bitter revilings and passionate language brought me from you, upon an occasion in which you have no reason to prescribe to me, are neither worthy of my character to bear, nor of yours to offer.
And let me remind you, first of all, that I am your sister, not your servant; so the harsh insults and heated words you directed at me on an occasion where you have no right to tell me what to do are not something I should tolerate, and you shouldn’t be saying them.
Put the case, that I were to marry the man you dislike: and that he were not to make a polite or tender husband, Is that a reason for you to be an unpolite and disobliging brother?—Why must you, Sir, anticipate my misfortunes, were such a case to happen?—Let me tell you plainly, that the man who could treat me as a wife, worse than you of late have treated me as a sister, must be a barbarous man indeed.
Let’s say I were to marry the guy you can't stand, and he turned out to be a rude or uncaring husband. Does that give you a reason to be an impolite and unhelpful brother? Why do you, Sir, have to assume the worst about my future if that were to happen? Let me be clear: any man who could treat me as a wife worse than you’ve treated me as a sister lately would have to be a truly cruel man.
Ask yourself, I pray you, Sir, if you would thus have treated your sister Bella, had she thought fit to receive the addresses of the man so much hated by you?—If not, let me caution you, my Brother, not to take your measures by what you think will be borne, but rather by what ought to be offered.
Ask yourself, please, Sir, would you have treated your sister Bella this way if she had chosen to accept the advances of the man you despise so much?—If not, let me warn you, my Brother, not to base your actions on what you think will be tolerated, but instead on what should be offered.
How would you take it, if you had a brother, who, in a like case, were to act by you, as you do by me?—You cannot but remember what a laconic answer you gave even to my father, who recommended to you Miss Nelly D'Oily—You did not like her, were your words: and that was thought sufficient.
How would you feel if you had a brother who treated you the way you're treating me? You can't forget the short response you gave to my father when he suggested Miss Nelly D'Oily to you. You simply said you didn't like her, and that was considered enough.
You must needs think, that I cannot but know to whom to attribute my disgraces, when I recollect my father's indulgence to me, permitting me to decline several offers; and to whom, that a common cause is endeavoured to be made, in favour of a man whose person and manners are more exceptional than those of any of the gentlemen I have been permitted to refuse.
You have to understand that I can’t help but know who to blame for my setbacks when I think about my father’s kindness in allowing me to turn down several opportunities. And I also recognize that there seems to be a collective effort on behalf of a man whose character and behavior are more remarkable than any of the gentlemen I’ve had the chance to reject.
I offer not to compare the two men together: nor is there indeed the least comparison to be made between them. All the difference to the one's disadvantage, if I did, is but one point—of the greatest importance, indeed—But to whom of most importance?—To myself, surely, were I to encourage his application: of the least to you. Nevertheless, if you do not, by your strange politics, unite that man and me as joint sufferers in one cause, you shall find me as much resolved to renounce him, as I am to refuse the other. I have made an overture to this purpose: I hope you will not give me reason to confirm my apprehensions, that it will be owing to you if it be not accepted.
I choose not to compare the two men: in fact, there’s really no comparison between them at all. The only difference, which is significant, is to the detriment of one. But how important is that difference? To me, for sure, if I were to support his request; to you, it’s probably not that important. However, if you don’t, with your unconventional politics, link that man to me as we both suffer for the same cause, you’ll find that I’m just as determined to distance myself from him as I am to reject the other. I’ve proposed this idea, and I hope you won’t give me any reason to worry that it won’t be accepted because of you.
It is a sad thing to have it to say, without being conscious of ever having given you cause of offence, that I have in you a brother, but not a friend.
It's unfortunate to say, without being aware of ever offending you, that I have a brother in you, but not a friend.
Perhaps you will not condescend to enter into the reasons of your late and present conduct with a foolish sister. But if politeness, if civility, be not due to that character, and to my sex, justice is.
Perhaps you won't bother to explain the reasons for your recent and current behavior towards your silly sister. But if politeness and courtesy aren't owed to her because of who she is and because I'm a woman, then fairness is.
Let me take the liberty further to observe, that the principal end of a young man's education at the university, is, to learn him to reason justly, and to subdue the violence of his passions. I hope, Brother, that you will not give room for any body who knows us both, to conclude, that the toilette has taught the one more of the latter doctrine, than the university has taught the other. I am truly sorry to have cause to say, that I have heard it often remarked, that your uncontrouled passions are not a credit to your liberal education.
Let me go a step further and point out that the main goal of a young man's education at university is to teach him to think logically and to control his emotions. I hope, Brother, that you won't give anyone who knows us both any reason to think that your time spent on appearances has taught you more about self-control than university has taught me. I'm really sorry to say that I've heard many people remark that your unchecked emotions don't reflect well on your education.
I hope, Sir, that you will excuse the freedom I have taken with you: you have given me too much reason for it, and you have taken much greater with me, without reason:—so, if you are offended, ought to look at the cause, and not at the effect:—then examining yourself, that cause will cease, and there will not be any where a more accomplished gentleman than my brother.
I hope, sir, you'll forgive me for being so bold with you: you've given me more than enough reason for it, and you've treated me with far less consideration, for no reason at all. So, if you're upset, you should reflect on the cause, not just the outcome. Once you examine yourself, that cause will disappear, and you won’t find a more refined gentleman than my brother.
Sisterly affection, I do assure you, Sir, (unkindly as you have used me,) and not the pertness which of late you have been so apt to impute to me, is my motive in this hint. Let me invoke your returning kindness, my only brother! And give me cause, I beseech you, to call you my compassionating friend. For I am, and ever will be,
Sisterly affection, I assure you, Sir, (unkind as you've been to me,) and not the sass that you've recently seemed to blame me for, is my reason for this suggestion. Let me appeal to your kindness once again, my only brother! And please give me a reason to call you my caring friend. For I am, and always will be,
Your affectionate sister, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your loving sister, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
***
Understood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
This is my brother's answer.
This is my brother's response.
TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE
To Miss Clarissa Harlowe
I KNOW there will be no end of your impertinent scribble, if I don't write to you. I write therefore: but, without entering into argument with such a conceited and pert preacher and questioner, it is, to forbid you to plague me with your quaint nonsense. I know not what wit in a woman is good for, but to make her overvalue herself, and despise every other person. Yours, Miss Pert, has set you above your duty, and above being taught or prescribed to, either by parents, or any body else. But go on, Miss: your mortification will be the greater; that's all, child. It shall, I assure you, if I can make it so, so long as you prefer that villainous Lovelace, (who is justly hated by all your family) to every body. We see by your letter now (what we too justly suspected before), most evidently we see, the hold he has got of your forward heart. But the stronger the hold, the greater must be the force (and you shall have enough of that) to tear such a miscreant from it. In me, notwithstanding your saucy lecturing, and your saucy reflections before, you are sure of a friend, as well as of a brother, if it be not your own fault. But if you will still think of such a wretch as that Lovelace, never expect either friend or brother in
I know there will be no end to your annoying messages if I don't write to you. So here I am writing: but I won’t argue with such a conceited, annoying preacher and questioner; I just want to tell you to stop pestering me with your ridiculous nonsense. I don't know what good a woman's wit is for, except to make her think too highly of herself and look down on everyone else. Yours, Miss Pert, has made you feel superior to your responsibilities and above being taught or advised by your parents or anyone else. But keep going, Miss: your disappointment will be greater; that’s all, kid. I assure you it will be so long as you prefer that horrible Lovelace, who is justly hated by your whole family, over everyone else. Your letter clearly shows what we suspected before: how much power he has over your headstrong heart. But the stronger his hold, the more effort you will need (and I will ensure you have plenty of that) to get rid of such a scoundrel. Despite your cheeky lectures and previous remarks, you can count on me as a friend and a brother, as long as it’s not your own fault. But if you still think about someone as vile as Lovelace, don’t expect to have either a friend or brother in me.
JA. HARLOWE. ***
JA. HARLOWE. ***
I will now give you a copy of my letter to my sister; with her answer.
I’m going to give you a copy of my letter to my sister, along with her response.
IN what, my dear Sister, have I offended you, that instead of endeavouring to soften my father's anger against me, (as I am sure I should have done for you, had my unhappy case been yours,) you should, in so hard-hearted a manner, join to aggravate not only his displeasure, but my mother's against me. Make but my case your own, my dear Bella; and suppose you were commanded to marry Mr. Lovelace, (to whom you are believed to have such an antipathy,) would you not think it a very grievous injunction?—Yet cannot your dislike to Mr. Lovelace be greater than mine is to Mr. Solmes. Nor are love and hatred voluntary passions.
IN what, my dear Sister, have I offended you, that instead of trying to ease my father's anger towards me, (as I know I would have done for you if our situations were reversed,) you would, in such a cold-hearted way, help to worsen not only his disappointment but my mother's against me? Just imagine if my situation were yours, my dear Bella; and suppose you were ordered to marry Mr. Lovelace, (whom you are believed to strongly dislike,) wouldn’t you find that a very heavy burden?—Yet your dislike for Mr. Lovelace cannot be greater than my aversion to Mr. Solmes. Also, love and hatred aren’t things we choose.
My brother may perhaps think it a proof of a manly spirit, to shew himself an utter stranger to the gentle passions. We have both heard him boast, that he never loved with distinction: and, having predominating passions, and checked in his first attempt, perhaps he never will. It is the less wonder, then, raw from the college, so lately himself the tutored, that he should set up for a tutor, a prescriber to our gentler sex, whose tastes and manners are differently formed: for what, according to his account, are colleges, but classes of tyrants, from the upper students over the lower, and from them to the tutor?—That he, with such masculine passions should endeavour to controul and bear down an unhappy sister, in a case where his antipathy, and, give me leave to say, his ambition [once you would have allowed the latter to be his fault] can be gratified by so doing, may not be quite so much to be wondered at—but that a sister should give up the cause of a sister, and join with him to set her father and mother against her, in a case that might have been her own—indeed, my Bella, this is not pretty in you.
My brother might think it shows a strong spirit to act like he has no understanding of gentle emotions. We've both heard him brag that he’s never loved anyone specifically; with his dominating emotions and being held back in his first attempt, maybe he never will. So it’s not surprising, coming straight from college and still a recent student himself, that he’d try to act as a teacher, making rules for our gentler sex, whose tastes and behaviors are different. According to him, colleges are just groups of tyrants, with the upperclassmen dominating the lower ones, and then the tutor on top of that. That he, with such strong emotions, would try to control and push down an unhappy sister in a situation where his dislike—and, if I may say, his ambition [which you once would have considered a fault] can be satisfied by doing so, might not be that shocking. But for a sister to abandon her own cause and side with him to turn our parents against her in a situation that could have been about her—honestly, Bella, that’s not a good look for you.
There was a time that Mr. Lovelace was thought reclaimable, and when it was far from being deemed a censurable view to hope to bring back to the paths of virtue and honour, a man of his sense and understanding. I am far from wishing to make the experiment: but nevertheless will say, that if I have not a regard for him, the disgraceful methods taken to compel me to receive the addresses of such a man as Mr. Solmes are enough to induce it.
There was a time when people thought Mr. Lovelace could be saved, and it was not considered wrong to hope that a man of his intelligence and understanding could return to a life of virtue and honor. I certainly don't want to test that theory, but I will say that if I didn't have any feelings for him, the shameful tactics used to force me to accept the advances of someone like Mr. Solmes would be enough to make me care.
Do you, my Sister, for one moment, lay aside all prejudice, and compare the two men in their births, their educations, their persons, their understandings, their manners, their air, and their whole deportments; and in their fortunes too, taking in reversions; and then judge of both; yet, as I have frequently offered, I will live single with all my heart, if that will do.
Do you, my Sister, for just a moment, set aside all biases, and compare the two men in terms of their backgrounds, their education, their appearances, their intellects, their personalities, their demeanor, and their overall behavior; also considering their fortunes and any potential future gains; and then make a judgment on both? Still, as I've often said, I will gladly remain single if that’s what it takes.
I cannot thus live in displeasure and disgrace. I would, if I could, oblige all my friends. But will it be just, will it be honest, to marry a man I cannot endure? If I have not been used to oppose the will of my father, but have always delighted to oblige and obey, judge of the strength of my antipathy, by the painful opposition I am obliged to make, and cannot help it.
I can't live in unhappiness and shame like this. I wish I could make all my friends happy. But is it fair, is it right, to marry a man I can't stand? If I’ve never gone against my father’s wishes and have always enjoyed pleasing him, you can understand how strong my dislike must be when I have to fight against it, even though I can't help it.
Pity then, my dearest Bella, my sister, my friend, my companion, my adviser, as you used to be when I was happy, and plead for
Pity then, my dearest Bella, my sister, my friend, my companion, my adviser, as you used to be when I was happy, and plead for
Your ever-affectionate, CL. HARLOWE.
Your loving, CL. HARLOWE.
*** TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE
*** TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE
Let it be pretty or not pretty, in your wise opinion, I shall speak my mind, I will assure you, both of you and your conduct in relation to this detested Lovelace. You are a fond foolish girl with all your wisdom. Your letter shews that enough in twenty places. And as to your cant of living single, nobody will believe you. This is one of your fetches to avoid complying with your duty, and the will of the most indulgent parents in the world, as yours have been to you, I am sure—though now they see themselves finely requited for it.
Whether it's pretty or not in your wise opinion, I'm going to speak my mind. I will definitely address both you and your behavior regarding this hated Lovelace. You are a silly girl despite all your wisdom. Your letter shows that clearly in twenty different ways. And about your talk of living alone, nobody believes you. This is just one of your excuses to dodge your responsibilities and the wishes of your incredibly indulgent parents, who have done so much for you, I’m sure—though now they’re seeing how they’ve been repaid for it.
We all, indeed, once thought your temper soft and amiable: but why was it? You never were contradicted before: you had always your own way. But no sooner do you meet with opposition in your wishes to throw yourself away upon a vile rake, but you shew what you are. You cannot love Mr. Solmes! that's the pretence; but Sister, Sister, let me tell you, that is because Lovelace has got into your fond heart:—a wretch hated, justly hated, by us all; and who has dipped his hands in the blood of your brother: yet him you would make our relation, would you?
We all thought your temper was gentle and friendly, but why was that? You were never challenged before; you always got your way. But the moment you face opposition in your desire to throw yourself away on a terrible guy, you reveal your true self. You can’t really love Mr. Solmes! That’s just what you say; but Sister, let me tell you, it’s because Lovelace has gotten into your heart: a scoundrel that we all rightly despise, and who has blood on his hands from your brother. And yet, you want to make him a part of our family, do you?
I have no patience with you, but for putting the case of my liking such a vile wretch as him. As to the encouragement you pretend he received formerly from all our family, it was before we knew him to be so vile: and the proofs that had such force upon us, ought to have had some upon you:—and would, had you not been a foolish forward girl; as on this occasion every body sees you are.
I have no patience for you, especially for defending someone as horrible as him. As for the support you claim he got from our family in the past, that was before we realized how terrible he really is: and the evidence that convinced us should have convinced you too—if you hadn’t been such a reckless, headstrong girl, as everyone can see you are in this situation.
O how you run out in favour of the wretch!—His birth, his education, his person, his understanding, his manners, his air, his fortune—reversions too taken in to augment the surfeiting catalogue! What a fond string of lovesick praises is here! And yet you would live single—Yes, I warrant!—when so many imaginary perfections dance before your dazzled eye!—But no more—I only desire, that you will not, while you seem to have such an opinion of your wit, think every one else a fool; and that you can at pleasure, by your whining flourishes, make us all dance after your lead.
Oh, how you rush to support the unfortunate guy! His background, his education, his looks, his intelligence, his manners, his vibe, his wealth—even those future gains added in to this overwhelming list! What a ridiculous string of lovesick compliments we have here! And still, you prefer to stay single—Sure, right!—when so many imagined qualities dance before your dazzled eyes!—But let’s stop there—I just hope that while you think so highly of your wit, you won’t see everyone else as a fool; and that you can't just manipulate us all into dancing to your tune with your whiny antics.
Write as often as you will, this shall be the last answer or notice you shall have upon this subject from
Write as often as you want, this will be the last response or notice you receive on this topic from
ARABELLA HARLOWE. ***
ARABELLA HARLOWE. ***
I had in readiness a letter for each of my uncles; and meeting in the garden a servant of my uncle Harlowe, I gave him to deliver according to their respective directions. If I am to form a judgment by the answers I have received from my brother and sister, as above, I must not, I doubt, expect any good from those letters. But when I have tried every expedient, I shall have the less to blame myself for, if any thing unhappy should fall out. I will send you copies of both, when I shall see what notice they will be thought worthy of, if of any.
I had a letter ready for each of my uncles, and when I ran into a servant of my uncle Harlowe in the garden, I gave it to him to deliver according to their instructions. Based on the replies I've received from my brother and sister, I shouldn't expect anything positive from those letters. But once I've done everything I can, I won't feel as bad if something unfortunate happens. I'll send you copies of both letters after I see what kind of attention they get, if any.
LETTER XXX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SUNDAY NIGHT, MARCH 12.
This man, this Lovelace, gives me great uneasiness. He is extremely bold and rash. He was this afternoon at our church—in hopes to see me, I suppose: and yet, if he had such hopes, his usual intelligence must have failed him.
This man, this Lovelace, makes me very uncomfortable. He is incredibly daring and impulsive. He was at our church this afternoon—probably hoping to see me: and yet, if he had those hopes, his usual awareness must have let him down.
Shorey was at church; and a principal part of her observation was upon his haughty and proud behaviour when he turned round in the pew where he sat to our family-pew. My father and both my uncles were there; so were my mother and sister. My brother happily was not.—They all came home in disorder. Nor did the congregation mind any body but him; it being his first appearance there since the unhappy rencounter.
Shorey was at church, and a big part of what I noticed was his arrogant and proud behavior when he turned around in the pew where he sat to look at our family pew. My dad and both my uncles were there, along with my mom and sister. Fortunately, my brother wasn’t. They all came home in chaos. And no one in the congregation paid attention to anyone but him, as it was his first appearance there since the unfortunate encounter.
What did the man come for, if he intended to look challenge and defiance, as Shorey says he did, and as others, it seems, thought he did, as well as she? Did he come for my sake; and, by behaving in such a manner to those present of my family, imagine he was doing me either service or pleasure?—He knows how they hate him: nor will he take pains, would pains do, to obviate their hatred.
What did the man come for if he meant to look challenging and defiant, as Shorey says he did, and as others seemed to think, including her? Did he come for my sake, and by acting that way towards my family members, think he was doing me a favor or making me happy? He knows how much they despise him, and he won't make an effort, even if it would help, to change their feelings.
You and I, my dear, have often taken notice of his pride; and you have rallied him upon it; and instead of exculpating himself, he has owned it: and by owning it he has thought he has done enough.
You and I, my dear, have often noticed his pride; and you have teased him about it; and instead of defending himself, he has admitted it: and by admitting it, he believes he’s done enough.
For my own part, I thought pride in his case an improper subject for raillery.—People of birth and fortune to be proud, is so needless, so mean a vice!—If they deserve respect, they will have it, without requiring it. In other words, for persons to endeavour to gain respect by a haughty behaviour, is to give a proof that they mistrust their own merit: To make confession that they know that their actions will not attract it.—Distinction or quality may be prided in by those to whom distinction or quality is a new thing. And then the reflection and contempt which such bring upon themselves by it, is a counter-balance.
As for me, I thought it was inappropriate to make fun of his pride. People of privilege and wealth being proud is so unnecessary and such a petty flaw! If they truly deserve respect, they will earn it without needing to ask for it. In other words, trying to gain respect through arrogant behavior suggests that they don't trust their own worth: it’s an admission that they know their actions won’t earn respect. Those who are new to distinction or privilege might take pride in it. But the self-reflection and contempt they bring upon themselves because of it serve as a counterbalance.
Such added advantages, too, as this man has in his person and mien: learned also, as they say he is: Such a man to be haughty, to be imperious!—The lines of his own face at the same time condemning him—how wholly inexcusable!—Proud of what? Not of doing well: the only justifiable pride.—Proud of exterior advantages!—Must not one be led by such a stop-short pride, as I may call it, in him or her who has it, to mistrust the interior? Some people may indeed be afraid, that if they did not assume, they would be trampled upon. A very narrow fear, however, since they trample upon themselves, who can fear this. But this man must be secure that humility would be an ornament to him.
Such extra advantages, too, as this man has in his appearance and demeanor: learned, as they say he is. What a guy to be arrogant and commanding!—The lines of his own face at the same time condemn him—how utterly inexcusable!—Proud of what? Not of doing well: that's the only pride that makes sense. Proud of superficial advantages!—Shouldn’t we be led to doubt the inner self by such a superficial pride, as I might call it, in someone who possesses it? Some people may actually fear that if they don’t act superior, they’ll be walked over. But that’s a very small-minded fear, since they end up trampling on themselves, those who worry about this. But this man should realize that humility would actually enhance his character.
He has talents indeed: but those talents and his personal advantages have been snares to him. It is plain they have. And this shews, that, weighed in an equal balance, he would be found greatly wanting.
He has talents for sure, but those talents and his personal advantages have been traps for him. It's clear they have. And this shows that, when measured fairly, he would be found seriously lacking.
Had my friends confided as they did at first, in that discretion which they do not accuse me of being defective in, I dare say I should have found him out: and then should have been as resolute to dismiss him, as I was to dismiss others, and as I am never to have Mr. Solmes. O that they did but know my heart!—It shall sooner burst, than voluntarily, uncompelled, undriven, dictate a measure that shall cast a slur either upon them, or upon my sex.
If my friends had kept to the same discretion they showed at first, which they don't accuse me of lacking, I bet I would have figured him out. Then I would have been just as determined to get rid of him as I was to get rid of others, and as I am never going to have Mr. Solmes. Oh, if they only knew how I felt!—I would sooner break than willingly, without any pressure, suggest something that would bring shame on them or on my gender.
Excuse me, my dear friend, for these grave soliloquies, as I may call them. How have I run from reflection to reflection!—But the occasion is recent—They are all in commotion below upon it.
Excuse me, my dear friend, for these serious musings, as I might call them. How I have jumped from one thought to another!—But the situation is recent—Everyone down below is stirred up about it.
Shorey says, that Mr. Lovelace watched my mother's eye, and bowed to her: and she returned the compliment. He always admired my mother. She would not, I believe, have hated him, had she not been bid to hate him: and had it not been for the rencounter between him and her only son.
Shorey says that Mr. Lovelace watched my mother's eye and bowed to her, and she returned the gesture. He always admired my mother. I don't think she would have disliked him if she hadn't been told to hate him, and if it hadn't been for the conflict between him and her only son.
Dr. Lewen was at church; and observing, as every one else did, the disorder into which Mr. Lovelace's appearance* had put all our family, was so good as to engage him in conversation, when the service was over, till they were all gone to their coaches.
Dr. Lewen was at church and, noticing, like everyone else, the chaos Mr. Lovelace's presence had caused in our family, kindly decided to talk to him after the service until everyone else had left for their carriages.
* See Letter XXXI, for Mr. Lovelace's account of his
behaviour and intentions in his appearance at church.
* See Letter XXXI, for Mr. Lovelace's description of his actions and intentions in his appearance at church.
My uncles had my letters in the morning. They, as well as my father, are more and more incensed against me, it seems. Their answers, if they vouchsafe to answer me, will demonstrate, I doubt not, the unseasonableness of this rash man's presence at our church.
My uncles received my letters in the morning. They, along with my father, seem to be getting more and more angry with me. Their replies, if they even choose to respond, will surely show how inappropriate this reckless man's presence is at our church.
They are angry also, as I understand, with my mother, for returning his compliment. What an enemy is hatred, even to the common forms of civility! which, however, more distinguish the payer of a compliment, than the receiver. But they all see, they say, that there is but one way to put an end to his insults. So I shall suffer: And in what will the rash man have benefited himself, or mended his prospects?
They’re also angry, as I gather, with my mom for responding to his compliment. Hatred is such an enemy, even affecting basic politeness! Yet, it’s really more about the person giving the compliment than the one receiving it. But they all agree that there’s only one way to stop his insults. So I’ll endure it: But how has the reckless person actually helped themselves or improved their situation?
I am extremely apprehensive that this worse than ghost-like appearance of his, bodes some still bolder step. If he come hither (and very desirous he is of my leave to come) I am afraid there will be murder. To avoid that, if there were no other way, I would most willingly be buried alive.
I am really worried that this even more unsettling appearance of his signals some even bolder move. If he comes here (and he really wants my permission to come), I fear there will be murder. To avoid that, if there were no other option, I would gladly be buried alive.
They are all in consultation—upon my letters, I suppose—so they were in the morning; which occasioned my uncles to be at our church. I will send you the copies of those letters, as I promised in my last, when I see whether I can give you their answers with them. This letter is all—I cannot tell what—the effect of apprehension and displeasure at the man who has occasioned my apprehensions. Six lines would have contained all that is in it to the purpose of my story.
They’re all in meetings—probably about my letters—so they were at our church this morning. I’ll send you copies of those letters, as I promised in my last, once I see if I can include their responses with them. This letter is all—I can’t really say what—the result of worry and irritation at the guy who’s caused my worries. Six lines would have been enough to cover everything relevant to my story.
LETTER XXXI
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY, MARCH 13.
In vain dost thou* and thy compeers press me to go to town, while I am in such an uncertainty as I am in at present with this proud beauty. All the ground I have hitherto gained with her is entirely owing to her concern for the safety of people whom I have reason to hate.
In vain do you and your friends urge me to go to town while I’m feeling so uncertain about this proud beauty. All the progress I've made with her so far is entirely due to her concern for the safety of people I have good reason to dislike.
*These gentlemen affected what they called the Roman style
(to wit, the thee and the thou) in their letters: and it was
an agreed rule with them, to take in good part whatever
freedoms they treated each other with, if the passages were
written in that style.
*These gentlemen adopted what they called the Roman style
(meaning the thee and the thou) in their letters: and it was
a shared rule among them to take in stride whatever liberties
they took with each other, as long as the passages were written
in that style.Write then, thou biddest me, if I will not come. That, indeed, I can do; and as well without a subject, as with one. And what follows shall be a proof of it.
Write then, you ask me, if I won't come. That, I can do; and just as easily without a topic as with one. And what comes next will show that.
The lady's malevolent brother has now, as I told thee at M. Hall, introduced another man; the most unpromising in his person and qualities, the most formidable in his offers, that has yet appeared.
The lady's spiteful brother has now, as I mentioned at M. Hall, introduced another man; the least promising in his appearance and qualities, yet the most intimidating in his propositions that has appeared so far.
This man has by his proposals captivated every soul of the Harlowes—Soul! did I say—There is not a soul among them but my charmer's: and she, withstanding them all, is actually confined, and otherwise maltreated by a father the most gloomy and positive; at the instigation of a brother the most arrogant and selfish. But thou knowest their characters; and I will not therefore sully my paper with them.
This man has captivated everyone in the Harlowes with his proposals—Soul! Did I say "soul"? There's not a single person among them except my charmer: and she, despite all of them, is actually trapped and mistreated by a father who is the grimmest and most stubborn; at the urging of a brother who is the most arrogant and selfish. But you know their characters, so I won’t dirty my writing with them.
But is it not a confounded thing to be in love with one, who is the daughter, the sister, the niece, of a family, I must eternally despise? And, the devil of it, that love increasing with her—what shall I call it?—'Tis not scorn:—'Tis not pride:—'Tis not the insolence of an adored beauty:—But 'tis to virtue, it seems, that my difficulties are owin; and I pay for not being a sly sinner, an hypocrite; for being regardless of my reputation; for permittin slander to open its mouth against me. But is it necessary for such a one as I, who have been used to carry all before me, upon my own terms—I, who never inspired a fear, that had not a discernibly-predominant mixture of love in it, to be a hypocrite?—Well says the poet:
But isn’t it just ridiculous to be in love with someone who is the daughter, sister, and niece of a family that I’ll always despise? And the worst part is that my love for her keeps growing—what should I call it? It’s not disdain; it’s not arrogance; it’s not the arrogance of a beloved beauty. It seems my struggles stem from virtue, and I’m paying the price for not being a sneaky sinner, a hypocrite; for not caring about my reputation; for letting gossip have its say about me. But is it really necessary for someone like me, who’s always had everything go my way, on my own terms—I, who’s never inspired fear that didn’t also come with a significant amount of love—to be a hypocrite? The poet says it well:
He who seems virtuous does but act a part; And shews not his own nature, but his art.
He who appears virtuous is just playing a role; And reveals not his true self, but his skill.
Well, but it seems I must practise for this art, if it would succeed with this truly-admirable creature; but why practise for it?—Cannot I indeed reform?—I have but one vice;—Have I, Jack?—Thou knowest my heart, if any man living does. As far as I know it myself, thou knowest it. But 'tis a cursed deceiver; for it has many a time imposed upon its master—Master, did I say? That I am not now; nor have I been from the moment I beheld this angel of a woman. Prepared indeed as I was by her character before I saw her: For what a mind must that be, which, though not virtuous itself, admires not virtue in another?—My visit to Arabella, owing to a mistake of the sister, into which, as thou hast heard me say, I was led by the blundering uncle; who was to introduce me (but lately come from abroad) to the divinity, as I thought; but, instead of her, carried me to a mere mortal. And much difficulty had I, so fond and forward my lady! to get off without forfeiting all with a family I intended should give me a goddess.
Well, it seems I need to work on this if I want to succeed with this truly amazing woman; but why do I need to practice? Can't I really change? I have just one flaw—right, Jack? You know my heart better than anyone else. As far as I know it myself, you know it. But it’s a tricky deceiver, because it has fooled me many times—Did I say master? I’m not that anymore; I haven’t been since the moment I laid eyes on this angel of a woman. I was ready for her character before I met her: What kind of mind must it be that, while not virtuous itself, doesn’t admire virtue in others? My visit to Arabella was mistakenly arranged by her sister, as I’ve told you, and I was led into it by my clueless uncle, who was supposed to introduce me (having just returned from abroad) to the goddess, as I thought; but instead, he brought me to an ordinary woman. It was quite a struggle, since my lady was so eager and forward, to get away without ruining everything with a family I intended to make my goddess.
I have boasted that I was once in love before:—and indeed I thought I was. It was in my early manhood—with that quality jilt, whose infidelity I have vowed to revenge upon as many of the sex as shall come into my power. I believe, in different climes, I have already sacrificed an hecatomb to my Nemesis, in pursuance of this vow. But upon recollecting what I was then, and comparing it with what I find myself now, I cannot say that I was ever in love before.
I've claimed that I was in love once, and honestly, I thought I was. It was in my younger days—with that fickle person, whose betrayal I promised to get back at by going after as many others as I can. I think, in different places, I've already made a significant sacrifice to my nemesis, following through on that promise. But when I think back to who I was then and compare it to who I am now, I can't honestly say I was ever really in love.
What was it then, dost thou ask me, since the disappointment had such effects upon me, when I found myself jilted, that I was hardly kept in my senses?—Why, I'll grant thee what, as near as I can remember; for it was a great while ago:—It was—Egad, Jack, I can hardly tell what it was—but a vehement aspiration after a novelty, I think. Those confounded poets, with their terrenely-celestial descriptions, did as much with me as the lady: they fired my imagination, and set me upon a desire to become a goddess-maker. I must needs try my new-fledged pinions in sonnet, elogy, and madrigal. I must have a Cynthia, a Stella, a Sacharissa, as well as the best of them: darts and flames, and the devil knows what, must I give to my cupid. I must create beauty, and place it where nobody else could find it: and many a time have I been at a loss for a subject, when my new-created goddess has been kinder than it was proper for my plaintive sonnet that she should be.
What was it then, you ask, since the disappointment affected me so much when I realized I was jilted that I could barely think straight?—Well, I’ll tell you what I remember, as best as I can; it was a long time ago:—It was—man, Jack, I can hardly explain what it was—but a strong craving for something new, I think. Those annoying poets, with their over-the-top descriptions, had as much influence on me as the lady did: they sparked my imagination and fueled my desire to create beauty. I had to try out my newfound skills in sonnets, elegies, and madrigals. I needed a Cynthia, a Stella, a Sacharissa, just like the best of them: I needed to give my Cupid love darts and flames, and who knows what else. I wanted to create beauty and place it where no one else could find it: and many times I found myself struggling for a subject that was more gracious than it should have been for my sad sonnet.
Then I found I had a vanity of another sort in my passion: I found myself well received among the women in general; and I thought it a pretty lady-like tyranny [I was then very young, and very vain!] to single out some one of the sex, to make half a score jealous. And I can tell thee, it had its effect: for many an eye have I made to sparkle with rival indignation: many a cheek glow; and even many a fan have I caused to be snapped at a sister-beauty; accompanied with a reflection perhaps at being seen alone with a wild young fellow who could not be in private with both at once.
Then I realized I had a different kind of vanity in my passion: I found that women generally received me well, and I thought it was a sort of charming, lady-like power (I was very young and quite vain!) to choose one of them to make a few others jealous. And I can tell you, it worked: I made many eyes sparkle with rivalry, many cheeks flush, and even made quite a few fans snap at a fellow beauty, all with a hint that they were seen alone with a wild young guy who couldn't be with both at the same time.
In short, Jack, it was more pride than love, as I now find it, that put me upon making such a confounded rout about losing that noble varletess. I thought she loved me at least as well as I believed I loved her: nay, I had the vanity to suppose she could not help it. My friends were pleased with my choice. They wanted me to be shackled: for early did they doubt my morals, as to the sex. They saw, that the dancing, the singing, the musical ladies were all fond of my company: For who [I am in a humour to be vain, I think!]—for who danced, who sung, who touched the string, whatever the instrument, with a better grace than thy friend?
In short, Jack, it was more about pride than love, as I now see it, that made me create such a huge fuss about losing that amazing woman. I thought she loved me at least as much as I believed I loved her; in fact, I was arrogant enough to think she couldn't feel otherwise. My friends were happy with my choice. They wanted me to settle down because they had early doubts about my morals when it came to women. They noticed that the dancers, the singers, and the musical ladies all enjoyed my company. After all, who—if I'm in a mood to be boastful, I must say!—who danced, sang, or played any instrument with better style than your friend?
I have no notion of playing the hypocrite so egregiously, as to pretend to be blind to qualifications which every one sees and acknowledges. Such praise-begetting hypocrisy! Such affectedly disclaimed attributes! Such contemptible praise-traps!—But yet, shall my vanity extend only to personals, such as the gracefulness of dress, my debonnaire, and my assurance?—Self-taught, self-acquired, these!—For my parts, I value not myself upon them. Thou wilt say, I have no cause.—Perhaps not. But if I had any thing valuable as to intellectuals, those are not my own; and to be proud of what a man is answerable for the abuse of, and has no merit in the right use of, is to strut, like the jay, in borrowed plumage.
I have no intention of being so hypocritical as to act like I'm unaware of the qualities that everyone sees and recognizes. What a ridiculous kind of hypocrisy that would be! What a forced rejection of attributes! What pathetic ways to seek praise!—But should my pride be limited to personal things, like how I dress or my charm and confidence?—Those are self-taught and self-acquired!—As for me, I don't take pride in those. You might say I have no reason to. —Maybe not. But if I had anything valuable in terms of intellect, I can't claim those as my own; and being proud of something for which a person is accountable for misusing, and has no credit for using properly, is like a jay flaunting in borrowed feathers.
But to return to my fair jilt. I could not bear, that a woman, who was the first that had bound me in silken fetters [they were not iron ones, like those I now wear] should prefer a coronet to me: and when the bird was flown, I set more value upon it, that when I had it safe in my cage, and could visit in when I pleased.
But to get back to my lovely betrayal. I couldn't stand that a woman who was the first to tie me up in soft chains [not the iron ones I wear now] would choose a crown over me: and when she flew away, I valued her more than when I had her safely in my cage and could visit her whenever I wanted.
But now am I indeed in love. I can think of nothing, of nobody, but the divine Clarissa Harlowe—Harlowe!—How that hated word sticks in my throat—But I shall give her for it the name of Love.*
But now I’m really in love. I can’t think of anything or anyone but the amazing Clarissa Harlowe—Harlowe!—How that word I can’t stand sticks in my throat—But I will give her the name of Love for it.*
* Lovelace.
* Lovelace
CLARISSA! O there's music in the name, That, soft'ning me to infant tenderness, Makes my heart spring like the first leaps of life!
CLARISSA! Oh, there's something musical about that name, That, softening me to a childlike gentleness, Makes my heart leap like the first moments of life!
But couldst thou have believed that I, who think it possible for me to favour as much as I can be favoured; that I, who for this charming creature think of foregoing the life of honour for the life of shackles; could adopt these over-tender lines of Otway?
But could you believe that I, who think it’s possible for me to be as favored as I can be; that I, who for this charming person am considering giving up a life of honor for a life of chains; could take on these overly sentimental lines of Otway?
I checked myself, and leaving the first three lines of the following of Dryden to the family of whiners, find the workings of the passion in my stormy soul better expressed by the three last:
I took a moment to reflect and, leaving the first three lines of Dryden to the group of complainers, I find that the last three lines capture the turmoil of my passionate soul much better:
Love various minds does variously inspire: He stirs in gentle natures gentle fires; Like that of incense on the alter laid. But raging flames tempestuous souls invade: A fire which ev'ry windy passion blows; With pride it mounts, and with revenge it glows.
Love inspires different minds in different ways: He ignites gentle passions in gentle souls; Like the scent of incense placed on the altar. But raging flames attack tempestuous hearts: A fire that every wild passion fuels; It rises with pride, and burns with revenge.
And with REVENGE it shall glow!—For, dost thou think, that if it were not from the hope, that this stupid family are all combined to do my work for me, I would bear their insults?—Is it possible to imagine, that I would be braved as I am braved, threatened as I am threatened, by those who are afraid to see me; and by this brutal brother, too, to whom I gave a life; [a life, indeed, not worth my taking!] had I not a greater pride in knowing that by means of his very spy upon me, I am playing him off as I please; cooling or inflaming his violent passions as may best suit my purposes; permitting so much to be revealed of my life and actions, and intentions, as may give him such a confidence in his double-faced agent, as shall enable me to dance his employer upon my own wires?
And with REVENGE it will shine!—Do you really think that if it weren't for the hope that this ridiculous family is all working together to do my dirty work, I would put up with their insults?—Is it even conceivable that I would let myself be mocked and threatened like this by those who are scared to face me; and by this cruel brother, too, who I gave a life to; [a life, in fact, not worth taking!] unless I had a greater satisfaction in knowing that through his own spy on me, I'm manipulating him however I want; cooling or igniting his fierce emotions to fit my needs; allowing just enough of my life, actions, and intentions to be revealed to give him enough confidence in his double-dealing agent, enabling me to control his boss as I please?
This it is that makes my pride mount above my resentment. By this engine, whose springs I am continually oiling, I play them all off. The busy old tarpaulin uncle I make but my ambassador to Queen Anabella Howe, to engage her (for example-sake to her princessly daughter) to join in their cause, and to assert an authority they are resolved, right or wrong, (or I could do nothing,) to maintain.
This is what makes my pride rise above my anger. With this tool, which I’m constantly fine-tuning, I manipulate them all. The hardworking old sailor uncle serves as my representative to Queen Anabella Howe, to persuade her (for the sake of her royal daughter) to support their cause and to uphold an authority they are determined, whether justified or not, (or I would be powerless,) to defend.
And what my motive, dost thou ask? No less than this, That my beloved shall find no protection out of my family; for, if I know hers, fly she must, or have the man she hates. This, therefore, if I take my measures right, and my familiar fail me not, will secure her mine, in spite of them all; in spite of her own inflexible heart: mine, without condition; without reformation-promises; without the necessity of a siege of years, perhaps; and to be even then, after wearing the guise of merit-doubting hypocrisy, at an uncertainty, upon a probation unapproved of. Then shall I have all the rascals and rascalesses of the family come creeping to me: I prescribing to them; and bringing that sordidly imperious brother to kneel at the footstool of my throne.
And what’s my motive, you ask? It’s simple: I want my beloved to find no safety outside of my family. If I understand hers correctly, she has to run away or end up with the man she despises. So, if I play my cards right and my close friends don’t let me down, I’ll secure her for myself, despite everyone else; despite her own stubborn heart: mine, without conditions; without promises of change; without needing a years-long siege, maybe; and even then, after pretending to be someone who doubts their worth, still uncertain during an unapproved trial. Then all the lowlifes in her family will come crawling to me: I’ll be the one in charge; and I’ll make that oppressively commanding brother kneel at my feet.
All my fear arises from the little hold I have in the heart of this charming frost-piece: such a constant glow upon her lovely features: eyes so sparkling: limbs so divinely turned: health so florid: youth so blooming: air so animated—to have an heart so impenetrable: and I, the hitherto successful Lovelace, the addresser—How can it be? Yet there are people, and I have talked with some of them, who remember that she was born. Her nurse Norton boasts of her maternal offices in her earliest infancy; and in her education gradatim. So there is full proof, that she came not from above all at once an angel! How then can she be so impenetrable?
All my fear comes from the little grip I have on the heart of this charming beauty: such a constant glow on her lovely face; eyes so bright; limbs so perfectly shaped; health so vibrant; youth so radiant; and a demeanor so lively—yet she has a heart that's so unreachable. And here I am, the once-successful Lovelace, the one who addresses her—how can this be? Still, there are people, and I've spoken to some of them, who remember when she was born. Her nurse, Norton, boasts about her care during her early infancy and through her gradual education. So there's clear proof that she didn’t just come into the world as an angel! How can she then be so unapproachable?
But here's her mistake; nor will she be cured of it—She takes the man she calls her father [her mother had been faultless, had she not been her father's wife]; she takes the men she calls her uncles; the fellow she calls her brother; and the poor contemptible she calls her sister; to be her father, to be her uncles, her brother, her sister; and that, as such, she owes to some of them reverence, to others respect, let them treat her ever so cruelly!—Sordid ties!—Mere cradle prejudices!—For had they not been imposed upon her by Nature, when she was in a perverse humour, or could she have chosen her relations, would any of these have been among them?
But here’s her mistake, and she won’t be able to fix it—She sees the man she calls her father [her mother would have been flawless if she weren’t married to her father]; she sees the men she calls her uncles; the guy she calls her brother; and the pathetic person she calls her sister; as her father, her uncles, her brother, her sister; and because of that, she believes she owes some of them reverence and others respect, no matter how cruelly they treat her!—Sordid connections!—Just old prejudices!—If these were not forced on her by Nature when she was in a bad mood, or if she could have chosen her family, would any of these people have made the cut?
How my heart rises at her preference of them to me, when she is convinced of their injustice to me! Convinced, that the alliance would do honour to them all—herself excepted; to whom every one owes honour; and from whom the most princely family might receive it. But how much more will my heart rise with indignation against her, if I find she hesitates but one moment (however persecuted) about preferring me to the man she avowedly hates! But she cannot surely be so mean as to purchase her peace with them at so dear a rate. She cannot give a sanction to projects formed in malice, and founded in a selfishness (and that at her own expense) which she has spirit enough to despise in others; and ought to disavow, that we may not think her a Harlowe.
How my heart aches at her choosing them over me, especially when she knows how unjust they are to me! She believes that the alliance would bring honor to everyone involved—except herself; to whom everyone owes respect; and from whom even the most noble family could receive it. But how much more furious I will be if I see her hesitate for even a moment (no matter how pressured) about choosing me over the man she openly despises! Surely, she can’t be so low as to buy her peace with them at such a high cost. She can’t give her approval to plans made out of spite and rooted in selfishness (especially at her own expense) that she has enough dignity to scorn in others; and she should renounce it, so we don’t think of her as a Harlowe.
By this incoherent ramble thou wilt gather, that I am not likely to come up in haste; since I must endeavour first to obtain some assurance from the beloved of my soul, that I shall not be sacrificed to such a wretch as Solmes! Woe be to the fair one, if ever she be driven into my power (for I despair of a voluntary impulse in my favour) and I find a difficulty in obtaining this security.
By this confusing rant, you’ll see that I’m not planning to rush; I need to first get some assurance from the love of my life that I won’t be forced to deal with someone like Solmes! Woe to her if she ever falls into my hands (since I’m not expecting her to choose me willingly) and I find it hard to get this guarantee.
That her indifference to me is not owing to the superior liking she has for any other, is what rivets my chains. But take care, fair one; take care, O thou most exalted of female minds, and loveliest of persons, how thou debasest thyself by encouraging such a competition as thy sordid relations have set on foot in mere malice to me!—Thou wilt say I rave. And so I do:
That her indifference to me isn’t because she likes someone else more is what keeps me trapped. But be careful, beautiful one; be careful, you who are the highest of female minds and the loveliest of people, how you lower yourself by entertaining such a competition that your petty relations have started purely out of spite against me! You’ll say I’m crazy. And I am:
Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her.
Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her.
Else, could I hear the perpetual revilings of her implacable family?—Else, could I basely creep about—not her proud father's house—but his paddock and garden walls?—Yet (a quarter of a mile distance between us) not hoping to behold the least glimpse of her shadow?—Else, should I think myself repaid, amply repaid, if the fourth, fifth, or sixth midnight stroll, through unfrequented paths, and over briery enclosures, affords me a few cold lines; the even expected purport only to let me know, that she values the most worthless person of her very worthless family, more than she values me; and that she would not write at all, but to induce me to bear insults, which unman me to bear?—My lodging in the intermediate way at a wretched alehouse; disguised like an inmate of it: accommodations equally vile, as those I met with in my Westphalian journey. 'Tis well, that the necessity for all this arise not from scorn and tyranny! but is first imposed upon herself!
Otherwise, could I bear the constant insults from her unforgiving family?—Otherwise, could I sneak around—not her proud father's house—but his paddock and garden walls?—And yet (with a quarter of a mile between us) not expect to catch even a glimpse of her shadow?—Otherwise, should I consider myself rewarded, greatly rewarded, if my fourth, fifth, or sixth midnight walk through deserted paths and over thorny enclosures gives me a few cold lines; that the expected message only tells me that she values the most useless person of her equally useless family more than she values me; and that she would only write to make me endure insults that strip away my dignity?—My stay along the way at a miserable pub; disguised like a lowly resident there: conditions just as bad as those I faced on my journey through Westphalia. It's good that this necessity doesn't come from disdain and cruelty! But is first imposed upon herself!
But was ever hero in romance (fighting with giants and dragons excepted) called upon to harder trials?—Fortune and family, and reversionary grandeur on my side! Such a wretched fellow my competitor!—Must I not be deplorably in love, that can go through these difficulties, encounter these contempts?—By my soul, I am half ashamed of myself: I, who am perjured too, by priority of obligation, if I am faithful to any woman in the world?
But has any hero in romance (excluding battles with giants and dragons) faced harder challenges?—With luck, family support, and a future filled with greatness on my side! What a pitiful competitor I have!—Do I need to be completely in love to endure these struggles and face this disdain?—Honestly, I’m almost ashamed of myself: I, who am also unfaithful, if I owe my loyalty to any woman in the world?
And yet, why say I, I am half ashamed?—Is it not a glory to love her whom every one who sees her either loves, or reveres, or both? Dryden says,
And yet, why do I say I feel half ashamed?—Isn’t it an honor to love someone whom everyone who sees her either loves, or admires, or both? Dryden says,
The cause of love can never be assign'd: 'Tis in no face;—but in the lover's mind. —And Cowley thus addresses beauty as a mere imaginary: Beauty! thou wild fantastic ape, Who dost in ev'ry country change thy shape: Here black; there brown; here tawny; and there white! Thou flatt'rer, who comply'st with ev'ry sight! Who hast no certain what, nor where.
The reason for love can never be pinpointed: It's not in any face—but in the lover's mind. —And Cowley talks to beauty as if it's just an illusion: Beauty! You wild, unpredictable trickster, You change your form in every country: Here black; there brown; here tan; and there white! You flatterer, who adapts to every glance! You have no definite shape or place.
But both these, had they been her contemporaries, and known her, would have confessed themselves mistaken: and, taking together person, mind, and behaviour, would have acknowledged the justice of the universal voice in her favour.
But if both of them had been her contemporaries and known her, they would have admitted they were wrong: and, considering her looks, intelligence, and actions, they would have recognized the validity of the widespread support for her.
—Full many a lady I've ey'd with best regard; and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too-diligent ear. For sev'ral virtues Have I liked several women. Never any With so full a soul, but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow'd, And put it to the foil. But SHE!—O SHE! So perfect and so peerless is created, Of ev'ry creature's best. SHAKESP.
—I've admired many ladies and often found the harmony of their voices captivated my eager ears. For different qualities, I've liked different women. Yet never have I met one so complete that some flaw didn't clash with her greatest attributes and overshadow them. But SHE!—O SHE! So perfect and unmatched is she, the best of all creatures. SHAKESPEARE.
Thou art curious to know, if I have not started a new game? If it be possible for so universal a lover to be confined so long to one object?—Thou knowest nothing of this charming creature, that thou canst put such questions to me; or thinkest thou knowest me better than thou dost. All that's excellent in her sex is this lady!—Until by MATRIMONIAL or EQUAL intimacies, I have found her less than angel, it is impossible to think of any other. Then there are so many stimulatives to such a spirit as mine in this affair, besides love: such a field of stratagem and contrivance, which thou knowest to be the delight of my heart. Then the rewarding end of all!—To carry off such a girl as this, in spite of all her watchful and implacable friends; and in spite of a prudence and reserve that I never met with in any of the sex;—what a triumph!—What a triumph over the whole sex!—And then such a revenge to gratify; which is only at present politically reined in, eventually to break forth with greater fury—Is it possible, thinkest thou, that there can be room for a thought that is not of her, and devoted to her?
Are you curious to know if I have started a new love? Is it possible for someone as passionate as me to be focused on just one person for so long? You don’t know anything about this wonderful woman if you can ask me such questions; or do you think you know me better than you actually do? Everything great about women is embodied in her! Until I discover, through marriage or close relationships, that she’s anything less than angelic, I can't think of anyone else. There are so many motivations for someone like me in this situation, besides love: there’s a whole world of strategy and cleverness that I truly enjoy. And the ultimate reward!—To win over a girl like this, despite all her vigilant and relentless friends; and despite a level of caution and restraint I’ve never seen in any other woman—what a victory!—What a victory over all women!—And then there’s the satisfaction of revenge to consider; which is currently kept in check but will eventually explode with even greater intensity—Do you really think there’s any space in my mind for thoughts that don’t revolve around her?
***
Got it! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
By the devices I have this moment received, I have reason to think, that I shall have occasion for thee here. Hold thyself in readiness to come down upon the first summons.
Based on the devices I've just received, I have reason to believe that I will need you here. Be ready to come down at the first call.
Let Belton, and Mowbray, and Tourville, likewise prepare themselves. I have a great mind to contrive a method to send James Harlowe to travel for improvement. Never was there a booby 'squire that more wanted it. Contrive it, did I say? I have already contrived it; could I but put it in execution without being suspected to have a hand in it. This I am resolved upon; if I have not his sister, I will have him.
Let Belton, Mowbray, and Tourville also get ready. I'm seriously thinking about figuring out a way to send James Harlowe on a trip for some personal growth. There’s never been a clueless ‘squire who needed it more. Did I say figure it out? I've already figured it out; I just need to see it through without anyone suspecting I'm involved. I’m determined to make this happen; if I can't have his sister, then I’ll settle for him.
But be this as it may, there is a present likelihood of room for glorious mischief. A confederacy had been for some time formed against me; but the uncles and the nephew are now to be double-servanted [single-servanted they were before]; and those servants are to be double armed when they attend their masters abroad. This indicates their resolute enmity to me, and as resolute favour to Solmes.
But that aside, there’s a good chance for some glorious trouble. A group had been formed against me for a while; but now the uncles and the nephew will have two servants each [they only had one before]; and those servants will be double-armed when they accompany their masters outside. This shows their strong hostility toward me and their equally strong support for Solmes.
The reinforced orders for this hostile apparatus are owing it seems to a visit I made yesterday to their church.—A good place I thought to begin a reconciliation in; supposing the heads of the family to be christians, and that they meant something by their prayers. My hopes were to have an invitation (or, at least, to gain a pretence) to accompany home the gloomy sire; and so get an opportunity to see my goddess: for I believed they durst not but be civil to me, at least. But they were filled with terror it seems at my entrance; a terror they could not get over. I saw it indeed in their countenances; and that they all expected something extraordinary to follow.—And so it should have done, had I been more sure than I am of their daughter's favour. Yet not a hair of any of their stupid heads do I intend to hurt.
The strict orders for this hostile group seem to stem from a visit I made yesterday to their church. I thought it would be a good place to start a reconciliation, assuming the family members were Christians and meant something by their prayers. I was hoping to get an invitation (or at least find a reason) to go home with the gloomy father, giving me a chance to see my love; I believed they wouldn't dare be rude to me, at least. But they were completely terrified by my arrival, a fear they couldn't shake off. I could see it on their faces, and they all seemed to expect something unusual to happen. And it should have, if I had been more confident in their daughter's feelings for me. Yet I have no intention of harming a single hair on any of their foolish heads.
You shall all have your directions in writing, if there be occasion. But after all, I dare say there will be no need but to shew your faces in my company.
You will all receive your instructions in writing if necessary. But honestly, I think all you’ll need to do is show up in my presence.
Such faces never could four men shew—Mowbray's so fierce and so fighting: Belton's so pert and so pimply: Tourville's so fair and so foppish: thine so rough and so resolute: and I your leader!—What hearts, although meditating hostility, must those be which we shall not appall?—Each man occasionally attended by a servant or two, long ago chosen for qualities resembling those of his master.
Such faces could never be shown by four men—Mowbray's is so fierce and combative; Belton's is so cocky and spotty; Tourville's is so handsome and vain; yours is so tough and determined; and I’m your leader!—What hearts, even while planning hostility, must they have that we won't intimidate?—Each man is usually accompanied by a servant or two, long ago selected for qualities similar to those of their master.
Thus, Jack, as thou desirest, have I written.—Written upon something; upon nothing; upon REVENGE, which I love; upon LOVE, which I hate, heartily hate, because 'tis my master: and upon the devil knows what besides: for looking back, I am amazed at the length of it. Thou mayest read it: I would not for a king's ransom. But so as I do but write, thou sayest thou wilt be pleased.
So, Jack, as you wanted, I've written this. —Written about something; about nothing; about REVENGE, which I love; about LOVE, which I utterly hate because it controls me: and about God knows what else, because looking back, I’m astonished by how long it is. You can read it: I wouldn't do that for a king’s ransom. But as long as I'm writing, you say you’ll be happy.
Be pleased then. I command thee to be pleased: if not for the writer's or written sake, for thy word's sake. And so in the royal style (for am I not likely to be thy king and thy emperor in the great affair before us?) I bid thee very heartily
Be happy then. I order you to be happy: if not for the writer or the writing, then for your own sake. So, in a royal manner (since am I not likely to be your king and your emperor in the big issue ahead of us?), I sincerely urge you.
Farewell.
Goodbye.
LETTER XXXII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY, MARCH 14.
I now send you copies of my letters to my uncles: with their answers. Be pleased to return the latter by the first deposit. I leave them for you to make remarks upon. I shall make none.
I’m now sending you copies of my letters to my uncles along with their replies. Please return the replies with the next deposit. I’m leaving them for you to comment on. I won’t make any comments.
TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. SAT. MARCH 11.
TO JOHN HARLOWE, ESQ. SAT. MARCH 11.
Allow me, my honoured second Papa, as in my happy days you taught me to call you, to implore your interest with my Papa, to engage him to dispense with a command, which, if insisted upon, will deprive me of my free-will, and make me miserable for my whole life.
Allow me, my respected second Dad, as you taught me to call you in my happier days, to ask for your help with my Dad, to convince him to withdraw a command that, if enforced, will take away my freedom and make me miserable for the rest of my life.
For my whole life! let me repeat: Is that a small point, my dear Uncle, to give up? Am not I to live with the man? Is any body else? Shall I not therefore be allowed to judge for myself, whether I can, or cannot, live happily with him?
For my whole life! Let me say it again: Is that a small thing, my dear Uncle, to give up? Am I not going to live with the man? Is anyone else? Shouldn’t I be allowed to judge for myself whether I can, or cannot, live happily with him?
Should it be ever so unhappily, will it be prudence to complain or appeal? If it were, to whom could I appeal with effect against a husband? And would not the invincible and avowed dislike I have for him at setting out, seem to justify any ill usage from him, in that state, were I to be ever so observant of him? And if I were to be at all observant of him, it must be from fear, not love.
Should it ever be so unfortunate, would it be wise to complain or seek help? If it were, who could I effectively appeal to against a husband? And wouldn’t the strong and open dislike I have for him at the beginning seem to justify any mistreatment from him, in that situation, even if I tried to be attentive to him? And if I were to pay attention to him, it would have to be out of fear, not love.
Once more, let me repeat, That this is not a small point to give up: and that it is for life. Why, I pray you, good Sir, should I be made miserable for life? Why should I be deprived of all comfort, but that which the hope that it would be a very short one, would afford me?
Once again, let me emphasize that this is not a small thing to let go of: it’s for life. Why, I ask you, good Sir, should I be made miserable for life? Why should I lose all comfort, except for the hope that it might be a very brief experience?
Marriage is a very solemn engagement, enough to make a young creature's heart ache, with the best prospects, when she thinks seriously of it!—To be given up to a strange man; to be engrafted into a strange family; to give up her very name, as a mark of her becoming his absolute and dependent property; to be obliged to prefer this strange man to father, mother—to every body:—and his humours to all her own—or to contend, perhaps, in breach of avowed duty, for every innocent instance of free-will. To go no where; to make acquaintance; to give up acquaintance; to renounce even the strictest friendships, perhaps; all at his pleasure, whether she thinks it reasonable to do so or not. Surely, Sir, a young creature ought not to be obliged to make all these sacrifices but for such a man as she can love. If she be, how sad must be the case! How miserable the life, if it can be called life!
Marriage is a serious commitment that can make a young person's heart ache, even with the best hopes, when they think about it deeply! To be handed over to a stranger; to join a new family; to give up her last name, marking her as his complete and reliant property; to have to choose this stranger over her own parents and everyone else; and to prioritize his moods over her own—or to struggle, perhaps, against an accepted duty for every innocent act of independence. To go nowhere; to make new friends; to end friendships; to give up even the closest bonds, all at his will, whether she thinks that's fair or not. Surely, Sir, a young person shouldn't have to make all these sacrifices unless it's for a man she truly loves. If that's the case, how sad it must be! How miserable life would be, if it can even be called life!
I wish I could obey you all. What a pleasure would it be to me, if I could!—Marry first, and love will come after, was said by one of my dearest friends! But this is a shocking assertion. A thousand thing may happen to make that state but barely tolerable, where it is entered into with mutual affections: What must it then be, where the husband can have no confidence in the love of his wife: but has reason rather to question it, from the preference he himself believes she would have given to somebody else, had she had her own option? What doubts, what jealousies, what want of tenderness, what unfavourable prepossessions, will there be, in a matrimony thus circumstanced! How will every look, every action, even the most innocent, be liable to misconstruction!—While, on the other hand, an indifference, a carelessness to oblige, may take place; and fear only can constrain even an appearance of what ought to be the effect of undisguised love!
I wish I could follow your wishes. How wonderful it would be for me if I could!—One of my closest friends said, "Marry first, and love will come later!" But that's a terrible idea. There are a thousand things that can make a marriage only barely bearable when both partners have mutual feelings. What must it be like when the husband can’t trust his wife’s love and has good reason to doubt it, believing she would have chosen someone else if given the option? What doubts, jealousies, lack of affection, and negative biases will arise in a marriage like that! How every glance, every action—even the most innocent ones—could be misinterpreted! On the flip side, indifference and a lack of effort to please might occur; and only fear could force even a semblance of what should come from genuine love!
Think seriously of these things, dear, good Sir, and represent them to my father in that strong light which the subject will bear; but in which my sex, and my tender years and inexperience, will not permit me to paint it; and use your powerful interest, that your poor niece may not be consigned to a misery so durable.
Think carefully about these things, dear Sir, and present them to my father in the clear light they deserve; one that I, being a woman of tender years and lacking experience, cannot portray. And please use your strong influence to ensure that your poor niece isn't subjected to such lasting misery.
I offered to engage not to marry at all, if that condition may be accepted. What a disgrace is it to me to be thus sequestered from company, thus banished my papa's and mamma's presence; thus slighted and deserted by you, Sir, and my other kind uncle! And to be hindered from attending at that public worship, which, were I out of the way of my duty, would be most likely to reduce me into the right path again!—Is this the way, Sir; can this be thought to be the way to be taken with a free and open spirit? May not this strange method rather harden than convince? I cannot bear to live in disgrace thus. The very servants so lately permitted to be under my own direction, hardly daring to speak to me; my own servant discarded with high marks of undeserved suspicion and displeasure, and my sister's maid set over me.
I offered to engage without actually marrying, if that’s acceptable. What a shame it is for me to be cut off from socializing, to be banished from my parents' presence; to be overlooked and abandoned by you, Sir, and my other kind uncle! And to be prevented from attending public worship, which, if I were not avoiding my responsibilities, would likely help bring me back to the right path again!—Is this really the way, Sir? Can this be considered a way to take with a free and open spirit? Isn’t this unusual approach more likely to harden me than to convince me? I can't stand living in disgrace like this. Even the servants, who were just allowed to be under my direction, barely dare to speak to me; my own servant was dismissed with unjust suspicion and displeasure, and my sister's maid is now in charge of me.
The matter may be too far pushed.—Indeed it may.—And then, perhaps, every one will be sorry for their parts in it.
The issue might be taken too far.—It really might.—And then, maybe, everyone will regret their role in it.
May I be permitted to mention an expedient?—'If I am to be watched, banished, and confined; suppose, Sir, it were to be at your house?'—Then the neighbouring gentry will the less wonder, that the person of whom they used to think so favourably, appear not at church here; and that she received not their visits.
May I suggest a solution?—'If I’m going to be monitored, exiled, and kept away; what if, Sir, it were at your house?'—Then the local gentry won't be as surprised that the person they used to think so highly of doesn't show up at church here; and that she isn’t receiving their visits.
I hope there can be no objection to this. You used to love to have me with you, Sir, when all went happily with me: And will you not now permit me, in my troubles, the favour of your house, till all this displeasure is overblown?—Upon my word, Sir, I will not stir out of doors, if you require the contrary of me: nor will I see any body, but whom you will allow me to see; provided Mr. Solmes be not brought to persecute me there.
I hope there’s no issue with this. You used to enjoy having me around, Sir, when things were going well for me; so will you not allow me the comfort of your home during my troubles, until this situation blows over? I promise, Sir, I won’t go outside if that’s what you want: and I won’t meet anyone except for those you permit me to see, as long as Mr. Solmes isn’t allowed to come and bother me there.
Procure, then, this favour for me; if you cannot procure the still greater, that of a happy reconciliation (which nevertheless I presume to hope for, if you will be so good as to plead for me); and you will then add to those favours and to that indulgence, which have bound me, and will for ever bind me to be
Procure this favor for me; if you can't get the even greater one, which is a happy reconciliation (though I still hope for that if you could kindly advocate for me); and in doing so, you will add to those favors and to that kindness that have tied me, and will forever tie me, to be
Your dutiful and obliged niece, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your loyal and devoted niece, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
THE ANSWER SUNDAY NIGHT. MY DEAR NIECE,
THE ANSWER SUNDAY NIGHT. MY DEAR NIECE,
It grieves me to be forced to deny you any thing you ask. Yet it must be so; for unless you can bring your mind to oblige us in this one point, in which our promises and honour were engaged before we believed there could be so sturdy an opposition, you must never expect to be what you have been to us all.
It pains me to have to refuse you anything you ask. However, it needs to be this way; unless you can bring yourself to meet us halfway on this one issue, in which our commitments and honor were pledged before we anticipated such strong resistance, you can never expect to be what you once were to all of us.
In short, Niece, we are in an embattled phalanx. Your reading makes you a stranger to nothing but what you should be most acquainted with. So you will see by that expression, that we are not to be pierced by your persuasions, and invincible persistence. We have agreed all to be moved, or none; and not to comply without one another. So you know your destiny; and have nothing to do but to yield to it.
In short, Niece, we are united in our stance. Your knowledge makes you a stranger only to things you should know best. So you can see from that statement that we won’t be swayed by your arguments or stubbornness. We’ve all agreed to change together or not at all; we won’t give in without each other. So you understand your fate; you just have to accept it.
Let me tell you, the virtue of obedience lies not in obliging when you can be obliged again. But give up an inclination, and there is some merit in that.
Let me tell you, the value of obedience isn't just about complying when you can be forced to comply again. But if you let go of a desire, there is some worth in that.
As to your expedient; you shall not come to my house, Miss Clary; though this is a prayer I little thought I ever should have denied you: for were you to keep your word as to seeing nobody but whom we please, yet can you write to somebody else, and receive letters from him. This we too well know you can, and have done—more is the shame and the pity!
Regarding your suggestion, you won’t be coming to my house, Miss Clary; though I never thought I would deny you this request. Even if you promised to see only those we approve of, you can still write to someone else and receive letters from him. We know all too well that you can do this, and that you have done it—what a shame and a pity!
You offer to live single, Miss—we wished you married: but because you may not have the man your heart is set upon, why, truly, you will have nobody we shall recommend: and as we know, that somehow or other you correspond with him, or at least did as long as you could; and as he defies us all, and would not dare to do so, if he were not sure of you in spite of us all, (which is not a little vexatious to us, you must think,) we are resolved to frustrate him, and triumph over him, rather than that he should triumph over us: that's one word for all. So expect not any advocateship from me: I will not plead for you; and that's enough. From
You say you want to stay single, Miss—we wished you would get married: but since you might not have the guy you're really into, honestly, you won't end up with anyone we’d suggest. And we know that somehow you still keep in touch with him, or at least you did for as long as you could; and since he challenges us all, and wouldn’t dare to do that unless he was certain about you despite us all, (which is pretty annoying for us, you must admit,) we’ve decided to block him and win over him instead of letting him win over us: that's the bottom line. So don’t expect me to advocate for you: I won’t argue on your behalf; and that’s that.
Your displeased uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.
Your unhappy uncle, JOHN HARLOWE.
P.S. For the rest I refer to my brother Antony.
P.S. For everything else, I’ll refer you to my brother Antony.
*** TO ANTONY HARLOWE, ESQ. SATURDAY, MARCH 11. HONOURED SIR,
*** TO ANTONY HARLOWE, ESQ. SATURDAY, MARCH 11. DEAR SIR,
As you have thought fit to favour Mr. Solmes with your particular recommendation, and was very earnest in his behalf, ranking him (as you told me, upon introducing him to me) among your select friends; and expecting my regards to him accordingly; I beg your patience, while I offer a few things, out of many that I could offer, to your serious consideration, on occasion of his address to me, if I am to use that word.
Since you decided to recommend Mr. Solmes to me and were very eager on his behalf, placing him among your close friends as you mentioned when you introduced him, and expecting me to regard him similarly, I ask for your patience while I share a few thoughts, out of many I could express, for your serious consideration regarding his approach to me, if that's the right term.
I am charged with prepossession in another person's favour. You will be pleased, Sir, to remember, that till my brother returned from Scotland, that other person was not absolutely discouraged, nor was I forbid to receive his visits. I believe it will not be pretended, that in birth, education, or personal endowments, a comparison can be made between the two. And only let me ask you, Sir, if the one would have been thought of for me, had he not made such offers, as, upon my word, I think, I ought not in justice to accept of, nor he to propose: offers, which if he had not made, I dare say, my papa would not have required them of him.
I find myself inclined to favor someone else. You will be pleased to remember, Sir, that until my brother came back from Scotland, that other person was not completely discouraged, and I wasn’t prevented from seeing him. I don’t think it can be argued that there’s any comparison between the two when it comes to background, education, or personal qualities. And let me just ask you, Sir, if the first one would have been considered for me if he hadn't made such offers, which honestly, I believe I shouldn't accept, nor should he suggest them: offers that if he hadn’t made, I’m sure my father wouldn’t have expected them from him.
But the one, it seems, has many faults:—Is the other faultless?—The principal thing objected to Mr. Lovelace (and a very inexcusable one) is that he is immoral in his loves—Is not the other in his hatreds?—Nay, as I may say, in his loves too (the object only differing) if the love of money be the root of all evil.
But it seems that one has many faults: Is the other perfect? The main thing people criticize Mr. Lovelace for (and it's quite inexcusable) is that he's immoral in his romantic relationships—Isn't the other immoral in his hatreds? In fact, I could argue he's immoral in his relationships too (just with a different object of affection) if the love of money is the root of all evil.
But, Sir, if I am prepossessed, what has Mr. Solmes to hope for?—Why should he persevere? What must I think of the man who would wish me to be his wife against my inclination?—And is it not a very harsh thing for my friends to desire to see me married to one I cannot love, when they will not be persuaded but that there is one whom I do love?
But, Sir, if I’m already biased, what does Mr. Solmes have to hope for?—Why should he keep trying? What should I think of someone who wants me to be his wife even though I don’t want to?—Isn’t it pretty cruel for my friends to want to see me married to someone I can’t love, when they won’t believe that there’s someone I actually do love?
Treated as I am, now is the time for me to speak out or never.—Let me review what it is Mr. Solmes depends upon on this occasion. Does he believe, that the disgrace which I supper on his account, will give him a merit with me? Does he think to win my esteem, through my uncles' sternness to me; by my brother's contemptuous usage; by my sister's unkindness; by being denied to visit, or be visited; and to correspond with my chosen friend, although a person of unexceptionable honour and prudence, and of my own sex; my servant to be torn from me, and another servant set over me; to be confined, like a prisoner, to narrow and disgraceful limits, in order avowedly to mortify me, and to break my spirit; to be turned out of that family-management which I loved, and had the greater pleasure in it, because it was an ease, as I thought, to my mamma, and what my sister chose not; and yet, though time hangs heavy upon my hands, to be so put out of my course, that I have as little inclination as liberty to pursue any of my choice delights?—Are these steps necessary to reduce me to a level so low, as to make me a fit wife for this man?—Yet these are all he can have to trust to. And if his reliance is on these measures, I would have him to know, that he mistakes meekness and gentleness of disposition for servility and baseness of heart.
Considering my situation, it's now or never for me to speak up. Let me reflect on what Mr. Solmes relies on this time. Does he think that the shame I endure because of him will earn his favor with me? Does he believe he can win my respect through my uncles' harshness towards me, my brother's disdainful treatment, my sister's unkindness, being prohibited from visiting or being visited, and from corresponding with my chosen friend, even though that person is honorable and wise, and of my own gender? Am I to have my servant taken away from me and another placed in charge? Am I to be confined, like a prisoner, to a narrow and humiliating space, all to wear me down and break my spirit? Am I to be removed from the family responsibilities I loved, which I took pleasure in because it eased my mother's burden, and which my sister didn't want? And yet, even though time drags on painfully for me, I am so obstructed that I have no inclination or freedom to pursue any of my chosen joys? Are these methods truly necessary to bring me down to a level that's suitable for this man? Yet, these are all he can depend on. If he thinks these tactics will work, he should understand that he confuses my meekness and gentleness with servility and a lack of character.
I beseech you, Sir, to let the natural turn and bent of his mind and my mind be considered: What are his qualities, by which he would hope to win my esteem?—Dear, dear Sir, if I am to be compelled, let it be in favour of a man that can read and write—that can teach me something: For what a husband must that man make, who can do nothing but command; and needs himself the instruction he should be qualified to give?
I urge you, Sir, to take into account the natural tendencies of both his mind and mine: What qualities does he have that would make him feel he deserves my respect?—Dear Sir, if I must be forced, let it be for a man who can read and write—who can teach me something: For what kind of husband would a man be who can only give orders and needs instruction himself on what he should be teaching?
I may be conceited, Sir; I may be vain of my little reading; of my writing; as of late I have more than once been told I am. But, Sir, the more unequal the proposed match, if so: the better opinion I have of myself, the worse I must have of him; and the more unfit are we for each other.
I might be full of myself, Sir; I might be proud of my limited reading and writing; I've been told that more than once lately. But, Sir, the greater the difference in our positions if that's the case, the higher my opinion of myself and the lower my opinion of him; and the more mismatched we are for each other.
Indeed, Sir, I must say, I thought my friends had put a higher value upon me. My brother pretended once, that it was owing to such value, that Mr. Lovelace's address was prohibited.—Can this be; and such a man as Mr. Solmes be intended for me?
Indeed, Sir, I have to say, I thought my friends valued me more. My brother once claimed it was because of that value that Mr. Lovelace's advances were rejected. —Is this possible? And is someone like Mr. Solmes actually meant for me?
As to his proposed settlements, I hope I shall not incur your great displeasure, if I say, what all who know me have reason to think (and some have upbraided me for), that I despise those motives. Dear, dear Sir, what are settlements to one who has as much of her own as she wishes for?—Who has more in her own power, as a single person, than it is probable she would be permitted to have at her disposal, as a wife?—Whose expenses and ambition are moderate; and who, if she had superfluities, would rather dispense them to the necessitous, than lay them by her useless? If then such narrow motives have so little weight with me for my own benefit, shall the remote and uncertain view of family-aggrandizements, and that in the person of my brother and his descendents, be thought sufficient to influence me?
Regarding his proposed settlements, I hope I won't upset you too much if I say what everyone who knows me believes (and some have even criticized me for), that I have no respect for those motives. Dear Sir, what are settlements to someone who has as much of her own as she wants?—Who has more control over her life as a single person than she is likely to have as a wife?—Whose needs and ambitions are modest; and who, if she had extra resources, would prefer to share them with those in need rather than keep them for herself unused? If such narrow motives mean so little to me for my own sake, why should I be swayed by the distant and uncertain prospect of family status, especially concerning my brother and his descendants?
Has the behaviour of that brother to me of late, or his consideration for the family (which had so little weight with him, that he could choose to hazard a life so justly precious as an only son's, rather than not ratify passions which he is above attempting to subdue, and, give me leave to say, has been too much indulged in, either with regard to his own good, or the peace of any body related to him;) Has his behaviour, I say, deserved of me in particular, that I should make a sacrifice of my temporal (and, who knows? of my eternal) happiness, to promote a plan formed upon chimerical, at least upon unlikely, contingencies; as I will undertake to demonstrate, if I may be permitted to examine it?
Has my brother's behavior towards me lately, or his concern for the family (which mattered so little to him that he would risk the life of an only son, which is so precious, rather than suppress emotions he can’t seem to control, and, if I may say, has been indulged too much, both for his own sake and the peace of anyone related to him); has his behavior, I ask, warranted that I should sacrifice my own happiness (both now and possibly forever) to support a plan based on unrealistic, or at least improbable, scenarios; a plan I can prove is flawed if I may be allowed to discuss it?
I am afraid you will condemn my warmth: But does not the occasion require it? To the want of a greater degree of earnestness in my opposition, it seems, it is owing, that such advances have been made, as have been made. Then, dear Sir, allow something, I beseech you, for a spirit raised and embittered by disgraces, which (knowing my own heart) I am confident to say, are unmerited.
I'm afraid you'll judge my warmth too harshly: But doesn’t this situation call for it? It seems that the lack of a stronger earnestness in my opposition has led to the advances that have been made. So, dear Sir, please consider that my spirit is affected and embittered by setbacks, which I believe—knowing my own heart—are undeserved.
But why have I said so much, in answer to the supposed charge of prepossession, when I have declared to my mamma, as now, Sir, I do to you, that if it be not insisted upon that I shall marry any other person, particularly this Mr. Solmes, I will enter into any engagements never to have the other, nor any man else, without their consents; that is to say, without the consents of my father and my mother, and of you my uncle, and my elder uncle, and my cousin Morden, as he is one of the trustees for my grandfather's bounty to me?—As to my brother indeed, I cannot say, that his treatment of me has been of late so brotherly, as to entitle him to more than civility from me: and for this, give me leave to add, he would be very much my debtor.
But why have I said so much in response to the supposed accusation of bias, when I’ve told my mom, just like I’m telling you now, Sir, that if I’m not pressured to marry anyone else, especially this Mr. Solmes, I will agree to never pursue the other man or anyone else without the consent of my father, my mother, you my uncle, my other uncle, and my cousin Morden, since he is one of the trustees for my grandfather's gift to me? As for my brother, I have to say that his treatment of me lately hasn’t been very brotherly, which doesn’t give him a right to more than basic civility from me: and for this, let me add, he would owe me quite a bit.
If I have not been explicit enough in declaring my dislike to Mr. Solmes (that the prepossession which is charged upon me may not be supposed to influence me against him) I do absolutely declare, That were there no such man as Mr. Lovelace in the world, I would not have Mr. Solmes. It is necessary, in some one of my letters to my dear friends, that I should write so clearly as to put this matter out of all doubt: and to whom can I better address myself with an explicitness that can admit of no mistake, than to that uncle who professes the highest regard for plain-dealing and sincerity?
If I haven't been clear enough in expressing my dislike for Mr. Solmes (so that the bias attributed to me isn't thought to sway my feelings against him), I want to be completely honest: even if there were no Mr. Lovelace in existence, I still wouldn't want Mr. Solmes. It's important, in one of my letters to my dear friends, to explain this as clearly as possible so there's no room for doubt. And who better to address with such clarity than my uncle, who values straightforwardness and sincerity above all?
Let me, for these reasons, be still more particular in some of my exceptions to him.
Let me, for these reasons, be even more specific about some of my objections to him.
Mr. Solmes appears to me (to all the world, indeed) to have a very narrow mind, and no great capacity: he is coarse and indelicate; as rough in his manners as in his person: he is not only narrow, but covetous: being possessed of great wealth, he enjoys it not; nor has the spirit to communicate to a distress of any kind. Does not his own sister live unhappily, for want of a little of his superfluities? And suffers not he his aged uncle, the brother of his own mother, to owe to the generosity of strangers the poor subsistence he picks up from half-a-dozen families?—You know, Sir, my open, free, communicative temper: how unhappy must I be, circumscribed in his narrow, selfish circle! out of which being with-held by this diabolical parsimony, he dare no more stir, than a conjurer out of his; nor would let me.
Mr. Solmes seems to me (and to everyone else, really) to have a very narrow mind and not much capacity. He is rude and insensitive; as rough in his manners as in his appearance. He’s not just narrow-minded but greedy: even though he has a lot of money, he doesn’t enjoy it and lacks the spirit to help anyone in need. Doesn’t his own sister live unhappily because he won’t share any of his excess? And doesn’t his elderly uncle, his mother’s brother, have to rely on the kindness of strangers for the little bit of help he gets from a handful of families?—You know, Sir, my open, free, and generous nature: how miserable must I be, stuck in his narrow, selfish world! Being held back by this ruthless stinginess, he wouldn’t let me move out of it any more than a magician could escape from his tricks.
Such a man, as this, love!—Yes, perhaps he may, my grandfather's estate; which he has told several persons (and could not resist hinting the same thing tome, with that sort of pleasure which a low mind takes, when it intimates its own interest as a sufficient motive for it to expect another's favour) lies so extremely convenient for him, that it would double the value of a considerable part of his own. That estate, and an alliance which would do credit to his obscurity and narrowness, they make him think he can love, and induce him to believe he does: but at most, he is but a second-place love. Riches were, are, and always will be, his predominant passion. His were left him by a miser, on this very account: and I must be obliged to forego all the choice delights of my life, and be as mean as he, or else be quite unhappy. Pardon, Sir, this severity of expression—one is apt to say more than one would of a person one dislikes, when more is said in his favour than he can possibly deserve; and when he is urged to my acceptance with so much vehemence, that there is no choice left me.
Such a man, love!—Yes, maybe he does care for my grandfather's estate; he's mentioned it to several people (and couldn’t help but hint to me too, with that kind of pleasure a shallow person feels when they reveal their own interest as a reason to expect someone else's favor) because it’s so perfectly situated for him that it could significantly increase the value of a large part of his own property. That estate, along with a connection that would boost his reputation, makes him think he can love and leads him to believe he does: but really, he’s just a second-rate love. Money has always been his main passion. He inherited it from a miser, which is exactly why: I’d have to give up all the joys of my life and be as petty as he is, or I’d be completely miserable. Forgive me, Sir, for being so harsh—people tend to say more than they would about someone they dislike when more is being said in their favor than they really deserve; and when he’s pushed onto my acceptance with such urgency that I feel I have no choice.
Whether these things be perfectly so, or not, while I think they are, it is impossible I should ever look upon Mr. Solmes in the light he is offered to me. Nay, were he to be proved ten times better than I have represented him, and sincerely think him; yet would he be still ten times more disagreeable to me than any other man I know in the world. Let me therefore beseech you, Sir, to become an advocate for your niece, that she may not be made a victim to a man so highly disgustful to her.
Whether these things are exactly as I believe or not, as long as I feel this way, I can never see Mr. Solmes as he is presented to me. Even if he could be shown to be ten times better than I think he is, he would still be ten times more unpleasant to me than anyone else I know. So, I kindly ask you, Sir, to be an advocate for your niece, so she doesn't become a victim of a man she finds so repulsive.
You and my other uncle can do a great deal for me, if you please, with my papa. Be persuaded, Sir, that I am not governed by obstinacy in this case; but by aversion; an aversion I cannot overcome: for, if I have but endeavoured to reason with myself, (out of regard to the duty I owe to my father's will,) my heart has recoiled, and I have been averse to myself, for offering but to argue with myself, in behalf of a man who, in the light he appears to me, has no one merit; and who, knowing this aversion, could not persevere as he does, if he had the spirit of a man.
You and my other uncle can really help me out with my dad if you want to. Please believe me, I’m not being stubborn about this; it’s just that I have a strong dislike that I can’t shake off. Whenever I’ve tried to talk myself into it (out of respect for my father’s wishes), my heart just hasn’t been in it, and I’ve felt guilty even considering it, trying to defend a man who, from my perspective, has no redeeming qualities. If he truly understood my feelings, he wouldn’t keep pushing like he does.
If, Sir, you can think of the contents of this letter reasonable, I beseech you to support them with your interest. If not—I shall be most unhappy!—Nevertheless, it is but just in me so to write, as that Mr. Solmes may know what he has to trust to.
If you think the contents of this letter make sense, I urge you to back them with your influence. If not—I will be very unhappy!—Still, I believe it's fair for me to write this so that Mr. Solmes understands what he can count on.
Forgive, dear Sir, this tedious letter; and suffer it to have weight with you; and you will for ever oblige
Forgive me, dear Sir, for this lengthy letter; please take it seriously, and you will always do me a favor.
Your dutiful and affectionate niece,
Your caring and loving niece,
CL. HARLOWE. *** MR. ANTONY HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE NIECE CLARY,
CL. HARLOWE. *** MR. ANTONY HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE NIECE CLARY,
You had better not write to us, or to any of us. To me, particularly, you had better never to have set pen to paper, on the subject whereon you have written. He that is first in his own cause, saith the wise man, seemeth just: but his neighbour cometh and searcheth him. And so, in this respect, I will be your neighbour: for I will search your heart to the bottom; that is to say, if your letter be written from your heart. Yet do I know what a task I have undertaken, because of the knack you are noted for at writing. But in defence of a father's authority, in behalf of the good, and honour, and prosperity of the family one comes of, what a hard thing it would be, if one could not beat down all the arguments a rebel child (how loth I am to write down that word of Miss Clary Harlowe!) can bring, in behalf of her obstinacy!
You really shouldn’t write to us, or any of us. Especially not to me; you might as well never have put pen to paper on the topic you’ve written about. The wise man says that the person who starts out defending their own cause seems justified, but then their neighbor comes along and challenges them. In this case, I’ll be your neighbor: I’ll dig deep into your heart to find the truth, assuming your letter comes from an honest place. I know what a challenge I’m taking on because you’re known for your writing skills. But when it comes to defending a father's authority and standing up for the good, honor, and prosperity of the family you come from, how difficult would it be if you couldn’t counter all the arguments a rebellious child (how reluctant I am to use that term for Miss Clary Harlowe!) could raise to justify her stubbornness!
In the first place, don't you declare (and that contrary to your declarations to your mother, remember that, girl!) that you prefer the man we all hate, and who hates us as bad!—Then what a character have you given of a worthy man! I wonder you dare write so freely of one we all respect—but possibly it may be for that very reason.
First of all, don't you say (and remember that this goes against what you told your mom, girl!) that you prefer the guy we all dislike, and who dislikes us just as much!—So what kind of impression have you given of a good man? I’m surprised you’re so bold to write so openly about someone we all respect—but maybe that’s exactly why.
How you begin your letter!—Because I value Mr. Solmes as my friend, you treat him the worse—That's the plain dunstable of the matter, Miss!—I am not such a fool but I can see that.—And so a noted whoremonger is to be chosen before a man who is a money-lover!—Let me tell you, Niece, this little becomes so nice a one as you have been always reckoned. Who, think you, does more injustice, a prodigal man or a saving man?—The one saves his own money; the other spends other people's. But your favourite is a sinner in grain, and upon record.
How you start your letter!—Because I value Mr. Solmes as my friend, you treat him worse—That's the straightforward truth of the matter, Miss!—I'm not such a fool that I can't see that.—And so a notorious womanizer is chosen over a man who's just obsessed with money!—Let me tell you, Niece, this doesn't suit someone as admirable as you've always been regarded. Who do you think is more unjust, a wasteful person or a frugal one?—One saves their own money; the other spends other people's. But your favorite is a sinner through and through, and it's well-documented.
The devil's in your sex! God forgive me for saying so—the nicest of them will prefer a vile rake and wh—— I suppose I must not repeat the word:—the word will offend, when the vicious denominated by that word will be chosen!—I had not been a bachelor to this time, if I had not seen such a mass of contradictions in you all.—Such gnat-strainers and camel-swallowers, as venerable Holy Writ has it.
The devil's in your sex! God forgive me for saying this—the nicest among you will choose a terrible person and... I suppose I shouldn’t say the word: the word offends, when the immoral person described by it is chosen! I wouldn't have remained a bachelor this long if I hadn't seen so many contradictions in all of you. Such nitpickers and big-picture takers, as the ancient scriptures say.
What names will perverseness call things by!—A prudent man, who intends to be just to every body, is a covetous man!—While a vile, profligate rake is christened with the appellation of a gallant man; and a polite man, I'll warrant you!
What names will twisted thinking assign to things!—A sensible person, who aims to be fair to everyone, is called greedy!—While a despicable, reckless womanizer is dubbed a charming man; and a courteous man, I bet you!
It is my firm opinion, Lovelace would not have so much regard for you as he professes, but for two reasons. And what are these?—Why, out of spite to all of us—one of them. The other, because of your independent fortune. I wish your good grandfather had not left what he did so much in your own power, as I may say. But little did he imagine his beloved grand-daughter would have turned upon all her friends as she has done!
It’s my strong belief that Lovelace doesn’t care for you as much as he claims, and there are two reasons for this. What are they? Well, one is out of spite toward all of us. The other is because of your independent wealth. I wish your good grandfather hadn’t given you so much control over what he left you, to be honest. Little did he know that his beloved granddaughter would turn against all her friends the way she has!
What has Mr. Solmes to hope for, if you are prepossessed! Hey-day! Is this you, cousin Clary!—Has he then nothing to hope for from your father's, and mother's, and our recommendations?—No, nothing at all, it seems!—O brave!—I should think that this, with a dutiful child, as we took you to be, was enough. Depending on this your duty, we proceeded: and now there is no help for it: for we will not be balked: neither shall our friend Mr. Solmes, I can tell you that.
What does Mr. Solmes have to look forward to if you're already biased? Wow! Is that really you, cousin Clary? Does he really have no hope from your father's, mother’s, and our recommendations? No, apparently not! Oh great! I would think that, along with being a dutiful child as we expected you to be, would be enough. Relying on your sense of duty, we moved forward: and now there's no turning back, because we won't be stopped: neither will our friend Mr. Solmes, just so you know.
If your estate is convenient for him, what then? Does that (pert cousin) make it out that he does not love you? He had need to expect some good with you, that has so little good to hope for from you; mind that. But pray, is not this estate our estate, as we may say? Have we not all an interest in it, and a prior right, if right were to have taken place? And was it not more than a good old man's dotage, God rest his soul! that gave it you before us all?—Well then, ought we not to have a choice who shall have it in marriage with you? and would you have the conscience to wish us to let a vile fellow, who hates us all, run away with it?—You bid me weigh what you write: do you weigh this, Girl: and it will appear we have more to say for ourselves than you was aware of.
If your estate is convenient for him, so what? Does that mean he doesn’t love you? He's the one who should expect something good from you since there's so little good he can hope for from you; just remember that. But really, isn’t this estate ours too? Don’t we all have a stake in it and a right to it if there was any justice? And wasn’t it more than just the ramblings of a good old man, rest his soul, that gave it to you in front of everyone?—So then, shouldn’t we get to choose who gets to marry you and have it? Would you really want us to let some awful guy who hates us all take it away?—You told me to think about what you wrote: how about you think about this, Girl, and you’ll see we have more to say for ourselves than you realized.
As to your hard treatment, as you call it, thank yourself for that. It may be over when you will: so I reckon nothing upon that. You was not banished and confined till all entreaty and fair speeches were tried with you: mind that. And Mr. Solmes can't help your obstinacy: let that be observed too.
Regarding your harsh treatment, as you call it, you have yourself to blame for that. It may end whenever you decide: so I don't place much importance on that. You weren't banished and locked away until every plea and kind word were used with you: remember that. And Mr. Solmes can't do anything about your stubbornness: keep that in mind as well.
As to being visited, and visiting; you never was fond of either: so that's a grievance put into the scale to make weight.—As to disgrace, that's as bad to us as to you: so fine a young creature! So much as we used to brag of you too!—And besides, this is all in your power, as the rest.
Regarding being visited and visiting, you were never really into either, so that adds to our complaints. As for disgrace, it affects us just as much as it does you: such a lovely young person! We used to brag about you a lot too! And also, this is all within your control, just like everything else.
But your heart recoils, when you would persuade yourself to obey your parent—Finely described, is it not!—Too truly described, I own, as you go on. I know that you may love him if you will. I had a good mind to bid you hate him; then, perhaps, you would like him the better: for I have always found a most horrid romantic perverseness in your sex.—To do and to love what you should not, is meat, drink, and vesture, to you all.
But your heart pulls back when you try to convince yourself to listen to your parent—It’s a well put description, isn’t it?—Too accurate, I admit, as you continue. I know you could love him if you wanted to. I almost thought about telling you to hate him; then, maybe you’d like him more: because I’ve always found an awful romantic stubbornness in your gender. Doing and loving what you shouldn’t is like food, drink, and clothing for all of you.
I am absolutely of your brother's mind, That reading and writing, though not too much for the wits of you young girls, are too much for your judgments.—You say, you may be conceited, Cousin; you may be vain!—And so you are, to despise this gentleman as you do. He can read and write as well as most gentlemen, I can tell you that. Who told you Mr. Solmes cannot read and write? But you must have a husband who can learn you something!—I wish you knew but your duty as well as you do your talents—that, Niece, you have of late days to learn; and Mr. Solmes will therefore find something to instruct you in. I will not shew him this letter of yours, though you seem to desire it, lest it should provoke him to be too severe a schoolmaster, when you are his'n.
I completely agree with your brother. Reading and writing, while not too much for the minds of you young women, can be overwhelming for your judgment. You say you might be full of yourself, Cousin; maybe you are! And you definitely are if you look down on this gentleman as you do. He can read and write just as well as most gentlemen, trust me on that. Who told you Mr. Solmes can’t read and write? But you need a husband who can teach you something! I wish you understood your duties as well as you understand your talents—that’s something you’ve got to learn lately, Niece; and Mr. Solmes will find plenty to teach you. I won’t show him this letter of yours, even though you seem to want me to, because it might make him too strict as a teacher once you’re his.
But now I think of it, suppose you are the reader at your pen than he—You will make the more useful wife to him; won't you? For who so good an economist as you?—And you may keep all of his accounts, and save yourselves a steward.—And, let me tell you, this is a fine advantage in a family: for those stewards are often sad dogs, and creep into a man's estate before he knows where he is; and not seldom is he forced to pay them interest for his own money.
But now that I think about it, what if you're the one writing rather than him? You’d make a more useful wife for him, right? Who’s a better manager than you? You could handle all of his finances and save him from needing a steward. And let me tell you, that’s a huge benefit for a household because those stewards can be real trouble and often sneak into a man’s finances before he even realizes it; and more often than not, he ends up paying them interest on his own money.
I know not why a good wife should be above these things. It is better than lying a-bed half the day, and junketing and card-playing all the night, and making yourselves wholly useless to every good purpose in your own families, as is now the fashion among ye. The duce take you all that do so, say I!—Only that, thank my stars, I am a bachelor.
I don’t understand why a good wife should be exempt from these things. It’s better than sleeping in half the day, partying and playing cards all night, and being completely unhelpful to your own families, like it’s currently popular among you. To hell with all of you who do that, I say!—At least I’m grateful that I’m a bachelor.
Then this is a province you are admirably versed in: you grieve that it is taken from you here, you know. So here, Miss, with Mr. Solmes you will have something to keep account of, for the sake of you and your children: with the other, perhaps you will have an account to keep, too—but an account of what will go over the left shoulder; only of what he squanders, what he borrows, and what he owes, and never will pay. Come, come, Cousin, you know nothing of the world; a man's a man; and you may have many partners in a handsome man, and costly ones too, who may lavish away all you save. Mr. Solmes therefore for my money, and I hope for yours.
Then this is a field you know well: you’re upset that it’s being taken from you here, you know. So here, Miss, with Mr. Solmes, you will have something to keep track of, for you and your children’s sake: with the other guy, you might have an account to keep as well—but it’ll be about what he wastes; only about what he spends, what he borrows, and what he owes, which he’ll never pay back. Come on, Cousin, you don’t know anything about the world; a man is just a man; and you might have many suitors who are attractive and expensive too, who can easily blow all your savings. So I’d say Mr. Solmes is the better choice, and I hope you think so too.
But Mr. Solmes is a coarse man. He is not delicate enough for your niceness; because I suppose he dresses not like a fop and a coxcomb, and because he lays not himself out in complimental nonsense, the poison of female minds. He is a man of sense, that I can tell you. No man talks more to the purpose to us: but you fly him so, that he has no opportunity given him, to express it to you: and a man who loves, if he have ever so much sense, looks a fool; especially when he is despised, and treated as you treated him the last time he was in your company.
But Mr. Solmes is a rough guy. He isn’t refined enough for your tastes; just because he doesn’t dress like a dandy or act like a showoff, and because he doesn’t flatter you with empty compliments, which can be toxic to women’s minds. He’s a sensible man, I can tell you that. No one speaks more meaningfully to us: but you dismiss him so quickly that he never gets a chance to share his thoughts with you. And a man in love, no matter how sensible he is, looks foolish, especially when he’s looked down on and treated the way you treated him the last time he was with you.
As to his sister; she threw herself away (as you want to do) against his full warning: for he told her what she had to trust to, if she married where she did marry. And he was as good as his word; and so an honest man ought: offences against warning ought to be smarted for. Take care this be not your case: mind that.
As for his sister, she went ahead and made her choice (like you want to do) despite his clear warning: he told her what to expect if she married where she did. And he was true to his word, just as any decent man should be: ignoring a warning comes with consequences. Make sure that this isn’t your situation: keep that in mind.
His uncle deserves no favour from him; for he would have circumvented Mr. Solmes, and got Sir Oliver to leave to himself the estate he had always designed for him his nephew, and brought him up in the hope of it. Too ready forgiveness does but encourage offences: that's your good father's maxim: and there would not be so many headstrong daughters as there are, if this maxim were kept in mind.—Punishments are of service to offenders; rewards should be only to the meriting: and I think the former are to be dealt out rigourously, in willful cases.
His uncle doesn’t deserve any favors from him because he tried to manipulate Mr. Solmes and get Sir Oliver to leave the estate he always intended for his nephew, the one he raised with hopes for. Too much forgiveness just encourages bad behavior; that’s what your good father believes. If people remembered this idea, there wouldn’t be so many rebellious daughters out there. Punishments are necessary for wrongdoers; rewards should only go to those who deserve them. I believe punishments should be applied strictly in willful cases.
As to his love; he shews it but too much for your deservings, as they have been of late; let me tell you that: and this is his misfortune; and may in time perhaps be yours.
As for his love, he shows it way too much for what you've been worth lately, just so you know. This is his problem, and it might become yours eventually.
As to his parsimony, which you wickedly call diabolical, [a very free word in your mouth, let me tell ye], little reason have you of all people for this, on whom he proposes, of his own accord, to settle all he has in the world: a proof, let him love riches as he will, that he loves you better. But that you may be without excuse on this score, we will tie him up to your own terms, and oblige him by the marriage-articles to allow you a very handsome quarterly sum to do what you please with. And this has been told you before; and I have said it to Mrs. Howe (that good and worthy lady) before her proud daughter, that you might hear of it again.
As for his stinginess, which you unkindly call evil, [that’s a pretty strong word coming from you, I must say], you really have no reason to think that, especially since he plans to give you everything he has in the world: a sign, no matter how much he loves money, that he loves you more. But so you won’t have any excuses about this, we’ll hold him to your conditions and make sure the marriage contract requires him to give you a generous amount each quarter to spend as you wish. And this has been mentioned to you before; I even told Mrs. Howe (that kind and honorable lady) in front of her arrogant daughter so you could hear it again.
To contradict the charge of prepossession to Lovelace, you offer never to have him without our consents: and what is this saying, but that you will hope on for our consents, and to wheedle and tire us out? Then he will always be in expectation while you are single: and we are to live on at this rate (are we?) vexed by you, and continually watchful about you; and as continually exposed to his insolence and threats. Remember last Sunday, Girl!—What might have happened, had your brother and he met?—Moreover, you cannot do with such a spirit as his, as you can with worthy Mr. Solmes: the one you make tremble; the other will make you quake: mind that—and you will not be able to help yourself. And remember, that if there should be any misunderstanding between one of them and you, we should all interpose; and with effect, no doubt: but with the other, it would be self-do, self-have; and who would either care or dare to put in a word for you? Nor let the supposition of matrimonial differences frighten you: honey-moon lasts not now-a-days above a fortnight; and Dunmow flitch, as I have been informed, was never claimed; though some say once it was. Marriage is a queer state, Child, whether paired by the parties or by their friends. Out of three brothers of us, you know, there was but one had courage to marry. And why was it, do you think? We were wise by other people's experience.
To counter your claim about being attached to Lovelace, you say you'll never have him without our approval: but what does that really mean? It means you'll keep hoping for our permission and trying to wear us down. He’ll always be waiting for you while you're single, and we just have to put up with this, feeling annoyed by you and needing to keep an eye out for you, always vulnerable to his arrogance and threats. Remember last Sunday, girl! What could have happened if your brother had run into him? Besides, you can't handle someone like him the way you can with decent Mr. Solmes: one makes you scared; the other makes you tremble. Keep that in mind—you won't be able to save yourself. And remember, if there's any misunderstanding between you and either of them, we would definitely step in—no doubt about it. But with the other one, it would be every man for himself; who would care or dare to back you up? And don't let the idea of marital conflicts scare you: the honeymoon these days lasts only about a fortnight, and I’ve heard the Dunmow flitch was never claimed, though some say it once was. Marriage is a strange situation, darling, whether it’s two people choosing each other or their friends making the match. Out of three brothers, you know, only one had the guts to marry. And why do you think that is? We learned from other people's experiences.
Don't despise money so much: you may come to know the value of it: that is a piece of instruction that you are to learn; and which, according to your own notions, Mr. Solmes will be able to teach you.
Don't look down on money so much; you might come to understand its value. That's a lesson you need to learn, and according to your own beliefs, Mr. Solmes will be able to teach you that.
I do indeed condemn your warmth. I will not allow for disgraces you bring upon yourself. If I thought them unmerited, I would be your advocate. But it was always my notion, that children should not dispute their parents' authority. When your grandfather left his estate to you, though his three sons, and a grandson, and your elder sister, were in being, we all acquiesced: and why? Because it was our father's doing. Do you imitate that example: if you will not, those who set it you have the more reason to hold you inexcusable: mind that, Cousin.
I definitely disapprove of your attitude. I won’t tolerate the shame you bring upon yourself. If I thought it was undeserved, I would stand up for you. But I’ve always believed that children shouldn’t challenge their parents' authority. When your grandfather left his estate to you, even though he had three sons, a grandson, and your older sister around, we all accepted it: and why? Because it was our father's decision. Follow that example: if you don’t, those who set it have even more reason to consider you at fault: remember that, Cousin.
You mention your brother too scornfully: and, in your letter to him, are very disrespectful; and so indeed you are to your sister, in the letter you wrote to her. Your brother, Madam, is your brother; and third older than yourself, and a man: and pray be so good as not to forget what is due to a brother, who (next to us three brothers) is the head of the family, and on whom the name depends—as upon your dutiful compliance laid down for the honour of the family you are come of. And pray now let me ask you, If the honour of that will not be an honour to you?—If you don't think so, the more unworthy you. You shall see the plan, if you promise not to be prejudiced against it right or wrong. If you are not besotted to that man, I am sure you will like it. If you are, were Mr. Solmes an angel, it would signify nothing: for the devil is love, and love is the devil, when it gets into any of your heads. Many examples have I seen of that.
You talk about your brother in such a scornful way and in your letter to him, you're quite disrespectful; and honestly, you were just as disrespectful to your sister in your letter to her. Your brother, madam, is still your brother, and he’s three years older than you and a man. Please remember what you owe to a brother, who, along with us three brothers, is the head of the family, and on whom the family name relies—you have a duty to uphold the honor of the family you come from. Now, let me ask you, won't that honor also honor you? If you don’t think so, that’s pretty unworthy of you. You’ll see the plan if you promise to be open-minded about it, whether you like it or not. If you're not infatuated with that man, I’m sure you'll appreciate it. If you are, then even if Mr. Solmes were an angel, it wouldn’t matter; because when love gets into your head, it can feel like a devilish thing. I've seen many examples of that.
If there were no such man as Lovelace in the world, you would not have Mr. Solmes.—You would not, Miss!—Very pretty, truly!—We see how your spirit is embittered indeed.—Wonder not, since it is come to your will not's, that those who have authority over you, say, You shall have the other. And I am one: mind that. And if it behoves YOU to speak out, Miss, it behoves US not to speak in. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander: take that in your thought too.
If there were no guy like Lovelace in the world, you wouldn't have Mr. Solmes. —You wouldn't, Miss!—That's really something!—It's clear how bitter your spirit is. —Don't be surprised, since it has come to the point where those in charge of you say, You will have the other. And I’m one of those in charge, remember that. And if it’s necessary for YOU to speak up, Miss, it’s also necessary for US not to stay silent. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander: keep that in mind too.
I humbly apprehend, that Mr. Solmes has the spirit of a man, and a gentleman. I would admonish you therefore not to provoke it. He pities you as much as he loves you. He says, he will convince you of his love by deeds, since he is not permitted by you to express it by words. And all his dependence is upon your generosity hereafter. We hope he may depend upon that: we encourage him to think he may. And this heartens him up. So that you may lay his constancy at your parents' and your uncles' doors; and this will be another mark of your duty, you know.
I genuinely believe that Mr. Solmes has the character of a man and a gentleman. I want to warn you not to provoke him. He feels as much pity for you as he does love. He says he will show you his love through actions, since you won’t let him say it in words. His hope relies on your kindness moving forward. We want him to feel that way; we encourage him to think he can. This gives him strength. So, you can attribute his determination to your parents and your uncles, and this will be yet another sign of your duty, you know.
You must be sensible, that you reflect upon your parents, and all of us, when you tell me you cannot in justice accept of the settlements proposed to you. This reflection we should have wondered at from you once; but now we don't.
You need to be reasonable and think about your parents and all of us when you say you can't fairly accept the proposed settlements. We would have been surprised to hear this from you before, but now we’re not.
There are many other very censurable passages in this free letter of yours; but we must place them to the account of your embittered spirit. I am glad you mentioned that word, because we should have been at a loss what to have called it.—I should much rather nevertheless have had reason to give it a better name.
There are many other highly objectionable parts in this free letter of yours; but we have to attribute them to your bitter feelings. I'm glad you brought up that word, because we wouldn't have known what to call it. Still, I would have preferred to have a reason to call it something better.
I love you dearly still, Miss. I think you, though my niece, one of the finest young gentlewomen I ever saw. But, upon my conscience, I think you ought to obey your parents, and oblige me and my brother John: for you know very well, that we have nothing but your good at heart: consistently indeed with the good and honour of all of us. What must we think of any one of it, who would not promote the good of the whole? and who would set one part of it against another?—Which God forbid, say I!—You see I am for the good of all. What shall I get by it, let things go as they will? Do I want any thing of any body for my own sake?—Does my brother John?—Well, then, Cousin Clary, what would you be at, as I may say?
I still love you dearly, Miss. I think you’re one of the finest young ladies I've ever seen, even though you're my niece. But honestly, I believe you should listen to your parents and work with me and my brother John because you know we only want what’s best for you. It’s in line with what’s good and honorable for all of us. What should we think of anyone who wouldn’t support the greater good? And who would pit one part of it against another?—Which I hope doesn’t happen!—You see, I’m all about what’s best for everyone. What's in it for me if things go badly? Do I want anything from anyone for my own benefit?—Does my brother John?—So, Cousin Clary, what do you want, if I may ask?
O but you can't love Mr. Solmes!—But, I say, you know not what you can do. You encourage yourself in your dislike. You permit your heart (little did I think it was such a froward one) to recoil. Take it to task, Niece; drive it on as fast as it recoils, [we do so in all our sea-fights, and land-fights too, by our sailors and soldiers, or we should not conquer]; and we are all sure you will overcome it. And why? Because you ought. So we think, whatever you think: and whose thoughts are to be preferred? You may be wittier than we; but, if you were wiser, we have lived some of us, let me tell you, to very little purpose, thirty or forty years longer than you.
Oh, but you can't love Mr. Solmes!—But honestly, you don’t know what you're capable of. You’re just encouraging your dislike. You let your heart (I never thought it would be so stubborn) pull back. Challenge it, Niece; push it forward as fast as it pulls back, [just like we do in all our sea battles and land battles, by our sailors and soldiers, or else we wouldn't win]; and we’re all confident you will overcome it. And why? Because you should. That’s what we believe, no matter what you think: and whose thoughts should matter more? You might be cleverer than us, but if you were wiser, let me tell you, many of us have lived thirty or forty years longer than you for very good reasons.
I have written as long a letter as yours. I may not write in so lively, or so polite a style as my Niece: but I think I have all the argument on my side: and you will vastly oblige me, if you will shew me, by your compliance with all our desires, that you think so too. If you do not, you must not expect an advocate, or even a friend, in me, dearly as I love you. For then I shall be sorry to be called
I’ve written a letter just as long as yours. I might not write as lively or as politely as my niece does, but I believe I have all the points on my side. You would really help me out if you could show me, by agreeing to all our requests, that you feel the same way. If you don’t, don’t expect me to be an advocate or even a friend, no matter how much I care about you. Because then I’ll be upset to be called
Your uncle, ANT. HARLOWE.
Your uncle, Ant Harlowe.
TUESDAY, TWO IN THE MORNING. POSTSCRIPT.
TUESDAY, 2 AM. PS.
You must send me no more letters: but a compliable one you may send. But I need not have forbid you; for I am sure this, by fair argument, is unanswerable—I know it is. I have written day and night, I may say, ever since Sunday morning, only church-time, or the like of that: but this is the last, I can tell you, from
You don't need to send me any more letters, but you can send one that I can work with. I shouldn't have to say this because I know it's a strong point—I'm sure of it. I've been writing day and night, except for church and similar times, since Sunday morning. But I can tell you, this is the last one from
LETTER XXXIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE THURSDAY, MARCH 16.
Having met with such bad success in my application to my relations, I have taken a step that will surprise you. It is no other than writing a letter to Mr. Solmes himself. I sent it, and have his answer. He had certainly help in it. For I have seen a letter of his, and indifferently worded, as poorly spelt. Yet the superscription is of his dictating, I dare say, for he is a formal wretch. With these, I shall enclose one from my brother to me, on occasion of mine to Mr. Solmes. I did think that it was possible to discourage the man from proceeding; and if I could have done that, it would have answered all my wishes. It was worth the trial. But you'll see nothing will do. My brother has taken his measures too securely.
After having such little success with my relatives, I’ve decided to take a surprising step. I wrote a letter to Mr. Solmes himself. I sent it, and I got his reply. He definitely had some help with it because I’ve seen one of his letters, which was poorly written and misspelled. But the address on it definitely seems to be his work since he’s such a formal jerk. Along with that, I’ll include a letter from my brother to me regarding my letter to Mr. Solmes. I thought it might be possible to discourage him from moving forward, and if I could have pulled that off, it would have made me really happy. It was worth a shot. But you’ll see—nothing will work. My brother has planned too carefully.
TO ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15. SIR,
TO ROGER SOLMES, ESQ. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 15. SIR,
You will wonder to receive a letter from me; and more still at the uncommon subject of it. But the necessity of the case will justify me, at least in my own apprehension; and I shall therefore make no other apology for it.
You might be surprised to get a letter from me, and even more so about its unusual topic. However, the situation requires it, and that’s reason enough in my view, so I won’t offer any other excuse.
When you first came acquainted with our family, you found the writer of this one of the happiest creatures in the world; beloved by the best and most indulgent of parents; and rejoicing in the kind favour of two affectionate uncles, and in the esteem of every one.
When you first got to know our family, you found the writer of this to be one of the happiest people in the world; loved by the best and most caring parents; and enjoying the kind support of two loving uncles, along with the respect of everyone.
But how is this scene now changed!—You was pleased to cast a favourable eye upon me. You addressed yourself to my friends: your proposals were approved of by them—approved of without consulting me; as if my choice and happiness were of the least signification. Those who had a right to all reasonable obedience from me, insisted upon it without reserve. I had not the felicity to think as they did; almost the first time my sentiments differed from theirs. I besought them to indulge me in a point so important to my future happiness: but, alas, in vain! And then (for I thought it was but honest) I told you my mind; and even that my affections were engaged. But, to my mortification and surprise, you persisted, and still persist.
But how is this scene now changed! You were happy to look favorably upon me. You spoke to my friends: your proposals were approved by them—approved without consulting me; as if my choice and happiness meant nothing at all. Those who had every right to my reasonable obedience demanded it without hesitation. I wasn't fortunate enough to think as they did; this was almost the first time my feelings were different from theirs. I asked them to consider my wishes in a matter so crucial to my future happiness: but, sadly, it was in vain! And then (because I thought it was only honest) I shared my thoughts with you; and even mentioned that my heart was already taken. But, to my dismay and surprise, you persisted, and still persist.
The consequence of all is too grievous for me to repeat: you, who have such free access to the rest of the family, know it too well—too well you know it, either for the credit of your own generosity, or for my reputation. I am used, on your account, as I never before was used, and never before was thought to deserve to be used; and this was the hard, the impossible, condition of their returning favour, that I must prefer a man to all others, that of all others I cannot prefer.
The outcome of it all is too painful for me to say again: you, who can easily reach the rest of the family, know it all too well—too well you know it, whether it's for your own generosity or for my reputation. I'm being treated in a way that I never was before and never thought I deserved; and this was the tough, impossible condition for their favor to return, that I must choose one man over all others, even though he’s the one I cannot choose.
Thus distressed, and made unhappy, and all to your sake, and through your cruel perseverance, I write, Sir, to demand of you the peace of mind you have robbed me of: to demand of you the love of so many dear friends, of which you have deprived me; and, if you have the generosity that should distinguish a man, and a gentleman, to adjure you not to continue an address that has been attended with such cruel effects to the creature you profess to esteem.
Thus distressed and unhappy, all for your sake and because of your cruel persistence, I write to you, Sir, to demand the peace of mind you have taken from me; to demand the love of so many dear friends that you have deprived me of; and, if you have the generosity that should characterize a man and a gentleman, I urge you not to continue a course of action that has caused such painful effects to the person you claim to value.
If you really value me, as my friends would make me believe, and as you have declared you do, must it not be a mean and selfish value? A value that can have no merit with the unhappy object of it, because it is attended with effects so grievous to her? It must be for your own sake only, not for mine. And even in this point you must be mistaken: For, would a prudent man wish to marry one who has not a heart to give? Who cannot esteem him? Who therefore must prove a bad wife!—And how cruel would it be to make a poor creature a bad wife, whose pride it would be to make a good one!
If you really value me like my friends say you do and like you’ve claimed yourself, doesn't that just show how mean and selfish your feelings are? It has no real worth for me, the person suffering because of it, since it brings such pain to her. It must only be for your own benefit, not mine. And you must be wrong about this too: Would a sensible person really want to marry someone who can't give her heart? Who doesn’t respect him? Who would end up being a bad wife?—And how cruel would it be to turn someone who wants to be a good wife into a bad one?
If I am capable of judging, our tempers and inclinations are vastly different. Any other of my sex will make you happier than I can. The treatment I meet with, and the obstinacy, as it is called, with which I support myself under it, ought to convince you of this; were I not able to give so good a reason for this my supposed perverseness, as that I cannot consent to marry a man whom I cannot value.
If I’m able to judge, our personalities and preferences are very different. Any other woman would make you happier than I can. The way I’m treated, along with the stubbornness I show in dealing with it, should convince you of this; if I didn’t have such a strong reason for what you call my stubbornness, which is that I can’t agree to marry a man I don’t respect.
But if, Sir, you have not so much generosity in your value for me, as to desist for my own sake, let me conjure you, by the regard due to yourself, and to your own future happiness, to discontinue your suit, and place your affections on a worthier object: for why should you make me miserable, and yourself not happy? By this means you will do all that is now in your power to restore to me the affection of my friends; and, if that can be, it will leave me in as happy a state as you found me in. You need only to say, that you see there are no HOPES, as you will perhaps complaisantly call it, of succeeding with me [and indeed, Sir, there cannot be a greater truth]; and that you will therefore no more think of me, but turn your thoughts another way.
But if, Sir, you don't have enough kindness for me to stop pursuing me for my own sake, I urge you, for your own well-being and future happiness, to end your pursuit and direct your feelings toward someone more deserving. Why would you cause me pain and fail to find happiness yourself? By doing so, you would help restore the affection of my friends; and if that can happen, it will leave me as content as you found me. You only need to acknowledge that there is no HOPE, as you might politely refer to it, of succeeding with me [and truly, Sir, there is no greater truth]; and that you will no longer think of me, but shift your thoughts elsewhere.
Your compliance with this request will lay me under the highest obligation to your generosity, and make me ever
Your agreement to this request will put me in your debt and always make me grateful.
Your well-wisher, and humble servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your supportive friend and humble servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE These most humbly present.
TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE These are presented with the utmost respect.
DEAREST MISS,
DEAR MISS,
Your letter has had a very contrary effect upon me, to what you seem to have expected from it. It has doubly convinced me of the excellency of your mind, and of the honour of your disposition. Call it selfish, or what you please, I must persist in my suit; and happy shall I be, if by patience and perseverance, and a steady and unalterable devoir, I may at last overcome the difficulty laid in my way.
Your letter has had the opposite effect on me than what you probably expected. It's made me even more convinced of how great your mind is and how honorable your character is. You can call it selfish or whatever you want, but I have to keep pushing for what I want. I'll be really happy if, with patience and determination, I can finally overcome the obstacles in my way.
As your good parents, your uncles, and other friends, are absolutely determined you shall never have Mr. Lovelace, if they can help it; and as I presume no other person is in the way, I will contentedly wait the issue of this matter. And forgive me, dearest Miss, but a person should sooner persuade me to give up to him my estate, as an instance of my generosity, because he could not be happy without it, than I would a much more valuable treasure, to promote the felicity of another, and make his way easier to circumvent myself.
As your loving parents, uncles, and other friends are completely set on making sure you never end up with Mr. Lovelace, if they can help it; and since I don't think anyone else is in the way, I’m willing to patiently see how this plays out. And forgive me, my dear Miss, but someone would have an easier time persuading me to hand over my estate as a sign of my generosity, simply because he could never be happy without it, than to give away a far more precious treasure just to make things easier for someone else and to help him outsmart me.
Pardon me, dear Miss; but I must persevere, though I am sorry you suffer on my account, as you are pleased to think; for I never before saw the woman I could love: and while there is any hope, and that you remain undisposed of to some happier man, I must and will be
Pardon me, dear Miss; but I have to keep going, even though I regret that you’re in pain because of me, as you seem to believe; for I have never seen anyone I could love before: and while there’s still hope, and as long as you’re not with some luckier man, I must and will be
Your faithful and obsequious admirer, ROGER SOLMES.
Your loyal and submissive admirer, ROGER SOLMES.
MARCH 16. *** MR. JAMES HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE MARCH 16.
MARCH 16. *** MR. JAMES HARLOWE, TO MISS CL. HARLOWE MARCH 16.
What a fine whim you took into your head, to write a letter to Mr. Solmes, to persuade him to give up his pretensions to you!—Of all the pretty romantic flights you have delighted in, this was certainly one of the most extraordinary. But to say nothing of what fires us all with indignation against you (your owning your prepossession in a villain's favour, and your impertinence to me, and your sister, and your uncles; one of which has given it you home, child), how can you lay at Mr. Solmes's door the usage you so bitterly complain of?—You know, little fool as you are, that it is your fondness for Lovelace that has brought upon you all these things; and which would have happened, whether Mr. Solmes had honoured you with his addresses or not.
What a strange idea you had to write a letter to Mr. Solmes, trying to convince him to give up his pursuit of you! Out of all the silly romantic notions you've indulged in, this has to be one of the most outrageous. But aside from what makes all of us so angry with you (your admitting your preference for a scoundrel, your rudeness towards me, your sister, and your uncles—one of whom has made this clear to you, dear), how can you blame Mr. Solmes for the treatment you so angrily complain about? You know, silly as you are, that your affection for Lovelace is what has brought all this upon you; it would have happened whether or not Mr. Solmes had pursued you.
As you must needs know this to be true, consider, pretty witty Miss, if your fond, love-sick heart can let you consider, what a fine figure all your expostulations with us, and charges upon Mr. Solmes, make!—With what propriety do you demand of him to restore to you your former happiness (as you call it, and merely call it; for if you thought our favour so, you would restore it to yourself), since it is yet in your own power to do so? Therefore, Miss Pert, none of your pathetics, except in the right place. Depend upon it, whether you have Mr. Solmes, or not, you shall never have your heart's delight, the vile rake Lovelace, if our parents, if our uncles, if I, can hinder it. No! you fallen angel, you shall not give your father and mother such a son, nor me such a brother, in giving yourself that profligate wretch for a husband. And so set your heart at rest, and lay aside all thoughts of him, if ever you expect forgiveness, reconciliation, or a kind opinion, from any of your family; but especially from him, who, at present, styles himself
As you surely know this is true, think about it, clever Miss, if your lovesick heart can allow you to consider how ridiculous all your complaints to us and accusations against Mr. Solmes look! How can you rightfully ask him to give you back your so-called happiness (and I say "so-called" because if you really thought it was so, you would take it back for yourself), when it’s still within your control to do so? So, Miss Pert, save your drama for the right moments. Believe me, whether you choose Mr. Solmes or not, you will never have the one you truly want, the despicable rake Lovelace, if our parents, our uncles, or I have anything to say about it. No! You fallen angel, you will not give your father and mother such a son, nor me such a brother, by marrying that immoral scoundrel. So calm your heart and forget all about him if you ever want forgiveness, reconciliation, or any goodwill from your family; especially from the one who currently calls himself
Your brother, JAMES HARLOWE.
Your brother, James Harlowe.
P.S. I know your knack at letter-writing. If you send me an answer for this, I will return it unopened; for I will not argue with your perverseness in so plain a case—Only once for all, I was willing to put you right as to Mr. Solmes; whom I think to blame to trouble his head about you.
P.S. I know you’re great at writing letters. If you send me a reply to this, I’ll return it unopened because I won’t get into an argument with you over something so obvious. Just this once, I was willing to set you straight about Mr. Solmes, whom I think is foolish for worrying about you.
LETTER XXXIV
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. FRIDAY, MARCH 17.
I receive, with great pleasure, the early and cheerful assurances of your loyalty and love. And let our principal and most trusty friends named in my last know that I do.
I gladly receive your early and cheerful reassurances of your loyalty and love. Please let our main and most trusted friends mentioned in my last message know that I do.
I would have thee, Jack, come down, as soon as thou canst. I believe I shall not want the others so soon. Yet they may come down to Lord M.'s. I will be there, if not to receive them, to satisfy my lord, that there is no new mischief in hand, which will require his second intervention.
I want you to come down, Jack, as soon as you can. I don't think I'll need the others right away. But they can come down to Lord M.'s. I'll be there, if not to greet them, to reassure my lord that there isn't any new trouble brewing that would require his intervention again.
For thyself, thou must be constantly with me: not for my security: the family dare do nothing but bully: they bark only at a distance: but for my entertainment: that thou mayest, from the Latin and the English classics, keep my lovesick soul from drooping.
For yourself, you have to be constantly with me: not for my safety: the family can only bully me: they only bark from a distance: but for my entertainment: so that you can, through the Latin and English classics, keep my lovesick soul from feeling down.
Thou hadst best come to me here, in thy old corporal's coat: thy servant out of livery; and to be upon a familiar footing with me, as a distant relation, to be provided for by thy interest above—I mean not in Heaven, thou mayest be sure. Thou wilt find me at a little alehouse, they call it an inn; the White Hart, most terribly wounded, (but by the weather only,) the sign: in a sorry village, within five miles from Harlowe-place. Every body knows Harlowe-place, for, like Versailles, it is sprung up from a dunghill, within every elderly person's remembrance. Every poor body, particularly, knows it: but that only for a few years past, since a certain angel has appeared there among the sons and daughters of men.
You should come to me here, in your old corporal's coat: your servant out of uniform; and let's be on friendly terms, as distant relatives, and you can help me with your connections above—I’m not talking about Heaven, just so you know. You’ll find me at a little pub they call an inn; the White Hart, which is quite run-down (but just because of the weather), the sign out front, in a shabby village about five miles from Harlowe-place. Everyone knows Harlowe-place, because, like Versailles, it has risen from a dump in the memory of every older person. Every poor person, especially, knows it: but that’s only been the case for the past few years, since a certain angel has shown up there among the sons and daughters of men.
The people here at the Hart are poor, but honest; and have gotten it into their heads, that I am a man of quality in disguise; and there is no reining-in their officious respect. Here is a pretty little smirking daughter, seventeen six days ago. I call her my Rose-bud. Her grandmother (for there is no mother), a good neat old woman, as ever filled a wicker chair in a chimney-corner, has besought me to be merciful to her.
The people here at the Hart are poor but honest, and they've got it in their heads that I'm a person of importance in disguise; and there’s no stopping their overly friendly respect. Here’s a charming little girl, just turned seventeen six days ago. I call her my Rose-bud. Her grandmother (since there’s no mother), a sweet tidy old woman who could always be found in a wicker chair by the fireplace, has asked me to be kind to her.
This is the right way with me. Many and many a pretty rogue had I spared, whom I did not spare, had my power been acknowledged, and my mercy in time implored. But the debellare superbos should be my motto, were I to have a new one.
This is how it is with me. There are countless charming tricksters I would have saved, whom I didn’t save because my authority wasn’t recognized, and my kindness wasn’t asked for in time. But if I were to adopt a new motto, it would be "defeat the proud."
This simple chit (for there is a simplicity in her thou wouldst be highly pleased with: all humble; all officious; all innocent—I love her for her humility, her officiousness, and even for her innocence) will be pretty amusement to thee; while I combat with the weather, and dodge and creep about the walls and purlieus of Harlowe-place. Thou wilt see in her mind, all that her superiors have been taught to conceal, in order to render themselves less natural, and of consequence less pleasing.
This simple note (because there's a simplicity about her that you'd really like: she's all humble, all eager to help, and all innocent—I love her for her humility, her eagerness, and even for her innocence) will be quite entertaining for you; while I deal with the weather and sneak around the walls and surroundings of Harlowe Place. You'll see in her thoughts everything that her superiors have been taught to hide, making themselves less genuine and, as a result, less enjoyable.
But I charge thee, that thou do not (what I would not permit myself to do for the world—I charge thee, that thou do not) crop my Rose-bud. She is the only flower of fragrance, that has blown in this vicinage for ten years past, or will for ten years to come: for I have looked backward to the have-been's, and forward to the will-be's; having but too much leisure upon my hands in my present waiting.
But I urge you, please don’t (which I wouldn’t allow myself to do for anything—I urge you, please don’t) pick my rosebud. She’s the only fragrant flower that has bloomed in this area for the last ten years or will for the next ten: I’ve looked back at what has happened and forward to what will happen; I have too much time on my hands while I wait here.
I never was so honest for so long together since my matriculation. It behoves me so to be—some way or other, my recess at this little inn may be found out; and it will then be thought that my Rose-bud has attracted me. A report in my favour, from simplicities so amiable, may establish me; for the grandmother's relation to my Rose-bud may be sworn to: and the father is an honest, poor man; has no joy, but in his Rose-bud.—O Jack! spare thou, therefore, (for I shall leave thee often alone with her, spare thou) my Rose-bud!—Let the rule I never departed from, but it cost me a long regret, be observed to my Rose-bud!—never to ruin a poor girl, whose simplicity and innocence were all she had to trust to; and whose fortunes were too low to save her from the rude contempts of worse minds than her own, and from an indigence extreme: such a one will only pine in secret; and at last, perhaps, in order to refuge herself from slanderous tongues and virulence, be induced to tempt some guilty stream, or seek her end in the knee-encircling garter, that peradventure, was the first attempt of abandoned love.—No defiances will my Rose-bud breathe; no self-dependent, thee-doubting watchfulness (indirectly challenging thy inventive machinations to do their worst) will she assume. Unsuspicious of her danger, the lamb's throat will hardly shun thy knife!—O be not thou the butcher of my lambkin!
I haven't been this honest for this long since I graduated high school. I need to be—somehow, my stay at this little inn might be discovered; and then people will think my Rose-bud has pulled me in. A positive report about me, stemming from such genuine simplicity, might secure my position; after all, the grandmother's connection to my Rose-bud can be verified, and the father is an honest, poor man who finds joy only in his Rose-bud. —Oh Jack! So please, (since I’ll often leave you alone with her, please) take care of my Rose-bud!—Let the rule I’ve never deviated from, even though it has caused me much regret, be followed for my Rose-bud!—never ruin a poor girl, whose simplicity and innocence are all she has to rely on; and whose circumstances are too dire to protect her from the harsh judgments of those with meaner minds, and from extreme poverty: someone like her will only suffer in silence; and eventually, perhaps to escape slander and hostility, she may be tempted to pursue a destructive path, or seek refuge in something that could lead her to desperate actions, which might be the first step of a forsaken love. —My Rose-bud will not make defiant stands; she won’t take on the burden of self-dependence or be suspicious that you might try to harm her. Unaware of the danger, she might as well be a lamb waiting for you to strike! —Oh, please don’t be the butcher of my little lamb!
The less thou be so, for the reason I am going to give thee—The gentle heart is touched by love: her soft bosom heaves with a passion she has not yet found a name for. I once caught her eye following a young carpenter, a widow neighbour's son, living [to speak in her dialect] at the little white house over the way. A gentle youth he also seems to be, about three years older than herself: playmates from infancy, till his eighteenth and her fifteenth year furnished a reason for a greater distance in shew, while their hearts gave a better for their being nearer than ever—for I soon perceived the love reciprocal. A scrape and a bow at first seeing his pretty mistress; turning often to salute her following eye; and, when a winding lane was to deprive him of her sight, his whole body turned round, his hat more reverently doffed than before. This answered (for, unseen, I was behind her) by a low courtesy, and a sigh, that Johnny was too far off to hear!—Happy whelp! said I to myself.—I withdrew; and in tript my Rose-bud, as if satisfied with the dumb shew, and wishing nothing beyond it.
The less you are like that, for the reason I’m about to tell you—The gentle heart is moved by love: her soft chest rises with a passion she hasn’t yet named. I once caught her eye following a young carpenter, the son of a widow neighbor, who lives [to speak in her dialect] in the little white house across the way. He also seems to be a kind young man, about three years older than her: they were playmates since childhood, until his eighteenth birthday and her fifteenth created a reason for them to keep a greater distance in appearance, while their hearts grew closer than ever—for I soon noticed that the love was mutual. A little laugh and a bow when he first saw his pretty lady; he turned back often to greet her with his searching eyes; and when a winding path threatened to take him out of her sight, he turned his whole body around, his hat taken off more reverently than before. This was answered (for I was unseen, hiding behind her) with a low curtsey and a sigh, which Johnny was too far away to hear!—Happy kid! I thought to myself.—I stepped back; and my Rose-bud danced in, as if content with the silent display and wanting nothing more.
I have examined the little heart. She has made me her confidant. She owns, she could love Johnny Barton very well: and Johnny Barton has told her, he could love her better than any maiden he ever saw—but, alas! it must not be thought of. Why not be thought of!—She don't know!—And then she sighed: But Johnny has an aunt, who will give him an hundred pounds, when his time is out; and her father cannot give her but a few things, or so, to set her out with: and though Johnny's mother says, she knows not where Johnny would have a prettier, or notabler wife, yet—And then she sighed again—What signifies talking?—I would not have Johnny be unhappy and poor for me!—For what good would that do me, you know, Sir!
I have looked at the little heart. She has made me her trusted friend. She admits she could love Johnny Barton very well; and Johnny Barton has told her he could love her more than any girl he’s ever seen—but, unfortunately, it can’t be considered. Why can’t it be considered?—She has no idea!—And then she sighed: But Johnny has an aunt who will give him a hundred pounds when his time is up; and her father can only give her a few things to help her get started: and even though Johnny's mother says she doesn't know where Johnny could find a prettier or more remarkable wife, yet—And then she sighed again—What’s the point of talking?—I wouldn’t want Johnny to be unhappy and poor because of me!—What good would that do me, you know, Sir!
What would I give [by my soul, my angel will indeed reform me, if her friends' implacable folly ruin us not both!—What would I give] to have so innocent and so good a heart, as either my Rose-bud's, or Johnny's!
What would I give [by my soul, my angel will definitely change me, if her friends' stubborn foolishness doesn't ruin both of us!—What would I give] to have such an innocent and good heart, like either my Rose-bud's or Johnny's!
I have a confounded mischievous one—by nature too, I think!—A good motion now-and-then rises from it: but it dies away presently—a love of intrigue—an invention for mischief—a triumph in subduing—fortune encouraging and supporting—and a constitution—What signifies palliating? But I believe I had been a rogue, had I been a plough-boy.
I have a really mischievous one—by nature too, I think!—Sometimes a good idea comes from it, but it fades away quickly—a love for intrigue—an ability to cause trouble—a thrill in dominating—luck cheering and backing me up—and my own disposition—What good does it do to cover it up? But I believe I would have been a rascal if I had been a farm boy.
But the devil's in this sex! Eternal misguiders. Who, that has once trespassed with them, ever recovered his virtue? And yet where there is not virtue, which nevertheless we freelivers are continually plotting to destroy, what is there even in the ultimate of our wishes with them?—Preparation and expectation are in a manner every thing: reflection indeed may be something, if the mind be hardened above feeling the guilt of a past trespass: but the fruition, what is there in that? And yet that being the end, nature will not be satisfied without it.
But the real danger is in sex! It's a constant temptation. Who, after crossing that line, ever regains their virtue? And yet, where there’s no virtue—which we free-spirited folks are always trying to undermine—what is even left in our deepest desires with them? Preparation and anticipation are pretty much everything. Reflection can matter if you’ve toughened your mind to ignore the guilt of past mistakes. But in the end, what’s the point of actually going through with it? Yet, since that’s the goal, nature won't be satisfied without it.
See what grave reflections an innocent subject will produce! It gives me some pleasure to think, that it is not out of my power to reform: but then, Jack, I am afraid I must keep better company than I do at present—for we certainly harden one another. But be not cast down, my boy; there will be time enough to give the whole fraternity warning to choose another leader: and I fancy thou wilt be the man.
See what serious thoughts an innocent person will inspire! It makes me feel a bit better to think that I can change for the better: but then, Jack, I worry I need to surround myself with better people than I do now—because we definitely influence each other in a negative way. But don’t be discouraged, my boy; there will be plenty of time to warn the whole group to pick a different leader: and I believe you will be that person.
Mean time, as I make it my rule, whenever I have committed a very capital enormity, to do some good by way of atonement; and as I believe I am a pretty deal indebted on that score, I intend, before I leave these parts (successfully shall I leave them I hope, or I shall be tempted to double the mischief by way of revenge, though not to my Rose-bud any) to join an hundred pounds to Johnny's aunt's hundred pounds, to make one innocent couple happy.—I repeat therefore, and for half a dozen more therefores, spare thou my Rose-bud.
In the meantime, I've made it a habit that whenever I mess up big time, I try to do something good to make up for it. Since I feel like I owe a lot in that department, I plan, before I leave this place (which I hope to do successfully, or else I'll be tempted to cause even more trouble out of spite, though not towards my Rose-bud), to add a hundred pounds to Johnny's aunt's hundred pounds to make one innocent couple happy. So I say again, for several more reasons, please spare my Rose-bud.
An interruption—another letter anon; and both shall go together.
An interruption—another letter coming soon; and both will go together.
LETTER XXXV
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
I have found out by my watchful spy almost as many of my charmer's motions, as those of the rest of her relations. It delights me to think how the rascal is caressed by the uncles and nephew; and let into their secrets; yet it proceeds all the time by my line of direction. I have charged him, however, on forfeiture of his present weekly stipend, and my future favour, to take care, that neither my beloved, nor any of the family suspect him: I have told him that he may indeed watch her egresses and regresses; but that only keep off other servants from her paths; yet not to be seen by her himself.
I’ve learned from my watchful spy almost as much about my charmers' actions as I have about the rest of her family. It makes me happy to think about how the rascal is being spoiled by the uncles and nephew and is let in on their secrets, all while following my instructions. However, I’ve warned him, on the penalty of losing his current weekly pay and my future support, to ensure that neither my love nor any family member suspects him. I also told him that he can definitely keep an eye on her comings and goings, but he should make sure other servants stay away from her, while not letting her see him at all.
The dear creature has tempted him, he told them, with a bribe [which she never offered] to convey a letter [which she never wrote] to Miss Howe; he believes, with one enclosed (perhaps to me): but he declined it: and he begged they would take notice of it to her. This brought him a stingy shilling; great applause; and an injunction followed it to all the servants, for the strictest look-out, lest she should contrive some way to send it—and, above an hour after, an order was given him to throw himself in her way; and (expressing his concern for denying her request) to tender his service to her, and to bring them her letter: which it will be proper for him to report that she has refused to give him.
The poor guy has been tempted by her, he told them, with a bribe [that she never offered] to deliver a letter [that she never wrote] to Miss Howe; he thinks there might have been one enclosed (maybe for me): but he turned it down: and he asked them to let her know about it. This got him a measly shilling; lots of praise; and then all the staff were ordered to keep a close eye on things, in case she tried to send it some other way—and over an hour later, he was told to put himself in her path; and (showing his concern for refusing her request) to offer his help to her, and to bring them her letter: which he should make clear that she has refused to give him.
Now seest thou not, how many good ends this contrivance answers?
Don't you see how many good purposes this plan serves?
In the first place, the lady is secured by it, against her own knowledge, in the liberty allowed her of taking her private walks in the garden: for this attempt has confirmed them in their belief, that now they have turned off her maid, she has no way to send a letter out of the house: if she had, she would not have run the risque of tempting a fellow who had not been in her secret—so that she can prosecute unsuspectedly her correspondence with me and Miss Howe.
In the first place, the lady is protected by it, without her knowing, in the freedom she has to take her private walks in the garden: this attempt has reinforced their belief that now they’ve sent her maid away, she has no way to send a letter out of the house. If she had a way, she wouldn’t have risked tempting someone who wasn’t in on her secret—so she can carry on her correspondence with me and Miss Howe without being suspected.
In the next place, it will perhaps afford me an opportunity of a private interview with her, which I am meditating, let her take it as she will; having found out by my spy (who can keep off every body else) that she goes every morning and evening to a wood-house remote from the dwelling-house, under pretence of visiting and feeding a set of bantam-poultry, which were produced from a breed that was her grandfather's, and of which for that reason she is very fond; as also of some other curious fowls brought from the same place. I have an account of all her motions here. And as she has owned to me in one of her letters that she corresponds privately with Miss Howe, I presume it is by this way.
Next, it might give me a chance for a private meeting with her, which I’m planning, whether she likes it or not; I’ve discovered through my informant (who can keep everyone else away) that she goes to a secluded shed every morning and evening, pretending to visit and feed a group of bantam chickens that come from a breed owned by her grandfather, which is why she’s so fond of them, along with some other interesting birds from the same source. I have a full account of her activities here. Since she admitted in one of her letters that she secretly corresponds with Miss Howe, I assume this is how it happens.
The interview I am meditating, will produce her consent, I hope, to other favours of the like kind: for, should she not choose the place in which I am expecting to see her, I can attend her any where in the rambling Dutch-taste garden, whenever she will permit me that honour: for my implement, high Joseph Leman, has procured me the opportunity of getting two keys made to the garden-door (one of which I have given him for reasons good); which door opens to the haunted coppice, as tradition has made the servants think it; a man having been found hanging in it about twenty years ago: and Joseph, upon proper notice, will leave it unbolted.
I'm hoping the interview I'm planning will lead her to agree to other similar favors. If she doesn't want to meet in the place I'm expecting, I can meet her anywhere in the sprawling Dutch-style garden whenever she allows me the honor. My associate, the esteemed Joseph Leman, has arranged for me to have two keys made for the garden door (I’ve given him one for good reasons). That door leads to the so-called haunted thicket, as the staff believes; a man was found hanging there about twenty years ago. Joseph, with the right notice, will leave it unlatched.
But I was obliged previously to give him my honour, that no mischief should happen to any of my adversaries, from this liberty: for the fellow tells me, that he loves all his masters: and, only that he knows I am a man of honour; and that my alliance will do credit to the family; and after prejudices are overcome, every body will think so; or he would not for the world act the part he does.
But I had to promise him earlier that none of my rivals would come to harm because of this freedom: he tells me he loves all his masters, and only because he knows I’m a person of integrity; that my connection will reflect well on his family; and once people get past their biases, everyone will agree; otherwise, he wouldn’t act the way he does for anything.
There never was a rogue, who had not a salvo to himself for being so.—What a praise to honesty, that every man pretends to it, even at the instant that he knows he is pursuing the methods that will perhaps prove him a knave to the whole world, as well as to his own conscience!
There’s never been a scoundrel who didn’t have an excuse for being one. What a compliment to honesty that every person claims to be honest, even while knowing they’re following paths that might make them a liar in the eyes of the world and to their own conscience!
But what this stupid family can mean, to make all this necessary, I cannot imagine. My REVENGE and my LOVE are uppermost by turns. If the latter succeed not, the gratifying of the former will be my only consolation: and, by all that's good, they shall feel it; although for it I become an exile from my native country for ever.
But I can't understand what this ridiculous family is thinking to make all of this necessary. My REVENGE and my LOVE are constantly battling inside me. If I can't have the latter, then satisfying the former will be my only comfort: and, by everything good, they will feel it; even if it means I become an exile from my homeland forever.
I will throw myself into my charmer's presence. I have twice already attempted it in vain. I shall then see what I may depend upon from her favour. If I thought I had no prospect of that, I should be tempted to carry her off. That would be a rape worthy of Jupiter!
I will throw myself at my charmer's feet. I've tried it twice already without success. Then I'll find out what I can expect from her favor. If I believed I had no chance of that, I might be tempted to take her away. That would be a scandal worthy of Jupiter!
But all gentle shall be my movements: all respectful, even to reverence, my address to her—her hand shall be the only witness to the pressure of my lip—my trembling lip: I know it will tremble, if I do not bid it tremble. As soft my sighs, as the sighs of my gentle Rose-bud. By my humility will I invite her confidence: the loneliness of the place shall give me no advantage: to dissipate her fears, and engage her reliance upon my honour for the future, shall be my whole endeavour: but little will I complain of, not at all will I threaten, those who are continually threatening me: but yet with a view to act the part of Dryden's lion; to secure my love, or to let loose my vengeance upon my hunters.
But all my movements will be gentle: all respectful, even reverent, in how I address her—only her hand will witness the pressure of my lip—my trembling lip: I know it will tremble unless I will it not to. My sighs will be as soft as those of my gentle rosebud. Through my humility, I will invite her trust: the solitude of the place will give me no advantage; my entire effort will be to ease her fears and earn her trust in my honor for the future. I won’t complain much, nor will I threaten those who constantly threaten me; yet I plan to play the part of Dryden's lion—to secure my love or unleash my vengeance on my pursuers.
What tho' his mighty soul his grief contains? He meditates revenge who least complains: And like a lion slumb'ring in his way, Or sleep dissembling, while he waits his prey, His fearless foes within his distance draws, Constrains his roaring, and contracts his paws: Till at the last, his time for fury found, He shoots with sudden vengeance from the ground: The prostrate vulgar passes o'er, and spares, But, with a lordly rage, his hunter tears.
What though his strong spirit holds his sorrow? He plans revenge while keeping quiet: And like a lion sleeping in his path, Or pretending to be asleep while waiting for his prey, He pulls in his fearless enemies within reach, Holds back his roar, and retracts his claws: Until at last, he finds his moment for wrath, He springs suddenly with vengeance from the ground: The common people pass by and are spared, But, with royal fury, he attacks his hunter.
LETTER XXXVI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE SATURDAY, MARCH 18.
I have been frighted out of my wits—still am in a manner out of breath—thus occasioned—I went down, under the usual pretence, in hopes to find something from you. Concerned at my disappointment, I was returning from the wood-house, when I heard a rustling as of somebody behind a stack of wood. I was extremely surprised: but still more, to behold a man coming from behind the furthermost stack. Oh! thought I, at that moment, the sin of a prohibited correspondence!
I’ve been scared out of my mind—and I’m still a bit breathless—so I went down, under the usual pretense, hoping to find something from you. I was upset by my disappointment and was coming back from the wood shed when I heard a rustling behind a stack of wood. I was really surprised, but even more so when I saw a man coming from behind the farthest stack. Oh! I thought at that moment, the sin of an illicit relationship!
In the same point of time that I saw him, he besought me not to be frighted: and, still nearer approaching me, threw open a horseman's coat: And who should it be but Mr. Lovelace!—I could not scream out (yet attempted to scream, the moment I saw a man; and again, when I saw who it was); for I had no voice: and had I not caught hold of a prop which supported the old roof, I should have sunk.
At the same moment I saw him, he pleaded with me not to be scared. As he got closer, he opened up a horseman's coat. And who should it be but Mr. Lovelace! I wanted to scream when I first saw a man, and again when I realized who it was, but no sound came out. If I hadn't grabbed onto a support beam that held up the old roof, I would have collapsed.
I had hitherto, as you know, kept him at a distance: And now, as I recovered myself, judge of my first emotions, when I recollected his character from every mouth of my family; his enterprising temper; and found myself alone with him, in a place so near a bye-lane, and so remote from the house.
I had previously, as you know, kept him at a distance. And now, as I collected myself, just imagine my first feelings when I remembered what my family had said about his character; his adventurous nature; and realized that I was alone with him, in a spot so close to a back road and so far from the house.
But his respectful behaviour soon dissipated these fears, and gave me others; lest we should be seen together, and information of it given to my brother: the consequences of which, I could readily think, would be, if not further mischief, an imputed assignation, a stricter confinement, a forfeited correspondence with you, my beloved friend, and a pretence for the most violent compulsion: and neither the one set of reflections, nor the other, acquitted him to me for his bold intrusion.
But his polite behavior quickly eased my worries and created new ones; I was concerned that we might be seen together, which could get back to my brother. I could easily imagine the consequences: if not worse trouble, then accusations of meeting in secret, stricter confinement, losing contact with you, my dear friend, and a reason for extreme pressure. Neither of these thoughts made me see him any differently for his audacious intrusion.
As soon therefore as I could speak, I expressed with the greatest warmth my displeasure; and told him, that he cared not how much he exposed me to the resentment of all my friends, provided he could gratify his own impetuous humour. I then commanded him to leave the place that moment; and was hurrying from him, when he threw himself in the way at my feet, beseeching my stay for one moment; declaring, that he suffered himself to be guilty of this rashness, as I thought it, to avoid one much greater:—for, in short, he could not bear the hourly insults he received from my family, with the thoughts of having so little interest in my favour, that he could not promise himself that his patience and forbearance would be attended with any other issue than to lose me for ever, and be triumphed over and insulted upon it.
As soon as I could speak, I expressed my displeasure with great intensity and told him that he didn't care how much he put me at risk of angering all my friends, as long as he could satisfy his own reckless temper. I then told him to leave immediately and was about to run away from him when he threw himself at my feet, begging me to stay for just a moment. He claimed that he acted with this rashness, as I saw it, to avoid an even bigger mistake: in short, he couldn’t bear the constant insults he faced from my family, knowing he had so little chance of winning my favor that he couldn’t promise himself his patience and restraint would lead to anything other than losing me forever and being humiliated and insulted for it.
This man, you know, has very ready knees. You have said, that he ought, in small points, frequently to offend, on purpose to shew what an address he is master of.
This guy, you know, is really flexible. You've said that he should, in minor ways, often mess up on purpose to show off his skills.
He ran on, expressing his apprehensions that a temper so gentle and obliging, as he said mine was, to every body but him, (and a dutifulness so exemplary inclined me to do my part to others, whether they did theirs or not by me,) would be wrought upon in favour of a man set up in part to be revenged upon myself, for my grandfather's envied distinction of me; and in part to be revenged upon him, for having given life to one, who would have taken his; and now sought to deprive him of hopes dearer to him than life.
He kept running, sharing his worries that a temperament as gentle and accommodating as mine—at least towards everyone except him—and my strong sense of duty, which made me want to help others regardless of how they treated me, would be manipulated to benefit a guy who seemed partly set up to get back at me for my grandfather's envy of my achievements; and partly to get revenge on him for giving life to someone who would have taken his own life; and now was trying to rob him of hopes that meant more to him than anything else.
I told him, he might be assured, that the severity and ill-usage I met with would be far from effecting the proposed end: that although I could, with great sincerity, declare for a single life (which had always been my choice); and particularly, that if ever I married, if they would not insist upon the man I had an aversion to, it should not be with the man they disliked—
I told him that he could be sure the harsh treatment I received would do nothing to achieve the intended goal: that even though I could honestly say I preferred being single (which had always been my choice); and especially, that if I ever got married, if they wouldn’t push for the guy I didn’t like, it wouldn’t be with the man they disliked—
He interrupted me here: He hoped I would forgive him for it; but he could not help expressing his great concern, that, after so many instances of his passionate and obsequious devotion—
He interrupted me here: He hoped I would forgive him for it; but he couldn’t help expressing his deep concern that, after so many examples of his passionate and servile devotion—
And pray, Sir, said I, let me interrupt you in my turn;—Why don't you assert, in still plainer words, the obligation you have laid me under by this your boasted devotion? Why don't you let me know, in terms as high as your implication, that a perseverance I have not wished for, which has set all my relations at variance with me, is a merit that throws upon me the guilt of ingratitude for not having answered it as you seem to expect?
And please, Sir, let me interrupt you for a moment;—Why don't you clearly state the obligation you've placed on me with your claimed devotion? Why don't you tell me, as boldly as you imply, that my continued effort, which I haven't desired and which has caused conflict with all my family, is a virtue that makes me guilty of ingratitude for not responding the way you seem to expect?
I must forgive him, he said, if he, who pretended only to a comparative merit, (and otherwise thought no man living could deserve me,) had presumed to hope for a greater share in my favour, than he had hitherto met with, when such men as Mr. Symmes, Mr. Wyerley, and now, lastly, so vile a reptile as this Solmes, however discouraged by myself, were made his competitors. As to the perseverance I mentioned, it was impossible for him not to persevere: but I must needs know, that were he not in being, the terms Solmes had proposed were such, as would have involved me in the same difficulties with my relations that I now laboured under. He therefore took the liberty to say, that my favour to him, far from increasing those difficulties, would be the readiest way to extricate me from them. They had made it impossible [he told me, with too much truth] to oblige them any way, but by sacrificing myself to Solmes. They were well apprized besides of the difference between the two; one, whom they hoped to manage as they pleased; the other, who could and would protect me from every insult; and who had natural prospects much superior to my brother's foolish views of a title.
I have to forgive him, he said, if he, who only claimed to have some merit, (and otherwise thought that no one alive could deserve me,) had dared to hope for more of my attention than he had received so far, when men like Mr. Symmes, Mr. Wyerley, and most recently, such a despicable person as Solmes, were competing for my affection, even though I had discouraged them. As for the persistence I mentioned, it was impossible for him not to be determined: but I must admit that if he weren't around, the terms Solmes proposed would have put me in the same tough spot with my family that I’m currently facing. He, therefore, felt free to say that my favor towards him would not only not make those problems worse, but would actually be the quickest way to help me get out of them. He told me, with too much honesty, that they had left me no choice but to sacrifice myself to Solmes to please them. They were also fully aware of the difference between the two; one, whom they hoped to control as they wanted; the other, who could and would protect me from any insult, and who had prospects that were far better than my brother's foolish ambition for a title.
How comes this man to know so well all our foibles? But I more wonder, how he came to have a notion of meeting me in this place?
How does this guy know all our flaws so well? But I’m even more curious about how he thought of meeting me here.
I was very uneasy to be gone; and the more as the night came on apace. But there was no getting from him, till I had heard a great deal more of what he had to say.
I felt really uncomfortable about being away, especially as night approached quickly. But I couldn’t leave until I heard a lot more of what he had to say.
As he hoped, that I would one day make him the happiest man in the world, he assured me, that he had so much regard for my fame, that he would be as far from advising any step that was likely to cast a shade upon my reputation, (although that step was to be ever so much in his own favour,) as I would be to follow such advice. But since I was not to be permitted to live single, he would submit it to my consideration, whether I had any way but one to avoid the intended violence to my inclinations—my father so jealous of his authority: both my uncles in my father's way of thinking: my cousin Morden at a distance: my uncle and aunt Hervey awed into insignificance, was his word: my brother and sister inflaming every one: Solmes's offers captivating: Miss Howe's mother rather of a party with them, for motives respecting example to her own daughter.
As he hoped that I would one day make him the happiest man in the world, he assured me that he cared so much about my reputation that he would never suggest anything that could tarnish it, even if it benefited him greatly. Since living alone wasn’t an option for me, he asked me to consider whether I had any way to avoid the situation that was being forced upon me—my father being so protective of his authority, both my uncles aligning with my father’s views, my cousin Morden being far away, my uncle and aunt Hervey rendered powerless, my brother and sister stirring up trouble for everyone, Solmes's enticing offers, and Miss Howe's mother being somewhat allied with them, likely for the sake of setting an example for her own daughter.
And then he asked me, if I would receive a letter from Lady Betty Lawrance, on this occasion: for Lady Sarah Sadleir, he said, having lately lost her only child, hardly looked into the world, or thought of it farther than to wish him married, and, preferably to all the women in the world, with me.
And then he asked me if I would accept a letter from Lady Betty Lawrance regarding this matter. He mentioned that Lady Sarah Sadleir, having recently lost her only child, barely engaged with the world and only thought about it in terms of wanting him to get married, ideally to me over anyone else.
To be sure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man said—I may be allowed to say this, without an imputed glow or throb. But I told him nevertheless, that although I had great honour for the ladies he was related to, yet I should not choose to receive a letter on a subject that had a tendency to promote an end I was far from intending to promote: that it became me, ill as I was treated at present, to hope every thing, to bear every thing, and to try ever thing: when my father saw my steadfastness, and that I would die rather than have Mr. Solmes, he would perhaps recede—
Sure, my dear, there's a lot of truth in what the man said—I think I can say this without sounding too dramatic. But I told him, even though I have a lot of respect for the ladies he’s connected to, I wouldn’t want to receive a letter about a topic that would lead to something I definitely don’t want. I believed it was important, despite how poorly I was being treated right now, to keep hoping, endure everything, and try everything: when my father sees my determination, and that I would rather die than be with Mr. Solmes, maybe he would rethink his position—
Interrupting me, he represented the unlikelihood there was of that, from the courses they had entered upon; which he thus enumerated:—Their engaging Mrs. Howe against me, in the first place, as a person I might have thought to fly to, if pushed to desperation—my brother continually buzzing in my father's ears, that my cousin Morden would soon arrive, and then would insist upon giving me possession of my grandfather's estate, in pursuance of the will; which would render me independent of my father—their disgraceful confinement of me—their dismissing so suddenly my servant, and setting my sister's over me—their engaging my mother, contrary to her own judgment, against me: these, he said, were all so many flagrant proofs that they would stick at nothing to carry their point; and were what made him inexpressibly uneasy.
Interrupting me, he pointed out the unlikelihood of that happening given the paths they had chosen. He listed several things: first, they had persuaded Mrs. Howe to turn against me, a person I might have thought to turn to in desperation; my brother was constantly whispering in my father’s ear that my cousin Morden would arrive soon and would insist on giving me my grandfather's estate as stated in the will, which would make me independent of my father; their disgraceful confinement of me; their sudden dismissal of my servant and replacing him with my sister's; and their convincing my mother to go against me, despite her better judgment. He said these were all glaring signs that they would do anything to achieve their goals, which made him extremely uneasy.
He appealed to me, whether ever I knew my father recede from any resolution he had once fixed; especially, if he thought either his prerogative, or his authority concerned in the question. His acquaintance with our family, he said, enabled him to give several instances (but they would be too grating to me) of an arbitrariness that had few examples even in the families of princes: an arbitrariness, which the most excellent of women, my mother, too severely experienced. He was proceeding, as I thought, with reflections of this sort; and I angrily told him, I would not permit my father to be reflected upon; adding, that his severity to me, however unmerited, was not a warrant for me to dispense with my duty to him.
He appealed to me, asking if I had ever seen my father back down from a decision he had made; especially if it involved his power or authority. He mentioned that his acquaintance with our family allowed him to share several examples (but they would be too upsetting for me) of a harshness that was rarely seen even in royal families: a harshness that the most wonderful of women, my mother, suffered from too much. He seemed to be going on with thoughts like these, and I angrily told him I wouldn’t allow him to criticize my father, adding that my father's strictness toward me, no matter how undeserved, didn’t give me a reason to neglect my duty to him.
He had no pleasure, he said, in urging any thing that could be so construed; for, however well warranted he was to make such reflections from the provocations they were continually giving him, he knew how offensive to me any liberties of this sort would be. And yet he must own, that it was painful to him, who had youth and passions to be allowed for, as well as others, and who had always valued himself under speaking his mind, to curb himself, under such treatment. Nevertheless, his consideration for me would make him confine himself, in his observations, to facts that were too flagrant, and too openly avowed, to be disputed. It could not therefore justly displease, he would venture to say, if he made this natural inference from the premises, That if such were my father's behaviour to a wife, who disputed not the imaginary prerogatives he was so unprecedently fond of asserting, what room had a daughter to hope, that he would depart from an authority he was so earnest, and so much more concerned, to maintain?—Family-interests at the same time engaging; an aversion, however causelessly conceived, stimulating my brother's and sister's resentments and selfish views cooperating; and my banishment from their presence depriving me of all personal plea or entreaty in my own favour.
He said he didn't find any pleasure in suggesting anything that could be interpreted that way; because, even though he had every right to make such remarks due to the constant provocations he faced, he understood how offensive any kind of liberties like that would be to me. Still, he had to admit it was painful for him, someone with youth and passions to consider, just like anyone else, and who always prided himself on being truthful, to hold back under such treatment. However, his respect for me would lead him to limit his comments to facts that were too obvious and openly acknowledged to be challenged. Therefore, it shouldn't rightfully upset him if he drew a natural conclusion from the facts: if that was my father’s behavior towards a wife who did not challenge the imaginary privileges he so unusually liked to assert, what hope could a daughter have that he would change his stance on an authority he was so eager and determined to maintain? - Family interests were also at play; an unfounded dislike stoked my brother's and sister's resentments, and their selfish motives worked together against me, while my exclusion from their presence left me without any personal plea or request on my own behalf.
How unhappy, my dear, that there is but too much reason for these observations, and for this inference; made, likewise, with more coolness and respect to my family than one would have apprehended from a man so much provoked, and of passions so high, and generally thought uncontroulable!
How unfortunate, my dear, that there’s too much reason for these comments and this conclusion; made with more calmness and respect for my family than one would expect from someone so angry, with such intense emotions, and generally considered uncontrollable!
Will you not question me about throbs and glows, if from such instances of a command over his fiery temper, for my sake, I am ready to infer, that were my friends capable of a reconciliation with him, he might be affected by arguments apparently calculated for his present and future good! Nor is it a very bad indication, that he has such moderate notions of that very high prerogative in husbands, of which we in our family have been accustomed to hear so much.
Will you not ask me about feelings and emotions, since from these examples of his control over his fiery temper, for my sake, I can infer that if my friends could reconcile with him, he might be swayed by arguments meant for his present and future well-being! It's also not a bad sign that he has such reasonable views about the high privileges of husbands, which we in our family have often heard about.
He represented to me, that my present disgraceful confinement was known to all the world: that neither my sister nor my brother scrupled to represent me as an obliged and favoured child in a state of actual rebellion. That, nevertheless, every body who knew me was ready to justify me for an aversion to a man whom every body thought utterly unworthy of me, and more fit for my sister: that unhappy as he was, in not having been able to make any greater impression upon me in his favour, all the world gave me to him. Nor was there but one objection made to him by his very enemies (his birth, his prospects all very unexceptionable, and the latter splendid); and that objection, he thanked God, and my example, was in a fair way of being removed for ever: since he had seen his error, and was heartily sick of the courses he had followed; which, however, were far less enormous than malice and envy had represented them to be. But of this he should say the less, as it were much better to justify himself by his actions, than by the most solemn asseverations and promises. And then, complimenting my person, he assured me (for that he always loved virtue, although he had not followed its rules as he ought) that he was still more captivated with the graces of my mind: and would frankly own, that till he had the honour to know me, he had never met with an inducement sufficient to enable him to overcome an unhappy kind of prejudice to matrimony; which had made him before impenetrable to the wishes and recommendations of all his relations.
He told me that my current embarrassing situation was known by everyone: that neither my sister nor my brother hesitated to portray me as a favored child who was openly rebellious. Yet, surprisingly, everyone who knew me was ready to support my dislike for a man whom they all believed was completely unworthy of me and better suited for my sister. Although he was unfortunate in not being able to make a stronger impression on me, everyone still pushed for me to be with him. There was only one criticism of him from his opponents (his background and prospects were flawless, and his future looked bright); this criticism, he was grateful to say, and thanks to my example, was on track to being eliminated forever: he recognized his mistakes and was genuinely tired of the choices he had made, which were, in reality, nowhere near as terrible as malice and envy had depicted. However, he felt it was better to prove himself through his actions rather than through empty promises and strong assurances. Then, while complimenting my appearance, he assured me (because he had always loved virtue, even if he had not followed its principles as he should have) that he was even more enchanted by the qualities of my mind. He would admit that until he had the honor of knowing me, he had never encountered anything strong enough to change his unfortunate bias against marriage, which had previously made him immune to the desires and suggestions of all his family.
You see, my dear, he scruples not to speak of himself, as his enemies speak of him. I can't say, but his openness in these particulars gives a credit to his other professions. I should easily, I think, detect an hypocrite: and this man particularly, who is said to have allowed himself in great liberties, were he to pretend to instantaneous lights and convictions—at this time of life too. Habits, I am sensible, are not so easily changed. You have always joined with me in remarking, that he will speak his mind with freedom, even to a degree of unpoliteness sometimes; and that his very treatment of my family is a proof that he cannot make a mean court to any body for interest sake—What pity, where there are such laudable traces, that they should have been so mired, and choaked up, as I may say!—We have heard, that the man's head is better than his heart: But do you really think Mr. Lovelace can have a very bad heart? Why should not there be something in blood in the human creature, as well as in the ignobler animals? None of his family are exceptionable—but himself, indeed. The characters of the ladies are admirable. But I shall incur the imputation I wish to avoid. Yet what a look of censoriousness does it carry in an unsparing friend, to take one to task for doing that justice, and making those which one ought without scruple to do, and to make, in the behalf of any other man living?
You see, my dear, he doesn’t hesitate to talk about himself the way his enemies do. I can't say for sure, but his honesty in these matters lends credibility to his other claims. I think I could easily spot a hypocrite, especially someone like him, who's said to indulge in a lot of freedoms—if he were to suddenly claim clear insights and convictions—especially at this stage in life. I understand that habits aren’t easily changed. You've always pointed out that he speaks his mind freely, sometimes even to the point of being rude; and his treatment of my family is proof that he can’t grovel to anyone for his own benefit. What a shame that such admirable qualities have become so muddied and stifled! We've heard people say that his intellect outweighs his kindness: But do you really believe Mr. Lovelace can have a truly bad heart? Why shouldn’t there be some goodness in people's blood, just like in less noble animals? None of his family is objectionable—except for him, of course. The character of the women in his family is remarkable. Still, I risk the very accusation I want to avoid. Yet, how judgmental does it seem for a candid friend to criticize someone for doing what’s fair, and for making decisions that anyone else should feel no hesitation to make on behalf of another?
He then again pressed me to receive a letter of offered protection from Lady Betty. He said, that people of birth stood a little too much upon punctilio; as people of value also did (but indeed birth, worthily lived up to, was virtue: virtue, birth; the inducements to a decent punctilio the same; the origin of both one): [how came this notion from him!] else, Lady Betty would write to me: but she would be willing to be first apprized that her offer will be well received—as it would have the appearance of being made against the liking of one part of my family; and which nothing would induce her to make, but the degree of unworthy persecution which I actually laboured under, and had reason further to apprehend.
He then insisted again that I accept a letter of protection offered by Lady Betty. He mentioned that people of high status often care too much about formalities; the same goes for people of worth (but really, living up to one’s birth is a virtue: virtue is tied to birth; both have the same reasons for maintaining a decent standard of conduct; both originate from the same source): [where did this idea come from him!] otherwise, Lady Betty would write to me herself. However, she would want to be sure that her offer would be welcomed—especially since it might seem to go against the feelings of one part of my family; and nothing would compel her to make such an offer except the level of unworthy persecution I was actually experiencing, which I had reason to fear might worsen.
I told him, that, however greatly I thought myself obliged to Lady Betty Lawrance, if this offer came from herself; yet it was easy to see to what it led. It might look like vanity in me perhaps to say, that this urgency in him, on this occasion, wore the face of art, in order to engage me into measures from which I might not easily extricate myself. I said, that I should not be affected by the splendour of even a royal title. Goodness, I thought, was greatness. That the excellent characters of the ladies of his family weighed more with me, than the consideration that they were half-sisters to Lord M. and daughters of an earl: that he would not have found encouragement from me, had my friends been consenting to his address, if he had only a mere relative merit to those ladies: since, in that case, the very reasons that made me admire them, would have been so many objections to their kinsman.
I told him that, no matter how much I felt indebted to Lady Betty Lawrance if this offer came from her, it was clear what it really meant. It might seem vain of me to say that his insistence on this occasion felt manipulative, trying to get me involved in something I might not easily get out of. I said that I wouldn't be swayed by the allure of even a royal title. I believed that true greatness came from goodness. The admirable qualities of the women in his family mattered more to me than the fact that they were half-sisters to Lord M. and daughters of an earl. I wouldn't have been interested in him, even if my friends supported his proposal, just because he was related to those women; in that case, the same reasons that made me admire them would have been many reasons against their relative.
I then assured him, that it was with infinite concern, that I had found myself drawn into an epistolary correspondence with him; especially since that correspondence had been prohibited: and the only agreeable use I could think of making of this unexpected and undesired interview, was, to let him know, that I should from henceforth think myself obliged to discontinue it. And I hoped, that he would not have the thought of engaging me to carry it on by menacing my relations.
I then assured him that I was very concerned about having gotten involved in an email exchange with him, especially since it had been forbidden. The only positive outcome I could think of from this unexpected and unwanted interaction was to let him know that I would feel obligated to stop it from now on. I hoped he wouldn’t think about trying to force me to continue by threatening my family.
There was light enough to distinguish, that he looked very grave upon this. He so much valued my free choice, he said, and my unbiassed favour, (scorning to set himself upon a footing with Solmes in the compulsory methods used in that man's behalf,) that he should hate himself, were he capable of a view of intimidating me by so very poor a method. But, nevertheless, there were two things to be considered: First, that the continual outrages he was treated with; the spies set over him, one of which he had detected; the indignities all his family were likewise treated with;—as also, myself; avowedly in malice to him, or he should not presume to take upon himself to resent for me, without my leave [the artful wretch saw he would have lain open here, had he not thus guarded]—all these considerations called upon him to shew a proper resentment: and he would leave it to me to judge, whether it would be reasonable for him, as a man of spirit, to bear such insults, if it were not for my sake. I would be pleased to consider, in the next place, whether the situation I was in, (a prisoner in my father's house, and my whole family determined to compel me to marry a man unworthy of me, and that speedily, and whether I consented or not,) admitted of delay in the preventive measures he was desirous to put me upon, in the last resort only. Nor was there a necessity, he said, if I were actually in Lady Betty's protection, that I should be his, if, afterwards, I should see any thing objectionable in his conduct.
There was enough light to see that he looked very serious about this. He valued my freedom to choose, he said, and my unbiased support, (he was dismissive of putting himself on the same level as Solmes, who used forceful methods on his behalf,) and he would hate himself if he ever thought of intimidating me with such a pathetic tactic. However, there were two things to think about: First, the constant mistreatment he endured; the spies monitoring him, one of whom he had caught; the insults that his whole family faced—and me too; clearly out of spite towards him, or he wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to react for me without my permission [the crafty scoundrel knew he would have exposed himself here if he hadn’t protected himself this way]—all of these factors urged him to express proper anger: and he would leave it to me to decide whether it would be reasonable for him, as a man of honor, to tolerate such insults, if it weren’t for my sake. Next, I should think about whether my situation (a prisoner in my father's house, with my entire family set on forcing me to marry a man beneath me, and quickly, regardless of my consent) allowed for delays in the preventive actions he wanted to take on my behalf, as a last resort. He also mentioned that if I were actually under Lady Betty's protection, I wouldn’t need to be his, if later I found anything troubling about his behavior.
But what would the world conclude would be the end, I demanded, were I, in the last resort, as he proposed, to throw myself into the protection of his friends, but that it was with such a view?
But what would the world think would be the end, I asked, if I, ultimately, as he suggested, relied on the protection of his friends, but that it was for such a reason?
And what less did the world think of me now, he asked, than that I was confined that I might not? You are to consider, Madam, you have not now an option; and to whom is it owing that you have not; and that you are in the power of those (parents, why should I call them?) who are determined, that you shall not have an option. All I propose is, that you will embrace such a protection—but not till you have tried every way, to avoid the necessity for it.
And what less does the world think of me now, he asked, than that I'm stuck here so I can't? You need to understand, Madam, you no longer have a choice; and to whom do you owe that lack of choice; and that you're at the mercy of those (parents, why should I even call them that?) who are set on making sure you don't have a choice. All I'm suggesting is that you accept this protection—but only after you've tried everything possible to avoid needing it.
And give me leave to say, proceeded he, that if a correspondence, on which I have founded all my hopes, is, at this critical conjuncture, to be broken off; and if you are resolved not to be provided against the worst; it must be plain to me, that you will at last yield to that worst—worst to me only—it cannot be to you—and then! [and he put his hand clenched to his forehead] How shall I bear this supposition?—Then will you be that Solmes's!—But, by all that's sacred, neither he, nor your brother, nor your uncles, shall enjoy their triumph—Perdition seize my soul, if they shall!
And let me say this, he continued, if a relationship that I’ve based all my hopes on is going to end right now, and if you’re determined not to prepare for the worst, then it’s clear to me that you will eventually give in to that worst—worst for me only—it won’t be for you— and then! [he clenched his hand to his forehead] How will I handle that thought?—Then you’ll belong to that Solmes!—But, I swear, neither he, nor your brother, nor your uncles will get to celebrate their victory—Damn my soul if they do!
The man's vehemence frightened me: yet, in resentment, I would have left him; but, throwing himself at my feet again, Leave me not thus—I beseech you, dearest Madam, leave me not thus, in despair! I kneel not, repenting of what I have vowed in such a case as that I have supposed. I re-vow it, at your feet!—and so he did. But think not it is by way of menace, or to intimidate you to favour me. If your heart inclines you [and then he arose] to obey your father (your brother rather) and to have Solmes; although I shall avenge myself on those who have insulted me, for their insults to myself and family, yet will I tear out my heart from this bosom (if possible with my own hands) were it to scruple to give up its ardours to a woman capable of such a preference.
The man's intensity scared me; still, out of resentment, I almost walked away from him. But then, throwing himself at my feet again, he pleaded, "Please, dearest Madam, don’t leave me like this, in despair! I’m not kneeling to retract what I promised in the situation I’ve imagined. I promise it again, at your feet!"—and he really did. But don't think it’s a threat or a way to pressure you into choosing me. If your heart leads you to obey your father (or rather, your brother) and go with Solmes, even though I’ll get back at those who have insulted me and my family, I would tear my heart out of my chest (if I could) rather than let it accept a woman who could prefer someone else.
I told him, that he talked to me in very high language; but he might assure himself that I never would have Mr. Solmes, (yet that this I said not in favour to him,) and I had declared as much to my relations, were there not such a man as himself in the world.
I told him that he spoke to me in very formal language, but he can be sure that I would never marry Mr. Solmes, although I didn’t say that to support him. I had already made it clear to my family, as long as there’s someone like him in the world.
Would I declare, that I would still honour him with my correspondence?—He could not bear, that, hoping to obtain greater instances of my favour, he should forfeit the only one he had to boast of.
Would I say that I would still keep in touch with him?—He couldn’t handle the thought that, hoping to get more of my approval, he would lose the only thing he could brag about.
I bid him forbear rashness or resentment to any of my family, and I would, for some time at least, till I saw what issue my present trials were likely to have, proceed with a correspondence, which, nevertheless, my heart condemned—
I asked him to refrain from acting out of anger or resentment toward any of my family, and I would, at least for a while, until I understood how my current challenges were likely to turn out, continue the correspondence, which, however, my heart disapproved of—
And his spirit him, the impatient creature said, interrupting me, for bearing what he did; when he considered, that the necessity of it was imposed upon him, not by my will, (for then he would bear it cheerfully, and a thousand times more,) but by creatures—And there he stopt.
And his spirit, the impatient being said, interrupting me, for putting up with what he did; when he thought about the fact that he was forced to do it, not by my choice, (because then he would accept it willingly, and a thousand times more,) but by others—And then he stopped.
I told him plainly that he might thank himself (whose indifferent character, as to morals, had given such a handle against him) for all. It was but just, that a man should be spoken evil of, who set no value upon his reputation.
I told him straight up that he had only himself to blame (his careless attitude towards morals gave people plenty to criticize him for) for everything. It was only fair that someone should be talked about badly if they didn't care about their reputation.
He offered to vindicate himself. But I told him, I would judge him by his own rule—by his actions, not by his professions.
He offered to clear his name. But I told him I would judge him by his own standards—by his actions, not by his words.
Were not his enemies, he said, so powerful, and so determined; and had they not already shewn their intentions in such high acts of even cruel compulsion; but would leave me to my choice, or to my desire of living single; he would have been content to undergo a twelvemonth's probation, or more: but he was confident, that one month would either complete all their purposes, or render them abortive: and I best knew what hopes I had of my father's receding—he did not know him, if I had any.
If his enemies weren't so powerful and determined, and if they hadn't already shown their intentions through such cruel actions, and if they would just let me choose or let me live alone if I wanted, he would have been willing to endure a year's trial or longer. But he was sure that one month would either fulfill all their plans or make them pointless. I knew best what hopes I had for my father's change of heart—he didn't know him if I had any.
I said, I would try every method, that either my duty or my influence upon any of them should suggest, before I would put myself into any other protection: and, if nothing else would do, would resign the envied estate; and that I dared to say would.
I said I would try every method that either my responsibilities or my influence with any of them suggested before I looked for any other protection. If nothing else worked, I would give up the desired estate, and I was confident that I would do so.
He was contented, he said, to abide that issue. He should be far from wishing me to embrace any other protection, but, as he had frequently said, in the last necessity. But dearest creature, said he, catching my hand with ardour, and pressing it to his lips, if the yielding up of that estate will do—resign it—and be mine—and I will corroborate, with all my soul, your resignation!
He said he was okay with waiting for that decision. He definitely didn’t want me to rely on any other support, but, as he had often mentioned, only in a last resort. But my dearest, he exclaimed, taking my hand with passion and kissing it, if giving up that estate will help—then do it—and be mine—and I will wholeheartedly support your decision!
This was not ungenerously said: But what will not these men say to obtain belief, and a power over one?
This wasn’t said unfairly: But what won’t these men say to gain trust and control over someone?
I made many efforts to go; and now it was so dark, that I began to have great apprehensions. I cannot say from his behaviour: indeed, he has a good deal raised himself in my opinion by the personal respect, even to reverence, which he paid me during the whole conference: for, although he flamed out once, upon a supposition that Solmes might succeed, it was upon a supposition that would excuse passion, if any thing could, you know, in a man pretending to love with fervour; although it was so levelled, that I could not avoid resenting it.
I tried really hard to leave; but now it was so dark that I started to feel really anxious. I can’t judge based on his behavior; in fact, he's gained quite a bit of respect from me because of the personal regard, even to the point of reverence, he showed me during our whole conversation. Although he got a bit fired up once when he thought Solmes might win, it was based on a situation that would excuse any passion, if anything could, from a guy claiming to love deeply. Still, it was directed at me in such a way that I couldn’t help but take offense.
He recommended himself to my favour at parting, with great earnestness, yet with as great submission; not offering to condition any thing with me; although he hinted his wishes for another meeting: which I forbad him ever attempting again in the same place. And I will own to you, from whom I should be really blamable to conceal any thing, that his arguments (drawn from the disgraceful treatment I meet with) of what I am to expect, make me begin to apprehend that I shall be under an obligation to be either the one man's or the other's—and, if so, I fancy I shall not incur your blame, were I to say which of the two it must be: you have said, which it must not be. But, O my dear, the single life is by far the most eligible to me: indeed it is. And I hope yet to be permitted to make that option.
He earnestly sought my goodwill when we parted, but did so humbly, not trying to negotiate anything with me; even though he hinted at wanting to meet again, I told him not to try that in the same place. And I must admit to you, from whom I would truly be wrong to hide anything, that his arguments (based on the unfair treatment I receive) about what I can expect, lead me to realize that I might have to choose between one man or the other—and if that's the case, I don't think you'll blame me for saying which one it has to be: you’ve already stated which it shouldn't be. But, oh my dear, being single is definitely the best choice for me: it really is. And I still hope to be allowed to make that choice.
I got back without observation; but the apprehension that I should not, gave me great uneasiness; and made me begin a letter in a greater flutter than he gave me cause to be in, except at the first seeing him; for then indeed my spirits failed me; and it was a particular felicity, that, in such a place, in such a fright, and alone with him, I fainted not away.
I returned without anyone noticing, but the worry that I might be seen made me really anxious and caused me to start a letter in a bigger panic than he had actually caused me, except for when I first saw him; because in that moment, I truly felt overwhelmed. It was especially fortunate that, in such a situation, feeling so scared, and alone with him, I didn’t faint.
I should add, that having reproached him with his behaviour the last Sunday at church, he solemnly assured me, that it was not what had been represented to me: that he did not expect to see me there: but hoped to have an opportunity to address himself to my father, and to be permitted to attend him home. But that the good Dr. Lewen had persuaded him not to attempt speaking to any of the family, at that time; observing to him the emotions into which his presence had put every body. He intended no pride, or haughtiness of behaviour, he assured me; and that the attributing such to him was the effect of that ill-will which he had the mortification to find insuperable: adding, that when he bowed to my mother, it was a compliment he intended generally to every one in the pew, as well as to her, whom he sincerely venerated.
I should mention that after criticizing him for his behavior last Sunday at church, he earnestly told me that it wasn't as it had been made to seem: he hadn't expected to see me there, but he hoped to have a chance to speak to my father and to be allowed to accompany him home. However, the good Dr. Lewen had advised him not to try talking to anyone in the family at that moment, pointing out the reactions that his presence had caused everyone. He insisted that he meant no pride or arrogance, and that attributing those qualities to him was due to the resentment he felt he couldn't overcome. He added that when he bowed to my mother, it was meant as a compliment to everyone in the pew, as well as to her, whom he genuinely respected.
If he may be believed, (and I should think he would not have come purposely to defy my family, yet expect favour from me,) one may see, my dear, the force of hatred, which misrepresents all things. Yet why should Shorey (except officiously to please her principals) make a report in his disfavour? He told me, that he would appeal to Dr. Lewen for his justification on this head; adding, that the whole conversation between the Doctor and him turned upon his desire to attempt to reconcile himself to us all, in the face of the church; and upon the Doctor's endeavouring to dissuade him from making such a public overture, till he knew how it would be accepted. But to what purpose his appeal, when I am debarred from seeing that good man, or any one who would advise me what to do in my present difficult situation!
If he can be believed (and I doubt he would intentionally defy my family and still expect my favor), you can see, my dear, how powerful hatred is, as it distorts everything. But why would Shorey, unless he was trying to please his superiors, report negatively about him? He mentioned that he would go to Dr. Lewen for justification on this issue; he added that their entire conversation was about his desire to reconcile with all of us publicly, in front of the church, and the Doctor's attempt to talk him out of such a public effort until he knew how it would be received. But what good is his appeal if I can't see that good man, or anyone who can advise me on what to do in my current difficult situation?
I fancy, my dear, however, that there would hardly be a guilty person in the world, were each suspected or accused person to tell his or her own story, and be allowed any degree of credit.
I believe, my dear, that there would hardly be a guilty person in the world if everyone who was suspected or accused could tell their own story and be given any level of trust.
I have written a very long letter.
I have written a really long letter.
To be so particular as you require in subjects of conversation, it is impossible to be short.
To be as specific as you want in topics of conversation, it's impossible to be brief.
I will add to it only the assurance, That I am, and ever will be,
I will add to it only this assurance: that I am, and always will be,
Your affectionate and faithful friend and servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
Your loving and loyal friend and servant, CLARISSA HARLOWE.
You'll be so good, my dear, as to remember, that the date of your last letter to me was the 9th.
You'll be kind enough to remember, my dear, that the date of your last letter to me was the 9th.
LETTER XXXVII
MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE. SUNDAY, MARCH 19.
I beg your pardon, my dearest friend, for having given you occasion to remind me of the date of my last. I was willing to have before me as much of the workings of your wise relations as possible; being verily persuaded, that one side or the other would have yielded by this time: and then I should have had some degree of certainty to found my observations upon. And indeed what can I write that I have not already written?—You know, that I can do nothing but rave at your stupid persecutors: and that you don't like. I have advised you to resume your own estate: that you won't do. You cannot bear the thoughts of having their Solmes: and Lovelace is resolved you shall be his, let who will say to the contrary. I think you must be either the one man's or the other's. Let us see what their next step will be.
I’m sorry, my dear friend, for reminding you of the date of my last letter. I wanted to see as much as possible about the actions of your wise relatives, truly believing that one side or the other would have given in by now; then I would have had some certainty to base my observations on. Honestly, what can I write that I haven’t already written? You know I can only rant about your foolish persecutors, and you don’t like that. I’ve suggested you take back your own estate, but you won’t do that. You can’t stand the thought of associating with their Solmes, and Lovelace is determined that you will be his, no matter what anyone says. I think you must end up with either one of them. Let’s see what their next move will be.
As to Lovelace, while he tells his own story (having also behaved so handsomely on his intrusion in the wood-house, and intended so well at church) who can say, that the man is in the least blameworthy?—Wicked people! to combine against so innocent a man!—But, as I said, let us see what their next step will be, and what course you will take upon it; and then we may be the more enlightened.
As for Lovelace, while he shares his own story (having acted so nicely during his unexpected visit to the wood-house, and having good intentions at church), who can say that he is in any way at fault?—How terrible of these people to conspire against such an innocent man!—But, as I mentioned, let's see what they do next and how you will respond to it; then we may understand things better.
As to your change of style to your uncles, and brother and sister, since they were so fond of attributing to you a regard for Lovelace, and would not be persuaded to the contrary; and since you only strengthened their arguments against yourself by denying it; you did but just as I would have done, in giving way to their suspicions, and trying what that would do—But if—but if—Pray, my dear, indulge me a little—you yourself think it was necessary to apologize to me for that change of style to them—and till you will speak out like a friend to her unquestionable friend, I must tease you a little—let it run therefore; for it will run—
Regarding your change in how you address your uncles, brother, and sister, since they are so eager to believe that you have feelings for Lovelace and won't be convinced otherwise; and since denying it only made their arguments against you stronger; you did what I would have done by giving in to their suspicions and seeing where that leads—But if—but if—Please, my dear, bear with me a moment—you yourself think it was necessary to apologize to me for that change in how you address them—and until you talk to me openly like a true friend to her unquestionable friend, I’ll have to tease you a bit—so let it go on; it will go on—
If, then, there be not a reason for this change of style, which you have not thought fit to give me, be so good as to watch, as I once before advised you, how the cause for it will come on—Why should it be permitted to steal upon you, and you know nothing of the matter?
If there’s no reason for this change in style, which you haven’t shared with me, please keep an eye on how the reason for it will come up—Why should it be allowed to catch you off guard when you know nothing about it?
When we get a great cold, we are apt to puzzle ourselves to find out when it began, or how we got it; and when that is accounted for, down we sit contented, and let it have its course; or, if it be very troublesome, take a sweat, or use other means to get rid of it. So my dear, before the malady you wot of, yet wot not of, grows so importunate, as that you must be obliged to sweat it out, let me advise you to mind how it comes on. For I am persuaded, as surely as that I am now writing to you, that the indiscreet violence of your friends on the one hand, and the insinuating address of Lovelace on the other, (if the man be not a greater fool than any body thinks him,) will effectually bring it to this, and do all his work for him.
When we catch a bad cold, we often try to figure out when it started or how we got it; once that’s sorted out, we sit back and let it run its course, or if it really bothers us, we might take a hot bath or try other methods to get rid of it. So, my dear, before the problem you know about, but don’t fully understand, becomes so bothersome that you have to sweat it out, let me suggest you pay attention to how it starts. I’m convinced, as surely as I’m writing to you now, that the reckless actions of your friends on one hand, and Lovelace’s charming ways on the other (if he’s not a bigger fool than everyone thinks), will end up making it worse and do all his work for him.
But let it—if it must be Lovelace or Solmes, the choice cannot admit of debate. Yet if all be true that is reported, I should prefer almost any of your other lovers to either; unworthy as they also are. But who can be worthy of a Clarissa?
But let it be—if it has to be Lovelace or Solmes, there’s no room for discussion. Still, if everything that’s been said is true, I’d almost choose any of your other suitors over either of them; even though they’re not great either. But who could possibly be worthy of a Clarissa?
I wish you are not indeed angry with me for harping so much on one string. I must own, that I should think myself inexcusable so to do, (the rather, as I am bold enough to imagine it a point out of all doubt from fifty places in your letters, were I to labour the proof,) if you would ingenuously own—
I hope you're not really angry with me for going on and on about the same thing. I have to admit, I would feel completely in the wrong if I did, especially since I'm confident beyond a doubt from many parts of your letters, if I had to prove it, that you would honestly admit—
Own what? you'll say. Why, my Anna Howe, I hope you don't think that I am already in love—!
Own what? you'll ask. Well, my Anna Howe, I hope you don't think that I'm already in love—!
No, to be sure! How can your Anna Howe have such a thought?—What then shall we call it? You might have helped me to a phrase—A conditional kind of liking!—that's it.—O my friend! did I not know how much you despise prudery; and that you are too young, and too lovely, to be a prude—
No way! How could your Anna Howe even think that? What should we call it then? You could have helped me find the right words—a sort of conditional liking! That's it. Oh my friend! Didn’t I know how much you hate being overly proper; and that you’re too young and too beautiful to be a prude—
But, avoiding such hard names, let me tell you one thing, my dear (which nevertheless I have told you before); and that is this: that I shall think I have reason to be highly displeased with you, if, when you write to me, you endeavour to keep from me any secret of your heart.
But, putting aside those harsh terms, let me say this, my dear (which I've mentioned before); I will feel justified in being very upset with you if, when you write to me, you try to hide any feelings of your heart.
Let me add, that if you would clearly and explicitly tell me, how far Lovelace has, or has not, a hold in your affections, I could better advise you what to do, than at present I can. You, who are so famed for prescience, as I may call it; and than whom no young lady ever had stronger pretensions to a share of it; have had, no doubt, reasonings in your heart about him, supposing you were to be one day his: [no doubt but you have had the same in Solmes's case: whence the ground for the hatred of the one; and for the conditional liking of the other.] Will you tell me, my dear, what you have thought of Lovelace's best and of his worst?—How far eligible for the first; how far rejectable for the last?—Then weighing both parts in opposite scales, we shall see which is likely to preponderate; or rather which does preponderate. Nothing less than the knowledge of the inmost recesses of your heart, can satisfy my love and my friendship. Surely, you are not afraid to trust yourself with a secret of this nature: if you are, then you may the more allowably doubt me. But, I dare say, you will not own either—nor is there, I hope, cause for either.
Let me add that if you could clearly and explicitly tell me how much Lovelace means to you, I could give you better advice than I can right now. You, who are so well-known for your insight—and no young lady has stronger claims to it—must have had thoughts in your heart about him, imagining what it would be like to be his one day. I'm sure you’ve thought about Solmes in the same way, which is why you feel one way about him and another about the other. Will you tell me, my dear, what you think are Lovelace's best and worst traits?—How much of a good choice is he, and how much of a bad one?—Then, if we weigh both sides against each other, we’ll see which one is more convincing. Nothing less than knowing the deepest parts of your heart can satisfy my love and friendship. Surely, you’re not afraid to share a secret like this with me; if you are, then it’s understandable if you doubt me. But I’m sure you won’t admit that—nor do I hope it’s true.
Be pleased to observe one thing, my dear, that whenever I have given myself any of those airs of raillery, which have seemed to make you look about you, (when, likewise, your case may call for a more serious turn from a sympathizing friend,) it has not been upon those passages which are written, though, perhaps not intended, with such explicitness [don't be alarmed, my dear!] as leaves little cause of doubt: but only when you affect reserve; when you give new words for common things; when you come with your curiosities, with your conditional likings, and with your PRUDE-encies [mind how I spell the word] in a case that with every other person defies all prudence—over-acts of treason all these, against the sovereign friendship we have avowed to each other.
Please take note, my dear, that whenever I've joked around in a way that seems to make you uneasy, especially when you might need a more serious approach from a caring friend, it hasn’t been about the clear parts of our conversation, even if they were maybe not meant to be so obvious [don’t worry, my dear!] that leaves little room for doubt. It’s only when you act reserved; when you come up with fancy terms for everyday things; when you present your curiosities, your conditional preferences, and your PRUDE-encies [pay attention to my spelling] in situations that everyone else handles with common sense—these are all acts of betrayal against the deep friendship we’ve promised to each other.
Remember, that you found me out in a moment. You challenged me. I owned directly, that there was only my pride between the man and me; for I could not endure, I told you, to think of any fellow living to give me a moment's uneasiness. And then my man, as I have elsewhere said, was not such a one as yours: so I had reason to impute full as much as to my own inconsideration, as to his power over me: nay, more: but still more to yours. For you reasoned me out of the curiosity first; and when the liking was brought to be conditional—why then, you know, I throbbed no more about him.
Remember, you figured me out right away. You challenged me. I admitted that it was just my pride standing between the man and me because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone making me uneasy for even a moment. And my guy, as I’ve mentioned before, wasn’t anything like yours: so I had just as much reason to blame my own thoughtlessness as I did his influence over me; actually, even more so because of you. You talked me out of my curiosity first, and once my interest became conditional—well, then you know I stopped thinking about him.
O! pray now, as you say, now I have mentioned that my fellow was not such a charming fellow as yours, let Miss Biddulph, Miss Lloyd, Miss Campion, and me, have your opinion, how far figure ought to engage us: with a view to your own case, however—mind that—as Mr. Tony says—and whether at all, if the man be vain of it; since, as you observe in a former, that vanity is a stop-short pride in such a one, that would make one justly doubt the worthiness of his interior. You, our pattern, so lovely in feature, so graceful in person, have none of it; and have therefore with the best grace always held, that it is not excusable even in a woman.
Oh! Now that I've mentioned that my friend wasn't as charming as yours, let Miss Biddulph, Miss Lloyd, Miss Campion, and me know your thoughts on how much looks should matter to us. Keep your own situation in mind, though—as Mr. Tony says—and whether it matters at all if the guy is proud of his looks; since, as you've pointed out before, that kind of vanity is a shallow pride that might make us doubt the quality of his character. You, our role model, so beautiful in appearance and so graceful in demeanor, have none of that; and so you've always gracefully maintained that it's not excusable, even in a woman.
You must know, that this subject was warmly debated among us in our last conversation: and Miss Lloyd wished me to write to you upon it for your opinion; to which, in every debated case, we always paid the greatest deference. I hope you will not be so much engrossed by your weighty cares, as not to have freedom of spirits enough to enter upon the task. You know how much we all admire your opinion on such topics; which ever produces something new and instructive, as you handle the subjects. And pray tell us, to what you think it owing, that your man seems so careful to adorn that self-adorned person of his! yet so manages, that one cannot for one's heart think him a coxcomb?—Let this question, and the above tasks, divert, and not displease you, my dear. One subject, though ever so important, could never yet engross your capacious mind. If they should displease you, you must recollect the many instances of my impertinence which you have forgiven, and then say, 'This is a mad girl: but yet I love her!—And she is my own'
You should know that we had a lively discussion about this topic in our last conversation, and Miss Lloyd asked me to reach out to you for your thoughts on it. We always value your opinion in these matters. I hope you’re not too weighed down by your responsibilities to have the energy to take this on. You’re aware of how much we all appreciate your insights on such subjects, which always bring something fresh and enlightening. And please let us know why you think your friend is so focused on improving that already polished person of his! Yet he manages it in a way that doesn’t make him seem vain. Let this question, along with the other topics, be a source of enjoyment, not annoyance, my dear. One topic, no matter how significant, could never fully occupy your impressive mind. If they do trouble you, just remember all the times I’ve been bothersome and you’ve forgiven me, and then think, 'This is a silly girl, but still I love her!—And she is my own.'
LETTER XXXVIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE MONDAY, MARCH 20.
Your last so sensibly affects me, that I must postpone every other consideration, however weighty, to reply to it: and this I will do very distinctly, and with all the openness of heart which our mutual friendship demands.
Your last message affects me so deeply that I have to set aside everything else, no matter how important, to respond to it. I will do this clearly and with complete openness, as our friendship deserves.
But let me observe, in the first place, gratefully observe, that if I have in fifty passages of my letters given you such undoubted proofs of my value for Mr. Lovelace, that you have spared me for the sake of my explicitness, it is acting by me with a generosity worthy of yourself.
But let me first express my gratitude for the fact that if I have shown you clear proof of my regard for Mr. Lovelace in fifty instances throughout my letters, and you've allowed me this liberty because of my honesty, that shows a generosity that truly reflects your character.
But lives the man, think you, who is so very bad, that he does not give even a doubting mind reason at one time to be better pleased with him than at another? And when that reason offers, is it not just to express one's self accordingly? I would do the man who addresses me as much justice, as if he did not address me: it has such a look of tyranny, it appears so ungenerous, methinks, in our sex, to use a man worse for his respect to us, (no other cause for disrespect occurring,) that I would not by any means be that person who should do so.
But do you really think a man could be so terrible that he never gives someone a reason to feel more positively about him at any point? And when he does give that reason, isn’t it fair to respond in kind? I would treat the man who speaks to me with as much fairness as if he hadn’t spoken to me at all: it feels tyrannical, and honestly, quite unkind of our gender, to judge a man more harshly for showing respect to us (unless there’s another reason for disrespect). I wouldn’t want to be the person who behaves that way.
But, although I may intend no more than justice, it will perhaps be difficult to hinder those who know the man's views, from construing it as a partial favour: and especially if the eager-eyed observer has been formerly touched herself, and would triumph that her friend had been no more able to escape than she. Noble minds, emulative of perfection, (and yet the passion properly directed, I do not take to be an imperfection neither,) may be allowed a little generous envy, I think.
But even though I might mean nothing more than fairness, it could be hard to stop those who are familiar with the man's opinions from interpreting it as a biased favor. This is especially true if the keen observer has been affected herself and wants to feel vindicated that her friend wasn't able to escape either. I believe that noble minds, striving for perfection—while still acknowledging that properly directed passion isn't a flaw—can be allowed a bit of generous envy.
If I meant by this a reflection, by way of revenge, it is but a revenge, my dear, in the soft sense of the word. I love, as I have told you, your pleasantry. Although at the time your reproof may pain me a little; yet, on recollection, when I find it more of the cautioning friend than of the satirizing observer, I shall be all gratitude upon it. All the business will be this; I shall be sensible of the pain in the present letter perhaps; but I shall thank you in the next, and ever after.
If by this I meant a reflection, out of a desire for revenge, it's really just a soft kind of revenge, my dear. I love, as I’ve mentioned, your sense of humor. Although your criticism might sting a bit at first, once I think it over and realize it’s more from a caring friend than a mocking observer, I’ll be truly grateful for it. Essentially, I might feel the sting from this letter right now, but I’ll thank you in the next one and from then on.
In this way, I hope, my dear, you will account for a little of that sensibility which you find above, and perhaps still more, as I proceed.—You frequently remind me, by an excellent example, your own to me, that I must not spare you!
In this way, I hope, my dear, you will understand some of the sensitivity you see above, and maybe even more as I go on. You often remind me, by your own great example, that I shouldn't hold back with you!
I am not conscious, that I have written any thing of this man, that has not been more in his dispraise than in his favour. Such is the man, that I think I must have been faulty, and ought to take myself to account, if I had not. But you think otherwise, I will not put you upon labouring the proof, as you call it. My conduct must then have a faulty appearance at least, and I will endeavour to rectify it. But of this I assure you, that whatever interpretation my words were capable of, I intended not any reserve to you. I wrote my heart at the time: if I had had thought of disguising it, or been conscious that there was reason for doing so, perhaps I had not given you the opportunity of remarking upon my curiosity after his relations' esteem for me; nor upon my conditional liking, and such-like. All I intended by the first, I believe, I honestly told you at the time. To that letter I therefore refer, whether it make for me, or against me: and by the other, that I might bear in mind, what it became a person of my sex and character to be and to do, in such an unhappy situation, where the imputed love is thought an undutiful, and therefore a criminal passion; and where the supported object of it is a man of faulty morals too. And I am sure you will excuse my desire of appearing at those times the person I ought to be; had I no other view in it but to merit the continuance of your good opinion.
I'm not aware that I've written anything about this man that isn't more critical than complimentary. That's just how he is, and I feel I should be held accountable if I haven't expressed that. However, since you think differently, I won’t make you prove your point. My actions must appear flawed at least, and I will try to correct them. But I assure you, regardless of how my words could be interpreted, I meant no reservation towards you. I wrote sincerely at the time: if I had intended to disguise my feelings or thought it necessary, I wouldn't have let you notice my curiosity about how his family felt about me, nor my conditional affection and similar things. I genuinely shared my thoughts in the beginning. I refer you to that letter, no matter if it helps or harms my case; and from the other, I wanted to remember what a person of my gender and character should be and do in such an unfortunate situation, where love is seen as disloyalty and therefore immoral; especially when the object of that affection has questionable morals as well. I hope you understand my wish to present myself as the person I should be, if only to maintain your good opinion of me.
But that I may acquit myself of having reserves—O, my dear, I must here break off—!
But so I can clear myself of having any reservations—Oh, my dear, I have to stop here—!
LETTER XXXIX
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE MONDAY, MARCH 12.
This letter will account to you, my dear, for my abrupt breaking off in the answer I was writing to yours of yesterday; and which, possibly, I shall not be able to finish and send you till to-morrow or next day; having a great deal to say to the subjects you put to me in it. What I am now to give you are the particulars of another effort made by my friends, through the good Mrs. Norton.
This letter will explain to you, my dear, why I suddenly stopped responding to your letter from yesterday; and I might not be able to finish and send it to you until tomorrow or the next day, as I have a lot to say about the topics you raised. What I’m going to share with you now are the details of another attempt made by my friends, through the kind Mrs. Norton.
It seems they had sent to her yesterday, to be here this day, to take their instructions, and to try what she could do with me. It would, at least, I suppose they thought, have this effect; to render me inexcusable with her; or to let her see, that there was no room for the expostulations she had often wanted to make in my favour to my mother.
It seems they sent for her yesterday to be here today, to get their instructions, and to see what she could do with me. At least, I suppose they thought it would have this effect; to make me inexcusable in her eyes; or to show her that there was no space for the arguments she had often wanted to make on my behalf to my mother.
The declaration, that my heart was free, afforded them an argument to prove obstinacy and perverseness upon me; since it could be nothing else that governed me in my opposition to their wills, if I had no particular esteem for another man. And now, that I have given them reason (in order to obviate this argument) to suppose that I have a preference to another, they are resolved to carry their schemes into execution as soon as possible. And in order to do this, they sent for this good woman, for whom they know I have even a filial regard.
The statement that my heart was free gave them a reason to argue that I was being stubborn and difficult, since it could only mean that something else was driving my resistance to their wishes if I didn’t have strong feelings for someone else. Now that I’ve led them to think I have feelings for another person to counter this argument, they’re determined to push their plans forward as quickly as they can. To do this, they called for this good woman, knowing that I care for her like a family member.
She found assembled my father and mother, my brother and sister, my two uncles, and my aunt Hervey.
She found my father and mother, my brother and sister, my two uncles, and my aunt Hervey all gathered together.
My brother acquainted her with all that had passed since she was last permitted to see me; with the contents of my letters avowing my regard for Mr. Lovelace (as they all interpreted them); with the substance of their answers to them; and with their resolutions.
My brother filled her in on everything that had happened since she was last allowed to see me; he shared the contents of my letters expressing my feelings for Mr. Lovelace (as they all understood them); the gist of their replies to those letters; and their decisions.
My mother spoke next; and delivered herself to this effect, as the good woman told me.
My mom spoke next and expressed herself like this, as the good woman told me.
After reciting how many times I had been indulged in my refusals of different men, and the pains she had taken with me, to induce me to oblige my whole family in one instance out of five or six, and my obstinacy upon it; 'O my good Mrs. Norton, said the dear lady, could you have thought, that my Clarissa and your Clarissa was capable of so determined an opposition to the will of parents so indulgent to her? But see what you can do with her. The matter is gone too far to be receded from on our parts. Her father had concluded every thing with Mr. Solmes, not doubting her compliance. Such noble settlements, Mrs. Norton, and such advantages to the whole family!—In short, she has it in her power to lay an obligation upon us all. Mr. Solmes, knowing she has good principles, and hoping by his patience now, and good treatment hereafter, to engage her gratitude, and by degrees her love, is willing to overlook all!—'
After listing how many times I had turned down different men and the effort she had put in to get me to please my entire family just once out of five or six times, and my stubbornness about it; 'Oh my dear Mrs. Norton,' said the lovely lady, 'could you have imagined that my Clarissa and your Clarissa could be so resolute in opposing the wishes of parents so kind to her? But see what you can do with her. This situation has gone too far for us to backtrack. Her father has wrapped everything up with Mr. Solmes, not doubting her agreement. Such generous settlements, Mrs. Norton, and such benefits for the whole family!—In short, she has the power to do us all a favor. Mr. Solmes, knowing she has strong principles, and hoping that with his patience now and kindness later, he can win her gratitude and gradually her love, is willing to overlook everything!'
[Overlook all, my dear! Mr. Solmes to overlook all! There's a word!]
[Oversee everything, my dear! Mr. Solmes to oversee everything! There's a word!]
'So, Mrs. Norton, if you are convinced, that it is a child's duty to submit to her parents' authority, in the most important point as well as in the least, I beg you will try your influence over her: I have none: her father has none: her uncles neither: although it is her apparent interest to oblige us all; for, on that condition, her grandfather's estate is not half of what, living and dying, is purposed to be done for her. If any body can prevail with her, it is you; and I hope you will heartily enter upon this task.'
'So, Mrs. Norton, if you believe that a child should follow her parents' authority in both major and minor matters, I kindly ask you to use your influence over her: I have none, her father has none, and neither do her uncles; even though it seems to be in her best interest to please us all, because if she doesn't, her grandfather's estate won’t be nearly as substantial as what is planned for her in life and death. If anyone can persuade her, it's you, and I hope you will take on this challenge with enthusiasm.'
The good woman asked, Whether she was permitted to expostulate with them upon the occasion, before she came up to me?
The kind woman asked if she could speak with them about the situation before approaching me.
My arrogant brother told her, she was sent for to expostulate with his sister, and not with them. And this, Goody Norton [she is always Goody with him!] you may tell her, that the treaty with Mr. Solmes is concluded: that nothing but her compliance with her duty is wanting; of consequence, that there is no room for your expostulation, or hers either.
My arrogant brother told her she was called to talk to his sister, not to them. And this, Goody Norton (he always calls her Goody!), you can tell her: the deal with Mr. Solmes is finalized. All that's left is for her to do her duty; therefore, there's no room for your discussion or hers either.
Be assured of this, Mrs. Norton, said my father, in an angry tone, that we will not be baffled by her. We will not appear like fools in this matter, and as if we have no authority over our own daughter. We will not, in short, be bullied out of our child by a cursed rake, who had like to have killed our only son!—And so she had better make a merit of her obedience; for comply she shall, if I live; independent as she thinks my father's indiscreet bounty has made her of me, her father. Indeed, since that, she has never been like she was before. An unjust bequest!—And it is likely to prosper accordingly!—But if she marry that vile rake Lovelace, I will litigate every shilling with her: tell her so; and that the will may be set aside, and shall.
Rest assured of this, Mrs. Norton, my father said angrily, we won't be intimidated by her. We won't look foolish in this situation, as if we have no say over our own daughter. In short, we will not be forced out of our child's life by a cursed scoundrel who nearly killed our only son!—So she'd better earn points for her obedience; comply she must, as long as I'm alive; independent as she thinks my father's careless generosity has made her of me, her father. In fact, ever since then, she's been different from how she used to be. An unfair inheritance!—And it’s likely to turn out badly!—But if she marries that despicable rake Lovelace, I will fight for every penny with her: let her know that; and the will can and will be overturned.
My uncles joined, with equal heat.
My uncles joined in with the same enthusiasm.
My brother was violent in his declarations.
My brother was aggressive in what he said.
My sister put in with vehemence, on the same side.
My sister strongly agreed and took the same side.
My aunt Hervey was pleased to say, there was no article so proper for parents to govern in, as this of marriage: and it was very fit mine should be obliged.
My aunt Hervey was happy to say that there was no topic more suitable for parents to manage than marriage, and it was only right that mine should be involved.
Thus instructed, the good woman came up to me. She told me all that had passed, and was very earnest with me to comply; and so much justice did she to the task imposed upon her, that I more than once thought, that her own opinion went with theirs. But when she saw what an immovable aversion I had to the man, she lamented with me their determined resolution: and then examined into the sincerity of my declaration, that I would gladly compound with them by living single. Of this being satisfied, she was so convinced that this offer, which, carried into execution, would exclude Lovelace effectually, ought to be accepted, that she would go down (although I told her, it was what I had tendered over-and-over to no purpose) and undertake to be guaranty for me on that score.
Following those instructions, the kind woman approached me. She recounted everything that had happened and urged me to agree; she was so committed to her role that I often thought her views aligned with theirs. However, when she noticed my strong dislike for the man, she sympathized with me over their stubborn determination. She then questioned the sincerity of my statement that I would prefer to stay single. Once satisfied with my honesty, she became convinced that accepting this offer, which would effectively shut out Lovelace, should be pursued. She insisted on going down to discuss it (even though I told her I'd proposed it repeatedly to no avail) and offered to act as a guarantor for me in that matter.
She went accordingly; but soon returned in tears; being used harshly for urging this alternative:—They had a right to my obedience upon their own terms, they said: my proposal was an artifice, only to gain time: nothing but marrying Mr. Solmes should do: they had told me so before: they should not be at rest till it was done; for they knew what an interest Lovelace had in my heart: I had as good as owned it in my letters to my uncles, and brother and sister, although I had most disingenuously declared otherwise to my mother. I depended, they said, upon their indulgence, and my own power over them: they would not have banished me from their presence, if they had not known that their consideration for me was greater than mine for them. And they would be obeyed, or I never should be restored to their favour, let the consequence be what it would.
She went as instructed; but soon came back in tears, treated harshly for suggesting this alternative: They claimed they had a right to my obedience on their own terms; my proposal was just a trick to buy time: only marrying Mr. Solmes would be acceptable, they had said before: they wouldn't rest until it was done, knowing how much Lovelace meant to me: I had practically admitted it in my letters to my uncles, brother, and sister, even though I had been very deceitful in denying it to my mother. They said I relied on their leniency and my own influence over them: they wouldn't have cut me off from their presence if they hadn't known that they cared for me more than I cared for them. They expected obedience, or I would never be welcomed back, no matter what the consequences were.
My brother thought fit to tell the good woman, that her whining nonsense did but harden me. There was a perverseness, he said, in female minds, a tragedy-pride, that would make a romantic young creature, such a one as me, risque any thing to obtain pity. I was of an age, and a turn [the insolent said] to be fond of a lover-like distress: and my grief (which she pleaded) would never break my heart: I should sooner break that of the best and most indulgent of mothers. He added, that she might once more go up to me: but that, if she prevailed not, he should suspect, that the man they all hated had found a way to attach her to his interest.
My brother decided to tell the woman that her complaining only made me tougher. He said there was a stubbornness in women, a dramatic pride, that would make a romantic young person like me risk anything to get sympathy. He insisted I was old enough, and had the kind of personality, to enjoy a lover-like distress: and my sorrow (which she was advocating for) would never break my heart; I would be more likely to break that of the best and most caring mother. He added that she could try to talk to me again, but if she didn't succeed, he would suspect that the man they all hated had found a way to win her over to his side.
Every body blamed him for this unworthy reflection; which greatly affected the good woman. But nevertheless he said, and nobody contradicted him, that if she could not prevail upon her sweet child, [as it seems she had fondly called me,] she had best draw to her own home, and there tarry till she was sent for; and so leave her sweet child to her father's management.
Everyone blamed him for this unfair judgment, which really upset the good woman. However, he said, and no one argued with him, that if she couldn't convince her dear child, [as it seems she had affectionately called me,] she should go back home and wait there until she was called; and so leave her dear child in her father's care.
Sure nobody had ever so insolent, so hard-hearted a brother, as I have! So much resignation to be expected from me! So much arrogance, and to so good a woman, and of so fine an understanding, to be allowed in him.
Sure, nobody has ever had such a rude, heartless brother as I do! And I’m expected to be so resigned! The arrogance he shows, especially towards such a great woman with such a sharp mind, is unbelievable.
She nevertheless told him, that however she might be ridiculed for speaking of the sweetness of my disposition, she must take upon herself to say, that there never was a sweeter in the sex: and that she had ever found, that my mild methods, and gentleness, I might at any time be prevailed upon, even in points against my own judgment and opinion.
She still told him that no matter how much she might be mocked for talking about how sweet I am, she had to say that there was never anyone sweeter in her experience. She always found that my gentle approach made it easy for me to be swayed, even on matters where I disagreed.
My aunt Hervey hereupon said, It was worth while to consider what Mrs. Norton said: and that she had sometimes allowed herself to doubt, whether I had been begun with by such methods as generous tempers are only to be influenced by, in cases where their hearts are supposed to be opposite to the will of their friends.
My aunt Hervey then said that it was worth considering what Mrs. Norton mentioned, and that she had sometimes questioned whether I had been approached in ways that only kind-hearted people would respond to, particularly in situations where their feelings are thought to conflict with their friends' wishes.
She had both my brother and sister upon her for this: who referred to my mother, whether she had not treated me with an indulgence that had hardly any example?
She had both my brother and sister with her for this: who mentioned my mother, wondering if she had not spoiled me in a way that was almost unique?
My mother said, she must own, that no indulgence had been wanting from her: but she must needs say, and had often said it, that the reception I met with on my return from Miss Howe, and the manner in which the proposal of Mr. Solmes was made to me, (which was such as left nothing to my choice,) and before I had an opportunity to converse with him, were not what she had by any means approved of.
My mother admitted that she had done everything she could for me, but she had to say, and had said many times, that the way I was received when I returned from Miss Howe and how Mr. Solmes proposed to me (which left me no choice) happened before I even had a chance to talk with him, and she did not approve of it at all.
She was silenced, you will guess by whom,—with, My dear!—my dear!—You have ever something to say, something to palliate, for this rebel of a girl!—Remember her treatment of you, of me!—Remember, that the wretch, whom we so justly hate, would not dare persist in his purposes, but for her encouragement of him, and obstinacy to us.—Mrs. Norton, [angrily to her,] go up to her once more—and if you think gentleness will do, you have a commission to be gentle—if it will not, never make use of that plea again.
She was silenced, you can guess by whom,—with, My dear!—my dear!—You always have something to say, something to justify, for this rebellious girl!—Remember how she treated you, how she treated me!—Keep in mind that the person we rightfully despise wouldn’t dare continue with his intentions without her support and stubbornness against us.—Mrs. Norton, [angrily to her,] go up to her one more time—and if you think being gentle will work, you have permission to be gentle—but if it doesn’t, don’t ever use that excuse again.
Ay, my good woman, said my mother, try your force with her. My sister Hervey and I will go up to her, and bring her down in our hands, to receive her father's blessing, and assurances of every body's love, if she will be prevailed upon: and, in that case, we will all love you the better for your good offices.
"Yes, my good lady," my mother said, "try persuading her. My sister Hervey and I will go up to her and bring her down in our arms to receive her father's blessing and everyone’s love, if she can be convinced. If that happens, we'll all appreciate you even more for your help."
She came up to me, and repeated all these passages with tears. But I told her, that after what had passed between us, she could not hope to prevail upon me to comply with measures so wholly my brother's, and so much to my aversion. And then folding me to her maternal bosom, I leave you, my dearest Miss, said she—I leave you, because I must!—But let me beseech you to do nothing rashly; nothing unbecoming your character. If all be true that is said, Mr. Lovelace cannot deserve you. If you can comply, remember it is your duty to comply. They take not, I own, the right method with so generous a spirit. But remember, that there would not be any merit in your compliance, if it were not to be against your own liking. Remember also, what is expected from a character so extraordinary as yours: remember, it is in your power to unite or disunite your whole family for ever. Although it should at present be disagreeable to you to be thus compelled, your prudence, I dare say, when you consider the matter seriously, will enable you to get over all prejudices against the one, and all prepossessions in favour of the other: and then the obligation you will lay all your family under, will be not only meritorious in you, with regard to them, but in a few months, very probably, highly satisfactory, as well as reputable, to yourself.
She approached me, repeating all these lines with tears in her eyes. But I told her that after everything that had happened between us, she couldn’t expect me to go along with plans that were completely my brother's and went against everything I felt. Then, pulling me into her warm embrace, she said, “I have to leave you, my dearest Miss—I have to! But please, don’t do anything rash; nothing that doesn’t fit your character. If everything being said is true, Mr. Lovelace doesn’t deserve you. If you can comply, remember it’s your duty to do so. I admit they aren’t handling this the right way with someone so noble. But keep in mind, there wouldn’t be any honor in complying if it’s against your own wishes. Also remember what’s expected from someone as exceptional as you: you have the power to bring your whole family together or tear them apart forever. Even if it feels frustrating to be pushed like this, I trust that when you reflect on it seriously, you’ll be able to overcome any biases against one side and any inclinations toward the other. The obligation you create for your family will not only be commendable in their eyes, but in a few months, it will likely be very rewarding and respectable for you as well."
Consider, my dear Mrs. Norton, said I, only consider, that it is not a small thing that is insisted upon; not for a short duration; it is for my life: consider too, that all this is owing to an overbearing brother, who governs every body. Consider how desirous I am to oblige them, if a single life, and breaking all correspondence with the man they hate, because my brother hates him, will do it.
"Think about it, my dear Mrs. Norton," I said, "it's not just a small request; it's not just for a little while; it's for my entire life. Also, keep in mind that all of this is because of a domineering brother who controls everyone. Consider how eager I am to please them if being single and cutting off all contact with the man they despise—simply because my brother hates him—will achieve that."
I consider every thing, my dearest Miss: and, added to what I have said, do you only consider, that if, by pursuing your own will, and rejecting theirs, you should be unhappy, you will be deprived of all that consolation which those have, who have been directed by their parents, although the event prove not answerable to their wishes.
I think about everything, my dear Miss: and, besides what I've already said, just consider this: if you follow your own desires and ignore what others want, and then find yourself unhappy, you'll miss out on the comfort that those who listened to their parents have, even if things didn’t turn out the way they hoped.
I must go, repeated she: your brother will say [and she wept] that I harden you by my whining nonsense. 'Tis indeed hard, that so much regard should be paid to the humours of one child, and so little to the inclination of another. But let me repeat, that it is your duty to acquiesce, if you can acquiesce: your father has given your brother's schemes his sanction, and they are now his. Mr. Lovelace, I doubt, is not a man that will justify your choice so much as he will their dislike. It is easy to see that your brother has a view in discrediting you with all your friends, with your uncles in particular: but for that very reason, you should comply, if possible, in order to disconcert his ungenerous measures. I will pray for you; and that is all I can do for you. I must now go down, and make a report, that you are resolved never to have Mr. Solmes—Must I?—Consider, my dear Miss Clary—Must I?
I have to go, she repeated: your brother will say [and she cried] that I’m making you tough with my whining nonsense. It’s really hard that so much attention is given to one child's whims, while so little is considered for another's wishes. But let me say this again: it’s your duty to agree, if you can. Your father has approved your brother's plans, and they now belong to him. I doubt Mr. Lovelace is someone who will support your choice as much as he will criticize their disapproval. It’s clear that your brother aims to undermine you with all your friends, especially your uncles: but for that reason, you should comply, if possible, to thwart his selfish tactics. I’ll pray for you; and that’s all I can do. I need to go down now and report that you’re determined to never have Mr. Solmes—Do I have to?—Think about it, my dear Miss Clary—Do I have to?
Indeed you must!—But of this I do assure you, that I will do nothing to disgrace the part you have had in my education. I will bear every thing that shall be short of forcing my hand into his who never can have any share in my heart. I will try by patient duty, by humility, to overcome them. But death will I choose, in any shape, rather than that man.
Indeed you must!—But I assure you, I will do nothing to undermine the role you have played in my education. I will endure everything that doesn’t involve forcing my hand into the hand of someone who can never hold a place in my heart. I will try patiently, with humility, to overcome them. But I would choose death in any form over that man.
I dread to go down, said she, with so determined an answer: they will have no patience with me.—But let me leave you with one observation, which I beg of you always to bear in mind:—
I hate to go down, she said, with such a firm answer: they won't have any patience with me. — But let me leave you with one thought, which I ask you to always remember: —
'That persons of prudence, and distinguished talents, like yours, seem to be sprinkled through the world, to give credit, by their example, to religion and virtue. When such persons wilfully err, how great must be the fault! How ungrateful to that God, who blessed them with such talents! What a loss likewise to the world! What a wound to virtue!—But this, I hope, will never be to be said of Miss Clarissa Harlowe!'
'It's remarkable that wise and talented people like you are spread throughout the world, providing examples that enhance the value of religion and virtue. When they choose to go astray, the mistake is significant! How ungrateful to the God who gifted them those talents! It’s a loss for the world too! It’s a blow to virtue!—But I hope we will never say this about Miss Clarissa Harlowe!'
I could give her no answer, but by my tears. And I thought, when she went away, the better half of my heart went with her.
I couldn't respond to her, only with my tears. And I thought, when she left, the best part of my heart left with her.
I listened to hear what reception she would meet with below; and found it was just such a one as she had apprehended.
I listened to see what kind of reception she would get down there; and found it was exactly what she had expected.
Will she, or will she not, be Mrs. Solmes? None of your whining circumlocutions, Mrs. Norton!—[You may guess who said this] Will she, or will she not, comply with her parents' will?
Will she or won't she be Mrs. Solmes? No more of your whiny roundabout talk, Mrs. Norton! —[You can figure out who said this] Will she or won't she follow her parents' wishes?
This cut short all she was going to say.
This interrupted everything she was about to say.
If I must speak so briefly, Miss will sooner die, than have—
If I have to be so brief, Miss will die sooner than have—
Any body but Lovelace! interrupted my brother.—This, Madam, this, Sir, is your meek daughter! This is Mrs. Norton's sweet child!—Well, Goody, you may return to your own habitation. I am empowered to forbid you to have any correspondence with this perverse girl for a month to come, as you value the favour of our whole family, or of any individual of it.
Any person but Lovelace! my brother interrupted. —This, Ma'am, this, Sir, is your humble daughter! This is Mrs. Norton's lovely child! —Well, Goody, you can go back to your own home. I'm authorized to prohibit you from having any contact with this difficult girl for the next month, if you care about the approval of our entire family or any one of its members.
And saying this, uncontradicted by any body, he himself shewed her to the door,—no doubt, with all that air of cruel insult, which the haughty rich can put on to the unhappy low, who have not pleased them.
And saying this, without anyone opposing him, he showed her to the door—no doubt, with all that arrogant insult that the proud wealthy often display towards the unfortunate who haven’t met their expectations.
So here, my dear Miss Howe, am I deprived of the advice of one of the most prudent and conscientious women in the world, were I to have ever so much occasion for it.
So here, my dear Miss Howe, I find myself without the guidance of one of the most sensible and caring women in the world, even though I could really use it.
I might indeed write (as I presume, under your cover) and receive her answers to what I should write. But should such a correspondence be charged upon her, I know she would not be guilty of a falsehood for the world, nor even of an equivocation: and should she own it after this prohibition, she would forfeit my mother's favour for ever. And in my dangerous fever, some time ago, I engaged my mother to promise me, that, if I died before I could do any thing for the good woman, she would set her above want for the rest of her life, should her eyes fail her, or sickness befall her, and she could not provide for herself, as she now so prettily does by her fine needle-works.
I might actually write (as I assume, with your help) and get her responses to what I should say. But if such communication were to be forced on her, I know she wouldn’t lie for anyone, nor would she even bend the truth: and if she admitted to it after this warning, she would lose my mother’s favor forever. During my recent serious illness, I got my mother to promise me that, if I passed away before I could do anything for the good woman, she would make sure she would never be in need for the rest of her life, in case she lost her eyesight or got ill and couldn’t take care of herself, as she currently does so beautifully with her fine needlework.
What measures will they fall upon next?—Will they not recede when they find that it must be a rooted antipathy, and nothing else, that could make a temper, not naturally inflexible, so sturdy?
What actions will they take next?—Won't they step back when they realize that it must be a deep-seated dislike, and nothing more, that could make a temperament, not naturally rigid, so strong?
Adieu, my dear. Be you happy!—To know that it is in your power to be so, is all that seems wanting to make you so.
Goodbye, my dear. I hope you find happiness!—Knowing that you have the ability to achieve it is all that's needed to make you happy.
LETTER XL
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [In continuation of the subject in Letter XXXVIII.]
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE [Continuing the topic from Letter XXXVIII.]
I will now, though midnight (for I have no sleep in my eyes) resume the subject I was forced so abruptly to quit, and will obey yours, Miss Lloyd's, Miss Campion's, and Miss Biddulph's call, with as much temper as my divided thought will admit. The dead stillness of this solemn hour will, I hope, contribute to calm my disturbed mind.
I will now, even though it's past midnight (since I can't sleep), continue the topic I was abruptly forced to leave, and will respond to your call, Miss Lloyd, Miss Campion, and Miss Biddulph, with as much patience as my scattered thoughts will allow. I hope the stillness of this solemn hour will help calm my restless mind.
In order to acquit myself of so heavy a charge as that of having reserves to so dear a friend, I will acknowledge (and I thought I had over-and-over) that it is owing to my particular situation, if Mr. Lovelace appears to me in a tolerable light: and I take upon me to say, that had they opposed to him a man of sense, of virtue, of generosity; one who enjoyed his fortune with credit, who had a tenderness in his nature for the calamities of others, which would have given a moral assurance, that he would have been still less wanting in grateful returns to an obliging spirit:—had they opposed such a man as this to Mr. Lovelace, and been as earnest to have me married, as now they are, I do not know myself, if they would have had reason to tax me with that invincible obstinacy which they lay to my charge: and this whatever had been the figure of the man; since the heart is what we women should judge by in the choice we make, as the best security for the party's good behaviour in every relation of life.
To defend myself against the serious accusation of having feelings for such a dear friend, I must admit (and I thought I had made it clear repeatedly) that it's because of my specific circumstances that Mr. Lovelace seems acceptable to me. I confidently say that if they had presented me with a man of intellect, virtue, and generosity—someone who enjoyed his wealth with honor, and had a natural compassion for the struggles of others that would have assured me he would be even more grateful in return to a kind spirit—if they had offered me someone like that instead of Mr. Lovelace and had been as eager to see me married as they are now, I honestly don't know if I would have been accused of the stubbornness they claim I have. This is true regardless of the man's appearance; since it is the character that we women should rely on when making our choices, as it is the best guarantee for the other person's good behavior in all aspects of life.
But, situated as I am, thus persecuted and driven, I own to you, that I have now-and-then had a little more difficulty than I wished for, in passing by Mr. Lovelace's tolerable qualities, to keep up my dislike to him for his others.
But, given my situation, being persecuted and pushed around, I admit that I sometimes found it harder than I wanted to overlook Mr. Lovelace's decent qualities in order to maintain my dislike for him because of the other traits he has.
You say, I must have argued with myself in his favour, and in his disfavour, on a supposition, that I might possibly be one day his. I own that I have: and thus called upon by my dearest friend, I will set before you both parts of the argument.
You say I've probably debated with myself both for and against him, thinking that I might one day be his. I admit that I have, and so, prompted by my closest friend, I will lay out both sides of the argument for you.
And first, what occurred to me in his favour.
And first, what came to mind in his favor.
At his introduction into our family, his negative virtues were insisted upon:—He was no gamester; no horse-racer; no fox-hunter; no drinker: my poor aunt Hervey had, in confidence, given us to apprehend much disagreeable evil (especially to a wife of the least delicacy) from a wine-lover: and common sense instructed us, that sobriety in a man is no small point to be secured, when so many mischiefs happen daily from excess. I remember, that my sister made the most of this favourable circumstance in his character while she had any hopes of him.
When he was introduced to our family, everyone emphasized his negative traits: he wasn’t a gambler, a horse racer, a fox hunter, or a drinker. My poor Aunt Hervey had, in confidence, warned us about the potential problems (especially for a wife with even a little sensitivity) that could come from someone who loved wine. It was common sense that a man’s sobriety is an important quality, considering how many issues arise daily from excess. I remember my sister making the most of this positive aspect of his character as long as she still had hopes for him.
He was never thought to be a niggard; not even ungenerous: nor when his conduct came to be inquired into, an extravagant, a squanderer: his pride [so far was it a laudable pride] secured him from that. Then he was ever ready to own his errors. He was no jester upon sacred things: poor Mr. Wyerley's fault; who seemed to think there was wit in saying bold things, which would shock a serious mind. His conversation with us was always unexceptionable, even chastely so; which, be his actions what they would, shewed him capable of being influenced by decent company; and that he might probably therefore be a led man, rather than a leader, in other company. And one late instance, so late as last Saturday evening, has raised him not a little in my opinion, with regard to this point of good (and at the same time, of manly) behaviour.
He was never seen as stingy or even unfair; even when his actions were questioned, he wasn’t thought of as wasteful or a spender. His pride, which was a commendable pride, kept him from being that way. He was always willing to admit his mistakes. He didn’t joke about serious matters, unlike poor Mr. Wyerley, who seemed to believe there was cleverness in saying shocking things that would disturb serious minds. His conversations with us were always appropriate, even particularly modest; this showed that he could be influenced by decent company and suggested that he might be more of a follower than a leader in other settings. A recent event, just last Saturday evening, has significantly improved my view of him regarding this aspect of good (and also manly) behavior.
As to the advantage of birth, that is of his side, above any man who has been found out for me. If we may judge by that expression of his, which you were pleased with at the time; 'That upon true quality, and hereditary distinction, if good sense were not wanting, humour sat as easy as his glove;' that, with as familiar an air, was his familiar expression; 'while none but the prosperous upstart, MUSHROOMED into rank, (another of his peculiars,) was arrogantly proud of it.'—If, I say, we may judge of him by this, we shall conclude in his favour, that he knows what sort of behaviour is to be expected from persons of birth, whether he act up to it or not. Conviction is half way to amendment.
As for the advantage of being born into a certain status, that's on his side, over any man who has been revealed to me. If we can judge by that comment of his that you liked at the time: 'True quality and hereditary distinction, when good sense is present, fit as comfortably as his glove;' that was a casual way for him to express himself. He also said that only the successful upstart, who has been suddenly elevated in status (another of his quirks), is arrogantly proud of it. If we judge him by this, we can conclude that he understands what kind of behavior is expected from people of good birth, whether he lives up to it or not. Recognition of this is a step toward improvement.
His fortunes in possession are handsome; in expectation, splendid: so nothing need be said on that subject.
His wealth is impressive, and his future prospects are even better, so there’s no need to say more about that.
But it is impossible, say some, that he should make a tender or kind husband. Those who are for imposing upon me such a man as Mr. Solmes, and by methods so violent, are not entitled to make this objection. But now, on this subject, let me tell you how I have argued with myself—for still you must remember, that I am upon the extenuating part of his character.
But some say it’s impossible for him to be a caring or loving husband. Those who want me to marry someone like Mr. Solmes, and want to force it on me in such a harsh way, can’t really make this argument. Now, on this topic, let me explain how I’ve reasoned with myself—because you should still keep in mind that I’m considering the softer side of his character.
A great deal of the treatment a wife may expect from him, will possibly depend upon herself. Perhaps she must practise as well as promise obedience, to a man so little used to controul; and must be careful to oblige. And what husband expects not this?—The more perhaps if he had not reason to assure himself of the preferable love of his wife before she became such. And how much easier and pleasanter to obey the man of her choice, if he should be even more unreasonable sometimes, than one she would not have had, could she have avoided it? Then, I think, as the men were the framers of the matrimonial office, and made obedience a part of the woman's vow, she ought not, even in policy, to shew him, that she can break through her part of the contract, (however lightly she may think of the instance,) lest he should take it into his head (himself is judge) to think as lightly of other points, which she may hold more important—but, indeed, no point so solemnly vowed can be slight.
A lot of how a wife is treated by her husband will likely depend on her. She might need to follow through with her promises of obedience to a man who isn't used to being in charge, and she should be mindful of his needs. What husband wouldn't expect this? Especially if he doesn't have reassurance of his wife's strong affection for him before they got married. And how much easier and nicer it is to follow the man she chose, even if he can be unreasonable at times, than to be with someone she would have rather avoided. Furthermore, since men established the institution of marriage and made obedience part of the woman's vows, she shouldn't show him that she can break her side of the agreement, no matter how insignificant she might think the issue is. Otherwise, he might start to think he can disregard other matters she considers more important—but honestly, no vow is trivial.
Thus principled, and acting accordingly, what a wretch must that husband be, who could treat such a wife brutally!—Will Lovelace's wife be the only person to whom he will not pay the grateful debt of civility and good manners? He is allowed to be brave: Who ever knew a brave man, if a brave man of sense, an universally base man? And how much the gentleness of our sex, and the manner of our training up and education, make us need the protection of the brave, and the countenance of the generous, let the general approbation, which we are all so naturally inclined to give to men of that character, testify.
With that principle in mind, what a terrible husband he must be if he treats such a wife poorly!—Will Lovelace's wife be the only person he won't show basic respect and good manners to? He's allowed to be courageous: Who has ever known a courageous man, if he’s truly courageous and sensible, to be universally contemptible? And how much the kindness of our gender, along with our upbringing and education, makes us dependent on the protection of the brave and the support of the generous, is shown by the general approval we naturally extend to men of that character.
At worst, will he confine me prisoner to my chamber? Will he deny me the visits of my dearest friend, and forbid me to correspond with her? Will he take from me the mistressly management, which I had not faultily discharged? Will he set a servant over me, with license to insult me? Will he, as he has not a sister, permit his cousins Montague, or would either of those ladies accept of a permission, to insult and tyrannize over me?—It cannot be.—Why then, think I often, do you tempt me, O my cruel friends, to try the difference?
At worst, will he lock me in my room? Will he stop my closest friend from visiting me and forbid me from keeping in touch with her? Will he take away the control I managed well? Will he put a servant in charge of me, with permission to treat me poorly? Will he, since he doesn’t have a sister, allow his cousins Montague, or would either of those women agree to permission, to mistreat and dominate me?—It can’t be.—Then why, I often wonder, do you tempt me, oh my cruel friends, to find out the difference?
And then has the secret pleasure intruded itself, to be able to reclaim such a man to the paths of virtue and honour: to be a secondary means, if I were to be his, of saving him, and preventing the mischiefs so enterprising a creature might otherwise be guilty of, if he be such a one.
And then a secret pleasure crept in, the chance to bring back such a man to the paths of goodness and respect: to be a supporting force, if I were to be his, in saving him and stopping the troubles this ambitious person might otherwise cause, if he really is that kind of person.
When I have thought of him in these lights, (and that as a man of sense he will sooner see his errors, than another,) I own to you, that I have had some difficulty to avoid taking the path they so violently endeavour to make me shun: and all that command of my passions which has been attributed to me as my greatest praise, and, in so young a creature, as my distinction, has hardly been sufficient for me.
When I’ve considered him in this way, (and knowing that as a sensible person he’ll recognize his mistakes sooner than others will,) I admit that I’ve struggled to steer clear of the route they so aggressively try to push me away from: and all the self-control that’s been lauded as my greatest strength, and in someone so young, as my unique trait, has barely been enough for me.
And let me add, that the favour of his relations (all but himself unexceptionable) has made a good deal of additional weight, thrown in the same scale.
And let me add that the support of his family (everyone except him) has added quite a bit of extra weight to the same side.
But now, in his disfavour. When I have reflected upon the prohibition of my parents; the giddy appearance, disgraceful to our sex, that such a preference would have: that there is no manner of likelihood, enflamed by the rencounter, and upheld by art and ambition on my brother's side, that ever the animosity will be got over: that I must therefore be at perpetual variance with all my own family: that I must go to him, and to his, as an obliged and half-fortuned person: that his aversion to them all is as strong as theirs to him: that his whole family are hated for his sake; they hating ours in return: that he has a very immoral character as to women: that knowing this, it is a high degree of impurity to think of joining in wedlock with such a man: that he is young, unbroken, his passions unsubdued: that he is violent in his temper, yet artful; I am afraid vindictive too: that such a husband might unsettle me in all my own principles, and hazard my future hopes: that his own relations, two excellent aunts, and an uncle, from whom he has such large expectations, have no influence upon him: that what tolerable qualities he has, are founded more in pride than in virtue: that allowing, as he does, the excellency of moral precepts, and believing the doctrine of future rewards and punishments, he can live as if he despised the one, and defied the other: the probability that the taint arising from such free principles, may go down into the manners of posterity: that I knowing these things, and the importance of them, should be more inexcusable than one who knows them not; since an error against judgment is worse, infinitely worse, than an error in judgment. Reflecting upon these things, I cannot help conjuring you, my dear, to pray with me, and to pray for me, that I may not be pushed upon such indiscreet measures, as will render me inexcusable to myself: for that is the test, after all. The world's opinion ought to be but a secondary consideration.
But now, in his disfavor. When I think about my parents' disapproval; the ridiculous situation, embarrassing for our gender, that such a choice would create: that there’s no real chance, fueled by our encounter and fueled by my brother's ambition, that the conflict will ever be resolved: that I will constantly be at odds with my entire family: that I would have to go to him and his family as someone who is obligated and somewhat fortunate: that his dislike for them is just as strong as theirs for him: that his whole family is hated because of him; they hating ours in return: that he has a very questionable reputation when it comes to women: that knowing this, it’s highly immoral to even consider marrying such a man: that he is young, untamed, with passions that are unchecked: that he has a fierce temper, yet is crafty; I’m also worried he might be vindictive: that such a husband could disturb all my own principles and jeopardize my future: that his own relatives, two wonderful aunts and an uncle, who provide him with great expectations, have no effect on him: that any decent qualities he has are rooted more in pride than in virtue: that even while he acknowledges the importance of moral teachings and believes in the concept of future rewards and punishments, he lives as if he disregards one and defies the other: the risk that the corruption from such loose beliefs may seep into the behavior of future generations: that I, knowing these things and their significance, would be more blameworthy than someone who doesn’t; since a mistake against judgment is far worse, infinitely worse, than a simple mistake in judgment. Reflecting on these matters, I can't help but urge you, my dear, to pray with me and for me, that I may not be forced into such reckless actions that would make me unforgivable in my own eyes: for that is the true test, above all else. The opinions of the world should only be a secondary concern.
I have said in his praise, that he is extremely ready to own his errors: but I have sometimes made a great drawback upon this article, in his disfavour; having been ready to apprehend, that this ingenuousness may possibly be attributable to two causes, neither of them, by any means, creditable to him. The one, that his vices are so much his masters, that he attempts not to conquer them; the other, that he may think it policy, to give up one half of his character to save the other, when the whole may be blamable: by this means, silencing by acknowledgment the objections he cannot answer; which may give him the praise of ingenuousness, when he can obtain no other, and when the challenged proof might bring out, upon discussion, other evils. These, you will allow, are severe constructions; but every thing his enemies say of him cannot be false.
I have praised him for being quick to admit his mistakes, but I’ve sometimes found that this quality could actually reflect poorly on him. I suspect this openness might come from two not-so-flattering reasons. First, his flaws might control him so much that he doesn't even try to overcome them. Second, he might believe it's smarter to acknowledge part of his character to protect the other half, especially when the whole thing might be seen as flawed. By doing this, he deflects criticisms he can't address, earning him a reputation for honesty when that's the only praise he can get, and when admitting to one problem might expose even more issues. These interpretations may seem harsh, but not everything his critics say about him can be untrue.
I will proceed by-and-by.
I will proceed soon.
***
Understood. Please provide the text you want me to modernize.
Sometimes we have both thought him one of the most undesigning merely witty men we ever knew; at other times one of the deepest creatures we ever conversed with. So that when in one visit we have imagined we fathomed him, in the next he has made us ready to give him up as impenetrable. This impenetrableness, my dear, is to be put among the shades in his character. Yet, upon the whole, you have been so far of his party, that you have contested that his principal fault is over-frankness, and too much regardlessness of appearances, and that he is too giddy to be very artful: you would have it, that at the time he says any thing good, he means what he speaks; that his variableness and levity are constitutional, owing to sound health, and to a soul and body [that was your observation] fitted for and pleased with each other. And hence you concluded, that could this consentaneousness [as you call it] of corporal and animal faculties be pointed by discretion; that is to say, could his vivacity be confined within the pale of but moral obligations, he would be far from being rejectable as a companion for life.
Sometimes we’ve thought he’s one of the wittiest yet most straightforward people we’ve ever met; other times, he seems like one of the deepest individuals we’ve conversed with. So when we think we’ve figured him out during one visit, by the next, he leaves us feeling like he’s totally inscrutable. This inscrutability, my dear, should be considered one of the shadows in his character. Nevertheless, you’ve been so much on his side that you argue his main flaw is being too frank and not caring enough about appearances, and that he’s too flighty to be truly cunning: you believe that whenever he says something meaningful, he genuinely means it; that his changing moods and lightheartedness are just part of his nature, thanks to good health and a mind and body that you noted are well-matched and content with each other. And from this, you concluded that if this harmony of body and spirit could be tempered by discretion—meaning if his liveliness could be kept within the boundaries of moral obligations—he wouldn’t be someone we’d want to avoid as a lifelong companion.
But I used then to say, and I still am of opinion, that he wants a heart: and if he does, he wants every thing. A wrong head may be convinced, may have a right turn given it: but who is able to give a heart, if a heart be wanting? Divine Grace, working a miracle, or next to a miracle, can only change a bad heart. Should not one fly the man who is but suspected of such a one? What, O what, do parents do, when they endeavour to force a child's inclination, but make her think better than otherwise she would think of a man obnoxious to themselves, and perhaps whose character will not stand examination?
But I used to say, and I still believe, that he lacks a heart: and if that's the case, he lacks everything. A misguided mind can be convinced, it can be turned around: but who can give someone a heart if it's missing? Only divine grace, working a miracle or something close to it, can truly change a bad heart. Shouldn't we avoid someone who is merely suspected of having such a heart? What do parents do when they try to impose their will on a child's feelings, except make her think more favorably about someone they disapprove of, possibly someone whose character doesn't hold up under scrutiny?
I have said, that I think Mr. Lovelace a vindictive man: upon my word, I have sometimes doubted, whether his perseverance in his addresses to me has not been the more obstinate, since he has found himself so disagreeable to my friends. From that time I verily think he has been the more fervent in them; yet courts them not, but sets them at defiance. For this indeed he pleads disinterestedness [I am sure he cannot politeness]; and the more plausibly, as he is apprized of the ability they have to make it worth his while to court them. 'Tis true he has declared, and with too much reason, (or there would be no bearing him,) that the lowest submissions on his part would not be accepted; and to oblige me, has offered to seek a reconciliation with them, if I would give him hope of success.
I’ve said that I think Mr. Lovelace is a vindictive man. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if his persistence in pursuing me has become more stubborn because my friends find him so unpleasant. Since that time, I genuinely believe he has become even more passionate in his pursuits; yet he doesn’t cater to them; instead, he challenges them. He claims it’s out of disinterest (I’m sure it’s not politeness); and he makes this sound good since he knows they have the power to make it worth his while to win them over. It’s true he has stated, and with good reason (or else it would be unbearable), that the most humble gestures from him wouldn’t be accepted; and to please me, he has offered to try to make peace with them if I would give him some hope of success.
As to his behaviour at church, the Sunday before last, I lay no stress upon that, because I doubt there was too much outward pride in his intentional humility, or Shorey, who is not his enemy, could not have mistaken it.
Regarding his behavior at church, the Sunday before last, I don’t think it’s important, because I suspect there was too much superficial pride in his supposed humility; otherwise, Shorey, who is not his enemy, wouldn’t have misunderstood it.
I do not think him so deeply learned in human nature, or in ethics, as some have thought him. Don't you remember how he stared at the following trite observations, which every moralist could have furnished him with? Complaining as he did, in a half-menacing strain, of the obloquies raised against him—'That if he were innocent, he should despise the obloquy: if not, revenge would not wipe off his guilt.' 'That nobody ever thought of turning a sword into a sponge!' 'That it was in his own power by reformation of an error laid to his charge by an enemy, to make that enemy one of his best friends; and (which was the noblest revenge in the world) against his will; since an enemy would not wish him to be without the faults he taxed him with.'
I don’t think he’s as knowledgeable about human nature or ethics as some people believe. Don’t you remember how shocked he was by these obvious points that any moralist could have shared with him? He complained, in a somewhat threatening way, about the criticism aimed at him—saying that if he were innocent, he should just ignore the criticism: if he’s not, revenge won’t erase his guilt. He said, “Nobody ever thinks of turning a sword into a sponge!” He also pointed out that it was within his power to turn an enemy into one of his best friends by fixing an error that enemy accused him of; and the greatest revenge of all would be against that enemy’s wishes, since they wouldn’t actually want him to lose the flaws they criticized him for.
But the intention, he said, was the wound.
But the intent, he said, was the injury.
How so, I asked him, when that cannot wound without the application? 'That the adversary only held the sword: he himself pointed it to his breast:—And why should he mortally resent that malice, which he might be the better for as long as he lived?'—What could be the reading he has been said to be master of, to wonder, as he did, at these observations?
How so, I asked him, when that can't hurt without being applied? 'The opponent was just holding the sword; he pointed it at his own chest:—And why should he take that malice to heart, which he could benefit from as long as he lived?'—What could the understanding he’s said to have be, to be so amazed by these insights?
But, indeed, he must take pleasure in revenge; and yet holds others to be inexcusable for the same fault. He is not, however, the only one who can see how truly blamable those errors are in another, which they hardly think such in themselves.
But, really, he must enjoy revenge; yet he thinks others are totally unforgivable for the same mistake. However, he’s not the only one who can see how truly blameworthy those faults are in others, even if they hardly consider them faults in themselves.
From these considerations, from these over-balances, it was, that I said, in a former, that I would not be in love with this man for the world: and it was going further than prudence would warrant, when I was for compounding with you, by the words conditional liking, which you so humourously rally.
From these thoughts and excesses, I mentioned before that I wouldn't fall in love with this man for anything. It was beyond what was sensible when I tried to negotiate with you using the term conditional liking, which you teasingly mock.
Well but, methinks you say, what is all this to the purpose? This is still but reasoning: but, if you are in love, you are: and love, like the vapours, is the deeper rooted for having no sufficient cause assignable for its hold. And so you call upon me again to have no reserves, and so-forth.
Well, you might be thinking, what’s the point of all this? This is just more reasoning. But if you’re in love, then you are. Love, like the fog, runs deeper because there’s no clear reason for why it grips you. So you ask me again to be completely open and so on.
Why then, my dear, if you will have it, I think, that, with all his preponderating faults, I like him better than I ever thought I should like him; and, those faults considered, better perhaps than I ought to like him. And I believe, it is possible for the persecution I labour under to induce me to like him still more—especially while I can recollect to his advantage our last interview, and as every day produces stronger instances of tyranny, I will call it, on the other side.—In a word, I will frankly own (since you cannot think any thing I say too explicit) that were he now but a moral man, I would prefer him to all the men I ever saw.
Why then, my dear, if you insist, I think that despite all his obvious flaws, I like him more than I ever thought I would; and, considering those flaws, maybe even more than I should. I believe the challenges I’m facing might make me like him even more—especially since I can still remember the good things about our last meeting, and as each day brings stronger examples of the oppression, I’ll call it, from the other side. In short, I’ll honestly admit (since you can’t think anything I say is too straightforward) that if he were just a decent person now, I would choose him over any other man I've ever met.
So that this is but conditional liking still, you'll say: nor, I hope, is it more. I never was in love as it is called; and whether this be it, or not, I must submit to you. But will venture to think it, if it be, no such mighty monarch, no such unconquerable power, as I have heard it represented; and it must have met with greater encouragement than I think I have given it, to be absolutely unconquerable—since I am persuaded, that I could yet, without a throb, most willingly give up the one man to get rid of the other.
So this is just a conditional affection, as you might say; and I hope it's nothing more. I’ve never really been in love, as people say; and whether this is that or not, I'll leave it up to you. But I’ll dare to think that if it is love, it’s not this huge king or this unbeatable force that I've heard it described as; it must have received a lot more encouragement than I believe I’ve given it to be truly unbeatable—because I’m convinced I could easily walk away from one guy just to be rid of the other.
But now to be a little more serious with you: if, my dear, my particularly-unhappy situation had driven (or led me, if you please) into a liking of the man; and if that liking had, in your opinion, inclined me to love him, should you, whose mind is susceptible of the most friendly impressions, who have such high notions of the delicacy which ought to be observed by our sex in these matters, and who actually do enter so deeply into the distresses of one you love—should you have pushed so far that unhappy friend on so very nice a subject?—Especially, when I aimed not (as you could prove by fifty instances, it seems) to guard against being found out. Had you rallied me by word of mouth in the manner you do, it might have been more in character; especially, if your friend's distresses had been surmounted, and if she had affected prudish airs in revolving the subject: but to sit down to write it, as methinks I see you, with a gladdened eye, and with all the archness of exultation—indeed, my dear, (and I take notice of it, rather for the sake of your own generosity, than for my sake, for, as I have said, I love your raillery,) it is not so very pretty; the delicacy of the subject, and the delicacy of your own mind, considered.
But now let’s be a bit more serious: if, dear, my particularly unhappy situation has led me to like the man, and if that liking has, in your view, pushed me towards loving him, should you, who are so open to friendly influences, who have such lofty ideas about the delicacy our gender should maintain in these matters, and who truly empathize deeply with the struggles of someone you care for—should you have pushed that unhappy friend on such a delicate subject? Especially when I wasn’t trying to hide it (as you could attest with plenty of examples, it seems). If you had teased me in person like you do, it might have felt more fitting; particularly if your friend’s troubles had been resolved and if she had taken on a bit of a prude attitude while considering the topic. But to sit down and write it, as I see you doing, with a joyful look and all the mischievous delight—honestly, my dear, (and I mention this more for your own sake than for mine, because, as I said, I do appreciate your teasing)—it’s not very graceful; considering the sensitivity of the topic and the sensitivity of your own nature.
I lay down my pen here, that you may consider of it a little, if you please.
I’ll put my pen down here so you can think about it a bit, if you want.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you would like modernized.
I resume, to give you my opinion of the force which figure or person ought to have upon our sex: and this I shall do both generally as to the other sex, and particularly as to this man; whence you will be able to collect how far my friends are in the right, or in the wrong, when they attribute a good deal of prejudice in favour of one man, and in disfavour of the other, on the score of figure. But, first, let me observe, that they see abundant reason, on comparing Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Solmes together, to believe that this may be a consideration with me; and therefore they believe it is.
I’ll give you my take on the impact that looks or personality should have on our gender. I’ll address this generally regarding the other gender and specifically about this guy, which will help you understand how right or wrong my friends are when they talk about their biases favoring one man over the other based on appearance. But first, let me point out that when comparing Mr. Lovelace and Mr. Solmes, they see plenty of reasons to think this matters to me; that's why they believe it does.
There is certainly something very plausible and attractive, as well as creditable to a woman's choice, in figure. It gives a favourable impression at first sight, in which we wish to be confirmed: and if, upon further acquaintance, we find reason to be so, we are pleased with our judgment, and like the person the better, for having given us cause to compliment our own sagacity, in our first-sighted impressions. But, nevertheless, it has been generally a rule with me, to suspect a fine figure, both in man and woman; and I have had a good deal of reason to approve my rule;—with regard to men especially, who ought to value themselves rather upon their intellectual than personal qualities. For, as to our sex, if a fine woman should be led by the opinion of the world, to be vain and conceited upon her form and features; and that to such a degree, as to have neglected the more material and more durable recommendations, the world will be ready to excuse her; since a pretty fool, in all she says, and in all she does, will please, we know not why.
There’s definitely something believable and appealing, as well as admirable in a woman's choice, in appearance. It gives a good impression right away, which we hope will hold true; and if, upon getting to know her better, we find that our initial judgment was correct, we feel good about ourselves for being perceptive based on that first impression. However, I’ve generally found it wise to be cautious about judging based on a great appearance, for both men and women; and I've had plenty of reasons to stick to this approach—especially concerning men, who should take pride in their intellect rather than just their looks. As for women, if a beautiful woman allows society’s opinions to make her vain and self-absorbed about her looks and that leads her to neglect more important and lasting qualities, the world tends to overlook it; because a pretty but shallow person, in everything she says and does, will somehow still manage to charm, though we might not understand why.
But who would grudge this pretty fool her short day! Since, with her summer's sun, when her butterfly flutters are over, and the winter of age and furrows arrives, she will feel the just effects of having neglected to cultivate her better faculties: for then, lie another Helen, she will be unable to bear the reflection even of her own glass, and being sunk into the insignificance of a mere old woman, she will be entitled to the contempts which follow that character. While the discreet matron, who carries up [we will not, in such a one's case, say down] into advanced life, the ever-amiable character of virtuous prudence and useful experience, finds solid veneration take place of airy admiration, and more than supply the want of it.
But who would envy this pretty fool her brief time! Because, when her summer sun sets and her butterfly days are over, and the winter of age and wrinkles comes, she will face the consequences of having ignored her better qualities: for then, like another Helen, she won’t be able to stand looking at her own reflection, and being reduced to the insignificance of just an old woman, she will deserve the disdain that comes with that role. Meanwhile, the sensible matron, who carries into her later years the consistently admirable traits of wise judgment and valuable experience, finds genuine respect replace fleeting admiration, and that more than makes up for its absence.
But for a man to be vain of his person, how effeminate! If such a one happens to have genius, it seldom strikes deep into intellectual subjects. His outside usually runs away with him. To adorn, and perhaps, intending to adorn, to render ridiculous that person, takes up all his attention. All he does is personal; that is to say, for himself: all he admires, is himself: and in spite of the correction of the stage, which so often and so justly exposes a coxcomb, he usually dwindles down, and sinks into that character; and, of consequence, becomes the scorn of one sex, and the jest of the other.
But for a guy to be vain about his looks, how pathetic! If someone like that happens to be talented, it rarely goes beyond surface-level ideas. His appearance usually takes over. Trying to look good, and maybe even intending to impress, just ends up making him look foolish and takes all his focus. Everything he does is for show; in other words, it’s all about him. Everything he admires is himself. Despite the way the stage often rightly mocks a show-off, he usually fades into that role and, as a result, becomes the joke to one gender and the target of ridicule for the other.
This is generally the case of your fine figures of men, and of those who value themselves on dress and outward appearance: whence it is, that I repeat, that mere person in a man is a despicable consideration. But if a man, besides figure, has learning, and such talents as would have distinguished him, whatever were his form, then indeed person is an addition: and if he has not run too egregiously into self-admiration, and if he has preserved his morals, he is truly a valuable being.
This is usually true for those well-built men who pride themselves on their clothes and looks: that's why I say that focusing on a man's appearance is shallow. However, if a man possesses intelligence and talents that would make him stand out regardless of his looks, then his appearance becomes a bonus. If he hasn't become overly self-absorbed and has maintained his integrity, he is genuinely a remarkable person.
Mr. Lovelace has certainly taste; and, as far as I am able to determine, he has judgment in most of the politer arts. But although he has a humourous way of carrying it off, yet one may see that he values himself not a little, both on his person and his parts, and even upon his dress; and yet he has so happy an ease in the latter, that it seems to be the least part of his study. And as to the former, I should hold myself inexcusable, if I were to add to his vanity by shewing the least regard for what is too evidently so much his.
Mr. Lovelace definitely has style, and from what I can see, he has good taste in most of the finer arts. However, even though he has a humorous way of presenting himself, it’s clear that he takes quite a bit of pride in his looks and abilities, as well as his clothing. Yet, he wears his outfits with such effortless confidence that it seems to be the least of his concerns. As for his looks, I would consider it a mistake to feed his vanity by showing any appreciation for what is so obviously his.
And now, my dear, let me ask you, Have I come up to your expectation? If I have not, when my mind is more at ease, I will endeavour to please you better. For, methinks, my sentences drag, my style creeps, my imagination is sunk, my spirits serve me not, only to tell you, that whether I have more or less, I am wholly devoted to the commands of my dear Miss Howe.
And now, my dear, let me ask you, have I met your expectations? If I haven't, when I feel more relaxed, I'll try harder to please you. Because, I think my writing is dragging, my style is slow, my imagination feels dull, and my spirits aren’t helping me, only to say that whether I have more or less, I am completely devoted to the wishes of my dear Miss Howe.
P.S. The insolent Betty Barnes has just now fired me anew, by reporting to me the following expressions of the hideous creature, Solmes—'That he is sure of the coy girl; and that with little labour to himself. That be I ever so averse to him beforehand, he can depend upon my principles; and it will be a pleasure to him to see by what pretty degrees I shall come to.' [Horrid wretch!] 'That it was Sir Oliver's observation, who knew the world perfectly well, that fear was a better security than love, for a woman's good behaviour to her husband; although, for his part, to such a fine creature [truly] he would try what love would do, for a few weeks at least; being unwilling to believe what the old knight used to aver, that fondness spoils more wives than it makes good.'
P.S. The rude Betty Barnes has just fired me again by telling me what the awful guy, Solmes, said—'That he’s confident he’ll win over the shy girl with little effort. No matter how much I dislike him beforehand, he believes he can count on my principles; and it will be fun for him to see how charmingly I’ll come around.' [What a horrid jerk!] 'That Sir Oliver, who knew the world perfectly well, observed that fear is a better guarantee than love for a woman’s good behavior towards her husband; although, for his part, he’d give love a shot with such a lovely creature, at least for a few weeks; not wanting to accept what the old knight claimed, that affection ruins more wives than it makes good.'
What think you, my dear, of such a wretch as this! tutored, too, by that old surly misogynist, as he was deemed, Sir Oliver?—
What do you think, my dear, of a wretch like this! Trained, too, by that grumpy old misogynist, as he was called, Sir Oliver?—
LETTER XLI
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY, MARCH 21.
How willingly would my dear mother shew kindness to me, were she permitted! None of this persecution should I labour under, I am sure, if that regard were paid to her prudence and fine understanding, which they so well deserve. Whether owing to her, or to my aunt, or to both, that a new trial was to be made upon me, I cannot tell, but this morning her Shorey delivered into my hand the following condescending letter.
How gladly would my dear mother show kindness to me, if she could! I’m sure I wouldn’t have to face any of this persecution if her wisdom and good judgment were respected, which they truly deserve. I can’t tell whether it was because of her, my aunt, or both, that I was to undergo another trial, but this morning her Shorey handed me the following gracious letter.
MY DEAR GIRL,
MY DEAR GIRL,
For so I must still call you; since dear you may be to me, in every sense of the word—we have taken into particular consideration some hints that fell yesterday from your good Norton, as if we had not, at Mr. Solmes's first application, treated you with that condescension, wherewith we have in all other instances treated you. If it even had been so, my dear, you were not excusable to be wanting in your part, and to set yourself to oppose your father's will in a point which he had entered too far, to recede with honour. But all yet may be well. On your single will, my child, depends all our happiness.
For I still have to call you that; because you may be dear to me in every way—we’ve thought carefully about some comments made yesterday by your good Norton, as if we hadn't, at Mr. Solmes's first request, shown you the respect we usually extend to you. Even if it were true, my dear, you shouldn’t have fallen short on your part or tried to go against your father’s wishes on something he’s already committed to too deeply to back out of honorably. But all may still turn out well. Our happiness depends entirely on your choice, my child.
Your father permits me to tell you, that if you now at last comply with his expectations, all past disobligations shall be buried in oblivion, as if they had never been: but withal, that this is the last time that that grace will be offered you.
Your father allows me to tell you that if you finally meet his expectations, all past grievances will be forgotten as if they never happened. However, this is the last time this opportunity will be offered to you.
I hinted to you, you must remember,* that patterns of the richest silks were sent for. They are come. And as they are come, your father, to shew how much he is determined, will have me send them up to you. I could have wished they might not have accompanied this letter, but there is not great matter in that. I must tell you, that your delicacy is not quite so much regarded as I had once thought it deserved to be.
I mentioned to you, you must remember,* that samples of the finest silks were requested. They've arrived. And since they've arrived, your father, to show how committed he is, wants me to send them up to you. I would have preferred they didn’t come with this letter, but it’s not a big deal. I have to tell you that your sensitivity isn’t being taken as seriously as I once thought it should be.
* See Letter XX.
* See Letter XX.
These are the newest, as well as richest, that we could procure; answerable to our situation in the world; answerable to the fortune, additional to your grandfather's estate, designed you; and to the noble settlements agreed upon.
These are the newest and also the wealthiest that we could get; suitable for our place in the world; matching the fortune, added to your grandfather's estate, intended for you; and to the noble agreements made.
Your father intends you six suits (three of them dressed suits) at his own expense. You have an entire new suit; and one besides, which I think you never wore but twice. As the new suit is rich, if you choose to make that one of the six, your father will present you with an hundred guineas in lieu.
Your dad plans to buy you six suits (three of them formal) at his own cost. You have a brand new suit, and another one that I believe you've only worn twice. Since the new suit is fancy, if you'd like to use it as one of the six, your dad will give you a hundred guineas instead.
Mr. Solmes intends to present you with a set of jewels. As you have your grandmother's and your own, if you choose to have the former new set, and to make them serve, his present will be made in money; a very round sum—which will be given in full property to yourself; besides a fine annual allowance for pin-money, as it is called. So that your objection against the spirit of a man you think worse of than it deserves, will have no weight; but you will be more independent than a wife of less discretion than we attribute to you, perhaps ought to be. You know full well, that I, who first and last brought a still larger fortune into the family than you will carry to Mr. Solmes, had not a provision made me of near this that we have made for you.—Where people marry to their liking, terms are the least things stood upon—yet should I be sorry if you cannot (to oblige us all) overcome a dislike.
Mr. Solmes plans to gift you a set of jewels. Since you already have your grandmother’s and your own, if you decide to accept the new set, he will instead give you a cash gift, a significant amount—which will be fully yours; plus, you'll receive a generous annual allowance for personal expenses. So, your concerns about him, which you think are more negative than they should be, won’t matter; you’ll be more independent than a wife with less judgment than we believe you possess might be. You know very well that I, who initially brought a much larger fortune into the family than you will bring to Mr. Solmes, did not have nearly such a provision made for me as we are making for you. When people marry for love, the terms are the least of their worries—still, I would be disappointed if you can’t, for the sake of us all, move past your dislike.
Wonder not, Clary, that I write to you thus plainly and freely upon this subject. Your behaviour hitherto has been such, that we have had no opportunity of entering minutely into the subject with you. Yet, after all that has passed between you and me in conversation, and between you and your uncles by letter, you have no room to doubt what is to be the consequence.—Either, child, we must give up our authority, or you your humour. You cannot expect the one. We have all the reason in the world to expect the other. You know I have told you more than once, that you must resolve to have Mr. Solmes, or never to be looked upon as our child.
Don't be surprised, Clary, that I'm writing to you so openly about this topic. Your behavior until now has left us with no chance to discuss it in detail. However, considering everything that's been said between us and in your letters to your uncles, you shouldn't doubt what will happen next. Either we will have to give up our authority, or you need to change your attitude. You can't expect the first option. We have every reason to anticipate the second. I've told you more than once that you must choose to be with Mr. Solmes, or you'll never be seen as our child.
The draught of the settlement you may see whenever you will. We think there can be no room for objection to any of the articles. There is still more in them in our family's favour, than was stipulated at first, when your aunt talked of them to you. More so, indeed, than we could have asked. If, upon perusal of them, you think any alteration necessary, it shall be made.—Do, my dear girl, send to me within this day or two, or rather ask me, for the perusal of them.
You can check out the draft of the settlement anytime you want. We believe there's no reason to object to any of the terms. In fact, they offer even more benefits for our family than we initially agreed upon when your aunt discussed them with you. It’s actually more than we could have asked for. If, after reviewing them, you think any changes are needed, we can make those. Please, my dear, get in touch with me within the next day or two, or just ask me to go over them with you.
As a certain person's appearance at church so lately, and what he gives out every where, makes us extremely uneasy, and as that uneasiness will continue while you are single, you must not wonder that a short day is intended. This day fortnight we design it to be, if you have no objection to make that I shall approve of. But if you determine as we would have you, and signify it to us, we shall not stand with you for a week or so.
The recent appearance of a certain person at church and what he’s been saying everywhere makes us very uncomfortable. Since this uneasiness will last while you’re single, don’t be surprised that we’re planning a quick turnaround. We intend for it to be in a fortnight, unless you have an objection that I can agree with. But if you decide as we hope you will and let us know, we won’t wait more than a week or so.
Your sightlines of person may perhaps make some think this alliance disparaging. But I hope you will not put such a personal value upon yourself: if you do, it will indeed be the less wonder that person should weigh with you (however weak the consideration!) in another man.
Your perspective on this person might lead some to view this alliance negatively. But I hope you won’t attach such personal significance to yourself: if you do, it’s no surprise that this person would seem important to you (no matter how insignificant that consideration may be!) in relation to another man.
Thus we parents, in justice, ought to judge: that our two daughters are equally dear and valuable to us: if so, why should Clarissa think that a disparagement, which Arabella would not (nor we for her) have thought any, had the address been made to her?—You will know what I mean by this, without my explaining myself farther.
So, as parents, we should fairly recognize that both our daughters are equally precious and valuable to us. If that's the case, why would Clarissa view a slight that Arabella, or we on her behalf, wouldn’t have thought anything of if it had been directed at her? You understand what I’m getting at without me needing to elaborate further.
Signify to us, now, therefore, your compliance with our wishes. And then there is an end of your confinement. An act of oblivion, as I may call it, shall pass upon all your former refractoriness: and you will once more make us happy in you, and in one another. You may, in this case, directly come down to your father and me, in his study; where we will give you our opinions of the patterns, with our hearty forgiveness and blessings.
Let us know now that you agree to what we want. Then your confinement will come to an end. We'll forgive all your past stubbornness, and you’ll make us happy again, together. In this case, you can come down to your father and me in his study, where we’ll share our thoughts on the patterns and give you our sincere forgiveness and blessings.
Come, be a good child, as you used to be, my Clarissa. I have (notwithstanding your past behaviour, and the hopelessness which some have expressed in your compliance) undertaken this one time more for you. Discredit not my hopes, my dear girl. I have promised never more to interfere between your father and you, if this my most earnest application succeed not. I expect you down, love. Your father expects you down. But be sure don't let him see any thing uncheerful in your compliance. If you come, I will clasp you to my fond heart, with as much pleasure as ever I pressed you to it in my whole life. You don't know what I have suffered within these few weeks past; nor ever will be able to guess, till you come to be in my situation; which is that of a fond and indulgent mother, praying night and day, and struggling to preserve, against the attempts of more ungovernable spirits, the peace and union of her family.
Come, be a good child like you used to be, my Clarissa. I have, despite your past behavior and the doubts that some have expressed about whether you'll comply, decided to give this one last try for you. Don’t dismiss my hopes, my dear girl. I’ve promised never to interfere between you and your father again if this sincere plea doesn’t work. I expect you to come down, love. Your father expects you too. But make sure he doesn’t see anything unhappy in your agreement. If you come, I will hold you to my heart with as much joy as I ever have in my life. You have no idea what I’ve endured in the past few weeks, nor will you ever understand until you find yourself in my situation, which is that of a loving and caring mother, praying day and night, trying to keep the peace and unity of her family against the efforts of more unruly spirits.
But you know the terms. Come not near us, if you have resolve to be undutiful: but this, after what I have written, I hope you cannot be.
But you know the terms. Stay away from us if you intend to be disobedient; however, after what I’ve written, I hope that’s not the case.
If you come directly, and, as I have said, cheerfully, as if your heart were in your duty, (and you told me it was free, you know,) I shall then, as I said, give you the most tender proofs how much I am
If you come straight here, and, as I mentioned, happily, like your heart is in your work, (and you told me it was genuine, you know,) I will then, as I said, show you the most heartfelt evidence of how much I care.
Your truly affectionate Mother.
Your loving Mother.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.
Think for me, my dearest friend, how I must be affected by this letter; the contents of it is so surprisingly terrifying, yet so sweetly urged!—O why, cried I to myself, am I obliged to undergo this severe conflict between a command that I cannot obey, and language so condescendingly moving!—Could I have been sure of being struck dead at the alter before the ceremony had given the man I hate a title to my vows, I think I could have submitted to having been led to it. But to think of living with and living for a man one abhors, what a sad thing is that!
Consider, my dearest friend, how this letter must affect me; its content is surprisingly terrifying yet so sweetly phrased!—Oh, why, I thought to myself, am I forced to endure this intense struggle between a command I can't follow and words that are so condescendingly persuasive!—If I could have been sure I would collapse dead at the altar before the ceremony gave the man I despise a reason for my vows, I think I could have gone through with it. But to think of living with and for a man one loathes, what a tragic thought!
And then, how could the glare of habit and ornament be supposed any inducement to one, who has always held, that the principal view of a good wife in the adorning of her person, ought to be, to preserve the affection of her husband, and to do credit to his choice; and that she should be even fearful of attracting the eyes of others?—In this view, must not the very richness of the patterns add to my disgusts?—Great encouragement, indeed, to think of adorning one's self to be the wife of Mr. Solmes!
And then, how could the glare of habit and decoration be seen as an incentive to someone who has always believed that a good wife's main goal in dressing up should be to keep her husband's love and make him proud of his choice; and that she should even be cautious about drawing the attention of others?—From this perspective, doesn't the very richness of the designs just make me more disgusted?—What great motivation it is to think about making myself beautiful to be Mr. Solmes' wife!
Upon the whole, it was not possible for me to go down upon the prescribed condition. Do you think it was?—And to write, if my letter would have been read, what could I write that would be admitted, and after what I had written and said to so little effect?
Overall, I couldn’t agree to the conditions set. Do you really think I could?—And to write, even if my letter had been read, what could I say that would be accepted, considering what I had already written and said to such little effect?
I walked backward and forward. I threw down with disdain the patterns. Now to my closet retired I; then quitting it, threw myself upon the settee; then upon this chair, then upon that; then into one window, then into another—I knew not what to do!—And while I was in this suspense, having again taken up the letter to re-peruse it, Betty came in, reminding me, by order, that my papa and mamma waited for me in my father's study.
I walked back and forth. I tossed the patterns aside in disgust. First, I went to my closet; then I left it and threw myself onto the settee; then onto this chair, then onto that one; then I moved to one window, then to another—I didn’t know what to do!—And while I was in this state of uncertainty, having picked up the letter again to read it, Betty came in, reminding me that my dad and mom were waiting for me in my father's study.
Tell my mamma, said I, that I beg the favour of seeing her here for one moment, or to permit me to attend her any where by herself.
Tell my mom, I said, that I would really appreciate it if she could come here for a moment, or if she could let me see her somewhere alone.
I listened at the stairs-head—You see, my dear, how it is, cried my father, very angrily: all your condescension (as your indulgence heretofore) is thrown away. You blame your son's violence, as you call it [I had some pleasure in hearing this]; but nothing else will do with her. You shall not see her alone. Is my presence an exception to the bold creature?
I was listening at the top of the stairs—"You see, my dear, it's like this," my father said, very angrily. "All your kindness (just like your patience before) is pointless. You criticize your son's aggression, as you call it [I took some satisfaction in hearing this]; but that's the only thing that works with her. You won't see her alone. Does my presence make me an exception for that bold girl?"
Tell her, said my mother to Betty, she knows upon what terms she may come down to us. Nor will I see her upon any other.
"Tell her," my mother said to Betty, "she knows the conditions under which she can come down to us. I won't see her on any other terms."
The maid brought me this answer. I had recourse to my pen and ink; but I trembled so, that I could not write, nor knew what to say, had I steadier fingers. At last Betty brought me these lines from my father.
The maid gave me this response. I tried to use my pen and ink, but I was shaking so much that I couldn't write or even think of what to say if my hands were steadier. Finally, Betty delivered these lines from my father.
UNDUTIFUL AND PERVERSE CLARISSA,
Rebellious and unruly Clarissa,
No condescension, I see, will move you. Your mother shall not see you; nor will I. Prepare however to obey. You know our pleasure. Your uncle Antony, your brother, and your sister, and your favourite Mrs. Norton, shall see the ceremony performed privately at your uncle's chapel. And when Mr. Solmes can introduce you to us, in the temper we wish to behold you in, we may perhaps forgive his wife, although we never can, in any other character, our perverse daughter. As it will be so privately performed, clothes and equipage may be provided for afterwards. So prepare to go to your uncle's for an early day in next week. We will not see you till all is over: and we will have it over the sooner, in order to shorten the time of your deserved confinement, and our own trouble in contending with such a rebel, as you have been of late. I will hear no pleas, I will receive no letter, nor expostulation. Nor shall you hear from me any more till you have changed your name to my liking. This from
No amount of condescension will change your mind. Your mother won't see you, and neither will I. Get ready to obey. You know what makes us happy. Your uncle Antony, your brother, your sister, and your favorite Mrs. Norton will witness the ceremony at your uncle's chapel in private. When Mr. Solmes can introduce you to us in the mood we want to see you in, we might possibly forgive his wife, although we can never forgive our stubborn daughter in any other way. Since it will be done privately, clothes and arrangements can be made for afterwards. So get ready to go to your uncle's early next week. We won't see you until everything is done, and we want it done sooner to reduce the time of your well-deserved confinement and our own trouble dealing with such a rebellious daughter as you’ve been lately. I won’t listen to any pleas, I won’t accept any letters, or arguments. And you won’t hear from me again until you’ve changed your name to one we approve of. This is from
Your incensed Father.
Your angry dad.
If this resolution be adhered to, then will my father never see me more!—For I will never be the wife of that Solmes—I will die first—!
If I stick to this decision, then my father will never see me again!—Because I will never marry that Solmes—I’d rather die first—!
TUESDAY EVENING.
Tuesday night.
He, this Solmes, came hither soon after I had received my father's letter. He sent up to beg leave to wait upon me—I wonder at his assurance—!
He, this Solmes, came here shortly after I got my father's letter. He asked to be allowed to see me—I can't believe his nerve—!
I said to Betty, who brought me this message, let him restore an unhappy creature to her father and mother, and then I may hear what he has to say. But, if my friends will not see me on his account, I will not see him upon his own.
I told Betty, who delivered this message to me, to let him bring an unhappy person back to her parents, and then I might listen to what he has to say. But if my friends won't see me because of him, I won't see him for his own sake.
I hope, Miss, said Betty, you will not send me down with this answer. He is with you papa and mamma.
I hope, Miss, said Betty, that you won't send me down with this answer. He's with you, Dad and Mom.
I am driven to despair, said I. I cannot be used worse. I will not see him.
I’m pushed to the brink of despair, I said. I can’t be treated any worse. I won’t see him.
Down she went with my answer. She pretended, it seems, to be loth to repeat it: so was commanded out of her affected reserves, and gave it in its full force.
Down she went with my answer. She pretended, it seemed, to be reluctant to repeat it: so she was forced out of her feigned hesitation and gave it with full intensity.
O how I heard my father storm!
O how I heard my father rage!
They were altogether, it seems, in his study. My brother was for having me turned out of the house that moment, to Lovelace, and my evil destiny. My mother was pleased to put in a gentle word for me: I know not what it was: but thus she was answered—My dear, this is the most provoking thing in the world in a woman of your good sense!—To love a rebel, as well as if she were dutiful. What encouragement for duty is this?—Have I not loved her as well as ever you did? And why am I changed! Would to the Lord, your sex knew how to distinguish! It is plain, that she relies upon her power over you. The fond mother ever made a hardened child!
They were all together in his study, it seems. My brother wanted to kick me out of the house right then, sending me off to Lovelace and my bad luck. My mom was kind enough to say something nice about me: I don’t know what exactly she said, but this is how she was replied to—My dear, this is the most irritating thing in the world coming from a woman as sensible as you!—To love someone who disobeys, as if she were obedient. What kind of motivation for being dutiful is that?—Haven’t I loved her just as much as you ever did? So why am I the one who’s changed? I wish your gender could see clearly! It’s obvious she relies on her control over you. A doting mother always raises a spoiled child!
She was pleased, however, to blame Betty, as the wench owned, for giving my answer its full force. But my father praised her for it.
She was happy to blame Betty, as the girl was responsible for making my answer as strong as it was. But my dad praised her for it.
The wench says, that he would have come up in his wrath, at my refusing to see Mr. Solmes, had not my brother and sister prevailed upon him to the contrary.
The girl says that he would have come up in his anger at my rejecting Mr. Solmes, if my brother and sister hadn't convinced him otherwise.
I wish he had!—And, were it not for his own sake, that he had killed me!
I wish he had!—And if it weren't for his own sake, I wish he had killed me!
Mr. Solmes condescended [I am mightily obliged to him truly!] to plead for me.
Mr. Solmes kindly agreed to advocate for me.
They are all in tumults! How it will end, I know not—I am quite weary of life—So happy, till within these few weeks!—So miserable now!
They’re all in chaos! I don’t know how it will end—I’m really tired of life—Was so happy, until just a few weeks ago!—So miserable now!
Well, indeed, might my mother say, that I should have severe trials.*
Well, my mother was right to say that I would face tough challenges.
* See Letter XXV.
* See Letter 25.
P.S. The idiot [such a one am I treated like!] is begged, as I may say, by my brother and sister. They have desired, that I may be consigned over entirely to their management. If it be granted, [it is granted, on my father's part, I understand, but not yet on my mother's,] what cruelty may I not expect from their envy, jealousy, and ill-will!—I shall soon see, by its effects, if I am to be so consigned. This is a written intimation privately dropt in my wood-house walk, by my cousin Dolly Hervey. The dear girl longs to see me, she tells me: but is forbidden till she see me as Mrs. Solmes, or as consenting to be his. I will take example by their perseverance!—Indeed I will—!
P.S. The fool [that’s how I’m treated!] is begged, as I might say, by my brother and sister. They want me to be completely handed over to their control. If this is approved, [I understand my father is okay with it, but my mother isn’t yet,] what kind of cruelty can I expect from their envy, jealousy, and spite!—I’ll soon know by the results if I am going to be handed over like that. This is a note secretly left in my wood-house path by my cousin Dolly Hervey. She says she really wants to see me, but she can’t until she sees me as Mrs. Solmes or agrees to be his. I will take inspiration from their persistence!—I really will—!
LETTER XLII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE
An angry dialogue, a scolding-bout rather, has passed between my sister and me. Did you think I could scold, my dear?
An angry conversation, more like a shouting match, has happened between my sister and me. Did you think I could actually scold you, my dear?
She was sent up to me, upon my refusal to see Mr. Solmes—let loose upon me, I think!—No intention on their parts to conciliate! It seems evident that I am given up to my brother and her, by general consent.
She was sent to me after I refused to meet Mr. Solmes—let loose on me, I think!—There’s no intention on their part to make peace! It’s clear that everyone has given me up to my brother and her, by common agreement.
I will do justice to every thing she said against me, which carried any force with it. As I ask for your approbation or disapprobation of my conduct, upon the facts I lay before you, I should think it the sign of a very bad cause, if I endeavoured to mislead my judge.
I will address everything she said about me that holds any weight. Since I seek your approval or disapproval of my actions based on the facts I present to you, it would be a clear indication of a bad case if I tried to mislead my judge.
She began with representing to me the danger I had been in, had my father come up, as he would have done had he not been hindered—by Mr. Solmes, among the rest. She reflected upon my Norton, as if she encouraged me in my perverseness. She ridiculed me for my supposed esteem for Mr. Lovelace—was surprised that the witty, the prudent, nay, the dutiful and pi—ous [so she sneeringly pronounced the word] Clarissa Harlowe, should be so strangely fond of a profligate man, that her parents were forced to lock her up, in order to hinder her from running into his arms. 'Let me ask you, my dear, said she, how you now keep your account of the disposition of your time? How many hours in the twenty-four do you devote to your needle? How many to your prayers? How many to letter-writing? And how many to love?—I doubt, I doubt, my little dear, was her arch expression, the latter article is like Aaron's rod, and swallows up the rest!—Tell me; is it not so?'
She started by pointing out the danger I had been in, had my father come up, which he would have if he hadn't been stopped—by Mr. Solmes, among others. She commented on my choice of Norton, as if she was encouraging me in my stubbornness. She mocked me for my supposed feelings for Mr. Lovelace—was surprised that the clever, sensible, and even the dutiful and pious [that’s how she sneered it] Clarissa Harlowe could be so oddly attached to a reckless man that her parents had to lock her up to keep her from running into his arms. 'Let me ask you, my dear,' she said, 'how are you managing your time these days? How many hours in a day do you spend on your stitching? How many on your prayers? How many on writing letters? And how many on love?—I doubt, I doubt, my little dear,' was her playful remark, 'the last one is like Aaron's rod, swallowing up all the rest!—Tell me; isn’t that true?'
To these I answered, That it was a double mortification to me to owe my safety from the effects of my father's indignation to a man I could never thank for any thing. I vindicated the good Mrs. Norton with a warmth that was due to her merit. With equal warmth I resented her reflections upon me on Mr. Lovelace's account. As to the disposition of my time in the twenty-four hours, I told her it would better have become her to pity a sister in distress, than to exult over her—especially, when I could too justly attribute to the disposition of some of her wakeful hours no small part of that distress.
To this, I responded that it was particularly humiliating for me to owe my safety from my father's anger to a man I could never thank for anything. I defended the wonderful Mrs. Norton with the enthusiasm she deserved. I was equally offended by her comments about me because of Mr. Lovelace. Regarding how I spent my time each day, I told her it would have been more appropriate for her to empathize with a sister in trouble than to take pleasure in her situation—especially since I could rightly blame some of her sleepless nights for a significant part of that trouble.
She raved extremely at this last hint: but reminded me of the gentle treatment of all my friends, my mother's in particular, before it came to this. She said, that I had discovered a spirit they never had expected: that, if they had thought me such a championess, they would hardly have ventured to engage with me: but that now, the short and the long of it was, that the matter had gone too far to be given up: that it was become a contention between duty and willfulness; whether a parent's authority were to yield to a daughter's obstinacy, or the contrary: that I must therefore bend or break, that was all, child.
She got really worked up about this last hint but reminded me how kindly all my friends, especially my mom, had treated me before it came to this. She said I had shown a spirit they never expected: if they had thought I was such a fighter, they probably wouldn't have tried to go against me. But now, the bottom line was that things had gone too far to just back down; it had turned into a battle between duty and stubbornness—whether a parent’s authority should give in to a daughter’s defiance or the other way around. So I had to either give in or break; that was all there was to it, kid.
I told her, that I wished the subject were of such a nature, that I could return her pleasantry with equal lightness of heart: but that, if Mr. Solmes had such merit in every body's eyes, in hers, particularly, why might he not be a brother to me, rather than a husband?
I told her I wished the topic could allow me to reply with the same lightheartedness, but if Mr. Solmes was seen as so admirable by everyone, especially by her, then why couldn't he be a brother to me instead of a husband?
O child, says she, methinks you are as pleasant to the full as I am: I begin to have some hopes of you now. But do you think I will rob my sister of her humble servant? Had he first addressed himself to me, proceeded she, something might have been said: but to take my younger sister's refusal! No, no, child; it is not come to that neither! Besides, that would be to leave the door open in your heart for you know who, child; and we would fain bar him out, if possible. In short [and then she changed both her tone and her looks] had I been as forward as somebody, to throw myself into the arms of one of the greatest profligates in England, who had endeavoured to support his claim to me through the blood of my brother, then might all my family join together to save me from such a wretch, and to marry me as fast as they could, to some worthy man, who might opportunely offer himself. And now, Clary, all's out, and make the most of it.
Oh child, she says, I think you’re just as charming as I am: I’m starting to have some hopes for you now. But do you really think I’ll steal my sister's devoted servant? If he had first come to me, she continued, then something could have been said: but to take my younger sister's refusal? No, no, child; it hasn’t come to that! Besides, that would just open the door in your heart for, you know who, child; and we definitely want to keep him out if we can. In short [and then she changed both her tone and her expression] if I had been as bold as someone, throwing myself into the arms of one of the biggest scoundrels in England, who tried to claim me through my brother's blood, then my whole family would come together to save me from such a disgrace, and marry me off as quickly as possible to some decent man who happened to come along. And now, Clary, everything’s out in the open, so make the most of it.
Did not this deserve a severe return? Do, say it did, to justify my reply.—Alas! for my poor sister! said I—The man was not always so great a profligate. How true is the observation, That unrequited love turns to deepest hate!
Didn’t this deserve a harsh response? Well, say it did, to make my reply justified.—Alas! for my poor sister! I said—The man wasn’t always such a terrible person. How true is the saying that unrequited love turns into the deepest hatred!
I thought she would beat me. But I proceeded—I have heard often of my brother's danger, and my brother's murderer. When so little ceremony is made with me, why should I not speak out?—Did he not seek to kill the other, if he could have done it? Would my brother have given Lovelace his life, had it been in his power?—The aggressor should not complain.—And, as to opportune offers, would to Heaven some one had offered opportunely to somebody! It is not my fault, Bella, the opportune gentleman don't come!
I thought she would hit me. But I went ahead anyway—I’ve often heard about my brother's danger and his murderer. If I’m not being treated with much respect, why shouldn’t I speak up? Didn’t he try to kill the other guy, if he had the chance? Would my brother have saved Lovelace if he could? The attacker shouldn’t complain. And as for timely help, I wish someone had just stepped up at the right time! It's not my fault, Bella, that the right guy doesn’t show up!
Could you, my dear, have shewn more spirit? I expected to feel the weight of her hand. She did come up to me, with it held up: then, speechless with passion, ran half way down the stairs, and came up again.
Could you, my dear, have shown more spirit? I expected to feel the weight of her hand. She did come up to me, holding it up: then, speechless with passion, she ran halfway down the stairs and came up again.
When she could speak—God give me patience with you!
When she could talk—God help me with you!
Amen, said I: but you see, Bella, how ill you bear the retort you provoke. Will you forgive me; and let me find a sister in you, as I am sorry, if you had reason to think me unsisterly in what I have said?
Amen, I said: but you see, Bella, how poorly you handle the comeback you start. Will you forgive me? And let me find a sister in you, as I’m sorry if you thought I was being unsisterly in what I said?
Then did she pour upon me, with greater violence; considering my gentleness as a triumph of temper over her. She was resolved, she said, to let every body know how I took the wicked Lovelace's part against my brother.
Then she unleashed her anger on me even more, seeing my calmness as a victory of patience over her. She declared that she was determined to let everyone know how I supported the wicked Lovelace against my brother.
I wished, I told her, I could make the plea for myself, which she might for herself; to wit, that my anger was more inexcusable than my judgment. But I presumed she had some other view in coming to me, than she had hitherto acquainted me with. Let me, said I, but know (after all that has passed) if you have any thing to propose that I can comply with; any thing that can make my only sister once more my friend?
I told her that I wished I could make a plea for myself like she could for herself: that my anger was more unreasonable than my judgment. However, I assumed she had some other reason for coming to see me than what she had already shared. Let me know, I said, if you have anything to propose that I can agree to; anything that could make my only sister my friend again?
I had before, upon hearing her ridiculing me on my supposed character of meekness, said, that, although I wished to be thought meek, I would not be abject; although humble not mean: and here, in a sneering way, she cautioned me on that head.
I had previously, upon hearing her mock me about my supposed meekness, stated that while I wanted to be seen as meek, I wouldn't be submissive; while I aimed to be humble, I wouldn't be unworthy. And now, in a sarcastic tone, she warned me about that.
I replied, that her pleasantry was much more agreeable than her anger. But I wished she would let me know the end of a visit that had hitherto (between us) been so unsisterly.
I replied that her humor was a lot more pleasant than her anger. But I hoped she would tell me how our visit, which had been so un-sisterly so far, was going to end.
She desired to be informed, in the name of every body, was her word, what I was determined upon? And whether to comply or not?—One word for all: My friends were not to have patience with so perverse a creature for ever.
She wanted to know, on behalf of everyone, what I was set on doing. And whether I would go along with it or not?—In short: My friends wouldn’t be able to deal with such a stubborn person forever.
This then I told her I would do: Absolutely break with the man they were all so determined against: upon condition, however, that neither Mr. Solmes, nor any other, were urged upon me with the force of a command.
This is what I told her I would do: completely cut ties with the man they were all so set against, but only if neither Mr. Solmes nor anyone else was pushed on me as if it were a command.
And what was this, more than I had offered before? What, but ringing my changes upon the same bells, and neither receding nor advancing one tittle?
And what was this, if not more than I had presented before? What else, but varying my approach on the same points, without moving back or forward even a bit?
If I knew what other proposals I could make, I told her, that would be acceptable to them all, and free me from the address of a man so disagreeable to me, I would make them. I had indeed before offered, never to marry without my father's consent—
If I knew what other proposals I could suggest that would be acceptable to all of them and free me from dealing with a man I found so unpleasant, I would. I had actually already offered to never marry without my father's approval—
She interrupted me, That was because I depended upon my whining tricks to bring my father and mother to what I pleased.
She interrupted me. That was because I relied on my whining tactics to get my parents to give me what I wanted.
A poor dependence! I said:—She knew those who would make that dependence vain—
A sad reliance! I said:—She knew people who would make that reliance pointless—
And I should have brought them to my own beck, very probably, and my uncle Harlowe too, as also my aunt Hervey, had I not been forbidden from their sight, and thereby hindered from playing my pug's tricks before them.
And I probably should have brought them to me, along with my uncle Harlowe and my aunt Hervey, if I hadn’t been banned from seeing them, which stopped me from showing off my tricks in front of them.
At least, Bella, said I, you have hinted to me to whom I am obliged, that my father and mother, and every body else, treat me thus harshly. But surely you make them all very weak. Indifferent persons, judging of us two from what you say, would either think me a very artful creature, or you a very spiteful one—
At least, Bella, I said, you’ve hinted at who I should be grateful to for the way my father, mother, and everyone else treats me so harshly. But surely you make them all look weak. People who don’t know us, judging us based on what you say, would either think I’m a very crafty person or that you’re just being really spiteful—
You are indeed a very artful one, for that matter, interrupted she in a passion: one of the artfullest I ever knew! And then followed an accusation so low! so unsisterly!—That I half-bewitched people by my insinuating address: that nobody could be valued or respected, but must stand like ciphers wherever I came. How often, said she, have I and my brother been talking upon a subject, and had every body's attention, till you came in, with your bewitching meek pride, and humble significance? And then have we either been stopped by references to Miss Clary's opinion, forsooth; or been forced to stop ourselves, or must have talked on unattended to by every body.
You are truly quite the schemer, she interrupted passionately: one of the craftiest I’ve ever known! And then to hear such a low accusation! So unsisterly!—That I somehow mesmerized people with my charming way of speaking: that no one could be appreciated or respected, but had to fade into the background whenever I was around. How often, she said, have my brother and I been discussing something and had everyone’s attention, until you walked in with your enchanting, modest pride and subtle importance? And then we would either be interrupted by someone referencing Miss Clary's opinion, or we’d have to stop ourselves, or we’d end up talking while no one else was listening.
She paused. Dear Bella, proceed!
She paused. Hey Bella, go ahead!
She indeed seemed only gathering breath.
She really just seemed to be catching her breath.
And so I will, said she—Did you not bewitch my grandfather? Could any thing be pleasing to him, that you did not say or do? How did he use to hang, till he slabbered again, poor doting old man! on your silver tongue! Yet what did you say, that we could not have said? What did you do, that we did not endeavour to do?—And what was all this for? Why, truly, his last will shewed what effect your smooth obligingness had upon him!—To leave the acquired part of his estate from the next heirs, his own sons, to a grandchild; to his youngest grandchild! A daughter too!—To leave the family-pictures from his sons to you, because you could tiddle about them, and, though you now neglect their examples, could wipe and clean them with your dainty hands! The family-plate too, in such quantities, of two or three generations standing, must not be changed, because his precious child,* humouring his old fal-lal taste, admired it, to make it all her own.
“I will,” she said. “Did you not charm my grandfather? Was there anything he enjoyed that you didn’t say or do? How he would hang on your every word, that poor, smitten old man! Yet what did you say that we couldn’t have said? What did you do that we didn’t try to do? And what was all this for? Well, his last will really showed the impact your smooth charm had on him! He left the acquired part of his estate to a grandchild, instead of his own sons—his youngest grandchild, no less! A daughter too! He left the family pictures to you because you fiddled around with them, and even though you now ignore their examples, you could dust and clean them with your delicate hands! And the family silver, which has been in the family for two or three generations, can’t be changed because his precious child, catering to his old-fashioned tastes, admired it enough to claim it all as her own.”
* Alluding to his words in the preamble to the clauses in
his will. See Letter IV.
* Referring to his words in the introduction to the clauses in his will. See Letter IV.
This was too low to move me: O my poor sister! said I: not to be able, or at least willing, to distinguish between art and nature! If I did oblige, I was happy in it: I looked for no further reward: my mind is above art, from the dirty motives you mention. I wish with all my heart my grandfather had not thus distinguished me; he saw my brother likely to be amply provided for out of the family, as well as in it: he desired that you might have the greater share of my father's favour for it; and no doubt but you both have. You know, Bella, that the estate my grandfather bequeathed me was not half the real estate he left.
This was too little to affect me: Oh my poor sister! I said: how can someone not want to see the difference between art and nature? If I did help, I was content with that; I didn’t expect anything more in return: my mind is above art, beyond the selfish reasons you talk about. I truly wish my grandfather had not singled me out like this; he saw that my brother was likely to be well taken care of both inside and outside the family: he wanted you to have more of my father's favor because of it; and no doubt both of you have. You know, Bella, that the estate my grandfather left me was only a fraction of the real estate he passed down.
What's all that to an estate in possession, and left you with such distinctions, as gave you a reputation of greater value than the estate itself?
What's all that worth compared to having an estate in your name, which has given you a reputation that’s considered more valuable than the estate itself?
Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your envy, I doubt!—But have I not given up that possession in the best manner I could—
Hence my misfortune, Bella, in your jealousy, I wonder!—But haven't I given up that possession in the best way I could—
Yes, interrupting me, she hated me for that best manner. Specious little witch! she called me: your best manner, so full of art and design, had never been seen through, if you, with your blandishing ways, have not been put out of sight, and reduced to positive declarations!—Hindered from playing your little declarations!—Hindered from playing your little whining tricks! curling, like a serpent about your mamma; and making her cry to deny you any thing your little obstinate heart was set upon—!
Yes, interrupting me, she hated me for that charming way of mine. Deceitful little witch! she called me: your charming way, so full of strategy and design, would never have been seen through if you, with your flattering ways, hadn't been hidden away and forced into blunt statements! —Blocked from performing your little declarations! —Blocked from acting out your whiny tricks! coiling like a serpent around your mom; and making her cry to refuse you anything your stubborn little heart was set on—!
Obstinate heart, Bella!
Stubborn heart, Bella!
Yes, obstinate heart! For did you ever give up any thing? Had you not the art to make them think all was right you asked, though my brother and I were frequently refused favours of no greater import!
Yes, stubborn heart! Did you ever really give anything up? Didn’t you know how to make them believe everything was fine with your requests, even though my brother and I often got denied favors that weren’t as significant?
I know not, Bella, that I ever asked any thing unfit to be granted. I seldom asked favours for myself, but for others.
I don’t think I ever asked for anything that wasn’t reasonable, Bella. I rarely asked for favors for myself; it was usually for others.
I was a reflecting creature for this.
I was a thoughtful person because of this.
All you speak of, Bella, was a long time ago. I cannot go so far back into our childish follies. Little did I think of how long standing your late-shewn antipathy is.
All you talk about, Bella, happened a long time ago. I can't go that far back into our childish foolishness. I never realized how deep your recently revealed dislike really is.
I was a reflector again! Such a saucy meekness; such a best manner; and such venom in words!—O Clary! Clary! Thou wert always a two-faced girl!
I was a reflector again! Such cheeky humility; such great manners; and such bitterness in your words!—Oh Clary! Clary! You’ve always been a two-faced girl!
Nobody thought I had two faces, when I gave up all into my father's management; taking from his bounty, as before, all my little pocket-money, without a shilling addition to my stipend, or desiring it—
Nobody realized I had a hidden side when I let my father take control of everything; just like before, I took my little pocket money from his generosity, without any extra allowance or even wanting one—
Yes, cunning creature!—And that was another of your fetches!—For did it not engage my fond father (as no doubt you thought it would) to tell you, that since you had done so grateful and dutiful a thing, he would keep entire, for your use, all the produce of the estate left you, and be but your steward in it; and that you should be entitled to the same allowances as before? Another of your hook-in's, Clary!—So that all your extravagancies have been supported gratis.
Yes, clever little creature!—And that was just another one of your tricks!—Didn’t it get my dear father (as you probably hoped it would) to tell you that since you had done such a nice and respectful thing, he would manage all the income from the estate left to you, and only act as your steward; and that you would still get the same allowances as before? Another one of your fishing hooks, Clary!—So, all your extravagant spending has been covered for free.
My extravagancies, Bella!—But did my father ever give me any thing he did not give you?
My extravagances, Bella!—But did my dad ever give me anything he didn't give you?
Yes, indeed; I got more by that means, than I should have had the conscience to ask. But I have still the greater part to shew! But you! What have you to shew?—I dare say, not fifty pieces in the world!
Yes, I definitely got more from that than I would have felt right asking for. But I still have most of it to show! But you! What do you have to show?—I bet you don’t even have fifty pieces in total!
Indeed I have not!
Definitely not!
I believe you!—Your mamma Norton, I suppose—But mum for that—!
I believe you!—Your mom, Norton, I guess—But let's keep that quiet—!
Unworthy Bella! The good woman, although low in circumstance, is great in mind! Much greater than those who would impute meanness to a soul incapable of it.
Unworthy Bella! The good woman, despite her humble situation, has a strong mind! Far stronger than those who would attribute meanness to a soul completely incapable of it.
What then have you done with the sums given you from infancy to squander?—Let me ask you [affecting archness], Has, has, has Lovelace, has your rake, put it out at interest for you?
What have you done with the money you’ve been given since childhood?—Let me ask you [playfully], Has, has, has Lovelace, has your troublemaker, invested it for you?
O that my sister would not make me blush for her! It is, however, out at interest!—And I hope it will bring me interest upon interest!—Better than to lie useless in my cabinet.
O, I wish my sister wouldn't make me embarrassed! It's, however, invested!—And I hope it will earn me more returns!—Better than sitting idle in my cabinet.
She understood me, she said. Were I a man, she should suppose I was aiming to carry the county—Popularity! A crowd to follow me with their blessings as I went to and from church, and nobody else to be regarded, were agreeable things. House-top-proclamations! I hid not my light under a bushel, she would say that for me. But was it not a little hard upon me, to be kept from blazing on a Sunday?—And to be hindered from my charitable ostentations?
She got me, she said. If I were a man, she would think I was trying to win over the county—Popularity! A crowd following me with their cheers as I went to and from church, with no one else considered, sounded great. Public shout-outs! I wouldn’t hide my talents, she'd say that about me. But wasn’t it a bit unfair to keep me from shining on a Sunday?—And to hold me back from my generous displays?
This, indeed, Bella, is cruel in you, who have so largely contributed to my confinement.—But go on. You'll be out of breath by-and-by. I cannot wish to be able to return this usage.—Poor Bella! And I believe I smiled a little too contemptuously for a sister to a sister.
This, really, Bella, is pretty harsh of you, considering how much you've contributed to my situation. — But keep going. You'll be out of breath soon enough. I can’t say I want to return this treatment. — Poor Bella! And I think I smiled a bit too scornfully for a sister to her sister.
None of your saucy contempts [rising in her voice]: None of your poor Bella's, with that air of superiority in a younger sister!
None of your sarcastic attitudes [rising in her voice]: None of your poor Bella's, acting like she's better than her younger sister!
Well then, rich Bella! courtesying—that will please you better—and it is due likewise to the hoards you boast of.
Well then, rich Bella! A curtsy—that should make you happier—and it's also fitting given the wealth you like to show off.
Look ye, Clary, holding up her hand, if you are not a little more abject in your meekness, a little more mean in your humility, and treat me with the respect due to an elder sister—you shall find—
Look, Clary, raising her hand, if you aren't a bit more submissive in your meekness, a little more lowly in your humility, and treat me with the respect I deserve as your older sister—you will find—
Not that you will treat me worse than you have done, Bella!—That cannot be; unless you were to let fall your uplifted hand upon me—and that would less become you to do, than me to bear.
Not that you will treat me worse than you already have, Bella!—That can't happen; unless you were to bring your raised hand down on me—and that would be less fitting for you to do than for me to endure.
Good, meek creature:—But you were upon your overtures just now!—I shall surprise every body by tarrying so long. They will think some good may be done with you—and supper will be ready.
Good, gentle creature:—But you were just about to make your offer!—I will catch everyone off guard by staying so long. They’ll think something good might come of you—and dinner will be ready.
A tear would stray down my cheek—How happy have I been, said I, sighing, in the supper-time conversations, with all my dear friends in my eye round their hospitable board.
A tear rolled down my cheek—How happy have I been, I said, sighing during the dinner conversations, with all my dear friends gathered around their welcoming table.
I met only with insult for this—Bella has not a feeling heart. The highest joy in this life she is not capable of: but then she saves herself many griefs, by her impenetrableness—yet, for ten times the pain that such a sensibility is attended with, would I not part with the pleasure it brings with it.
I was only met with insults for this—Bella doesn’t have a caring heart. The greatest joy in life is beyond her grasp: but she also avoids a lot of heartache because of her emotional hardness—still, I wouldn’t trade the happiness that comes with true feelings for ten times the pain that such sensitivity brings.
She asked me, upon my turning from her, if she should not say any thing below of my compliances?
She asked me, as I turned away from her, if she shouldn't mention anything about my agreements below.
You may say, that I will do every thing they would have me do, if they will free me from Mr. Solmes's address.
You might say that I’ll do anything they want me to do if they will just free me from Mr. Solmes's attention.
This is all you desire at present, creeper on! insinuator! [What words she has!] But will not t'other man flame out, and roar most horribly, upon the snatching from his paws a prey he thought himself sure of?
This is all you want right now, you sneaky one! [What words she's using!] But won't the other guy explode in anger and make a terrible scene when you take away a prize he thought he had locked down?
I must let you talk in your own way, or we shall never come to a point. I shall not matter in his roaring, as you call it. I will promise him, that, if I ever marry any other man, it shall not be till he is married. And if he be not satisfied with such a condescension, I shall think he ought: and I will give any assurances, that I will neither correspond with him, nor see him. Surely this will do.
I have to let you express yourself however you want, or we'll never get anywhere. I won't be bothered by his shouting, as you put it. I'll promise him that if I ever marry anyone else, it won't be until he's married. And if he's not okay with that compromise, I think he should be; I'll guarantee that I won't talk to him or see him again. This should be enough.
But I suppose then you will have no objection to see and converse, on a civil footing, with Mr. Solmes—as your father's friend, or so?
But I guess you won't mind meeting and talking, in a friendly way, with Mr. Solmes—as your father's friend, right?
No! I must be permitted to retire to my apartment whenever he comes. I would no more converse with the one, than correspond with the other. That would be to make Mr. Lovelace guilty of some rashness, on a belief, that I broke with him, to have Mr. Solmes.
No! I must be allowed to go to my apartment whenever he arrives. I wouldn't talk to one any more than I would correspond with the other. Doing so would imply that Mr. Lovelace acted impulsively out of the belief that I ended things with him to be with Mr. Solmes.
And so, that wicked wretch is to be allowed such a controul over you, that you are not to be civil to your father's friends, at his own house, for fear of incensing him!—When this comes to be represented, be so good as to tell me, what is it you expect from it!
And so, that horrible person is given so much control over you that you can’t even be polite to your father’s friends in his own house, just to avoid upsetting him!—When this is brought up, please let me know what you expect to come of it!
Every thing, I said, or nothing, as she was pleased to represent it.—Be so good as to give it your interest, Bella, and say, further, 'That I will by any means I can, in the law or otherwise, make over to my father, to my uncles, or even to my brother, all I am entitled to by my grandfather's will, as a security for the performance of my promises. And as I shall have no reason to expect any favour from my father, if I break them, I shall not be worth any body's having. And further still, unkindly as my brother has used me, I will go down to Scotland privately, as his housekeeper [I now see I may be spared here] if he will promise to treat me no worse than he would do an hired one.—Or I will go to Florence, to my cousin Morden, if his stay in Italy will admit of it. In either case, it may be given out, that I am gone to the other; or to the world's end. I care not whither it is said I am gone, or do go.'
Everything I said, or nothing, as she liked to put it. Be so kind as to take an interest in this, Bella, and say further, 'I will, by any means available to me, legally or otherwise, transfer to my father, my uncles, or even my brother, all that I am entitled to from my grandfather's will, as a guarantee for keeping my promises. And since I have no reason to expect any favors from my father if I break them, I won't be worth anyone's trouble. And even though my brother has treated me badly, I will go to Scotland quietly, as his housekeeper [I now see I can skip that part] if he promises to treat me no worse than he would a hired one. Or I'll go to Florence, to my cousin Morden, if he’s still in Italy. In either case, people can say I’ve gone to the other place, or to the ends of the earth. I don’t care where they say I’ve gone or am going.'
Let me ask you, child, if you will give your pretty proposal in writing?
Let me ask you, kid, if you could put your nice proposal in writing?
Yes, with all my heart. And I stepped to my closet, and wrote to the purpose I have mentioned; and moreover, the following lines to my brother.
Yes, with all my heart. I went to my closet and wrote for the purpose I've mentioned, and also the following lines to my brother.
MY DEAR BROTHER,
MY BROTHER,
I hope I have made such proposals to my sister as will be accepted. I am sure they will, if you please to give them your sanction. Let me beg of you, for God's sake, that you will. I think myself very unhappy in having incurred your displeasure. No sister can love a brother better than I love you. Pray do not put the worst but the best constructions upon my proposals, when you have them reported to you. Indeed I mean the best. I have no subterfuges, no arts, no intentions, but to keep to the letter of them. You shall yourself draw up every thing into writing, as strong as you can, and I will sign it: and what the law will not do to enforce it, my resolution and my will shall: so that I shall be worth nobody's address, that has not my papa's consent: nor shall any person, nor any consideration, induce me to revoke it. You can do more than any body to reconcile my parents and uncles to me. Let me owe this desirable favour to your brotherly interposition, and you will for ever oblige
I hope I’ve made proposals to my sister that will be accepted. I’m sure they will if you give them your approval. Please, for God’s sake, do that. I feel very unhappy about having upset you. No sister could love a brother more than I love you. Please don’t assume the worst, but the best about my proposals when you hear about them. I truly mean the best. I have no tricks, no schemes, no intentions but to stick to what I said. You can write everything up as strongly as possible, and I will sign it. Whatever the law won’t enforce, my determination will: I won’t accept anyone’s proposal without my dad’s consent, and nothing or no one will make me change that. You have the power to do more than anyone to bring my parents and uncles back to me. Let me owe this precious favor to your brotherly support, and you will have my eternal gratitude.
Your afflicted Sister, CL. HARLOWE.
Your troubled sister, CL. HARLOWE.
***
Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.
And how do you think Bella employed herself while I was writing?—Why, playing gently upon my harpsichord; and humming to it, to shew her unconcernedness.
And how do you think Bella occupied herself while I was writing?—Well, she was softly playing my harpsichord and humming along to show she was unfazed.
When I approached her with what I had written, she arose with an air of levity—Why, love, you have not written already!—You have, I protest!—O what a ready penwoman!—And may I read it?
When I came to her with what I had written, she stood up with a lightheartedness—Wow, darling, you’ve already written it!—You really have, I swear!—Oh, what a quick writer you are!—And can I read it?
If you please. And let me beseech you, my dear Bella, to back these proposals with your good offices: and [folding my uplifted hands; tears, I believe, standing in my eyes] I will love you as never sister loved another.
If you would. And please, my dear Bella, support these suggestions with your help: and [holding my raised hands; tears, I think, welling up in my eyes] I will love you like no sister has ever loved another.
Thou art a strange creature, said she; there is no withstanding thee.
You are a strange person, she said; there's no resisting you.
She took the proposals and letter; and having read them, burst into an affected laugh: How wise ones may be taken in!—Then you did not know, that I was jesting with you all this time!—And so you would have me carry down this pretty piece of nonsense?
She looked at the proposals and the letter; after reading them, she laughed in a feigned way: "How easily the wise can be fooled!—You really didn’t know that I was joking with you all along!—So, you expect me to take this ridiculous nonsense down?"
Don't let me be surprised at your seeming unsisterliness, Bella. I hope it is but seeming. There can be no wit in such jesting as this.
Don't let me be shocked by your apparent lack of sisterly support, Bella. I hope it’s just an appearance. There’s no humor in this kind of joking.
The folly of the creature!—How natural is it for people, when they set their hearts upon any thing, to think every body must see with their eyes!—Pray, dear child, what becomes of your father's authority here?—Who stoops here, the parent, or the child?—How does this square with engagements actually agreed upon between your father and Mr. Solmes? What security, that your rake will not follow you to the world's end?—Nevertheless, that you may not think that I stand in the way of a reconciliation on such fine terms as these, I will be your messenger this once, and hear what my papa will say to it; although beforehand I can tell you, these proposals will not answer the principal end.
The foolishness of the creature!—Isn’t it typical for people, when they want something badly, to think everyone else should see things their way?—Now, dear child, what happens to your father's authority here?—Who is submitting, the parent or the child?—How does this align with the agreements made between your father and Mr. Solmes? What guarantee do you have that your playboy won’t chase you to the ends of the earth?—Still, so you don’t think I'm blocking a reconciliation on such great terms, I’ll be your messenger this time and see what my dad has to say about it; although I can already tell you, these proposals won’t serve the main purpose.
So down she went. But, it seems, my aunt Hervey and my uncle Harlowe were not gone away: and as they have all engaged to act in concert, messengers were dispatched to my uncle and aunt to desire them to be there to breakfast in the morning.
So down she went. But it turns out my aunt Hervey and my uncle Harlowe weren't away after all: and since they've all agreed to work together, messengers were sent to my uncle and aunt to ask them to be there for breakfast in the morning.
MONDAY NIGHT, ELEVEN O'CLOCK.
Monday night, 11 PM.
I am afraid I shall not be thought worthy—
I’m afraid I won’t be seen as worthy—
Just as I began to fear I should not be thought worthy of an answer, Betty rapped at my door, and said, if I were not in bed, she had a letter for me. I had but just done writing the above dialogue, and stept to the door with the pen in my hand—Always writing, Miss! said the bold wench: it is admirable how you can get away what you write—but the fairies, they say, are always at hand to help lovers.—She retired in so much haste, that, had I been disposed, I could not take the notice of this insolence which it deserved.
Just as I started to worry that I might not get a response, Betty knocked on my door and said that if I wasn't in bed, she had a letter for me. I had just finished writing the dialogue above and stepped to the door with the pen still in my hand—"Always writing, Miss!" said the cheeky girl. "It's amazing how you can get through your writing—but they say the fairies are always there to help lovers." She left in such a hurry that, even if I had wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to react to her rudeness as it deserved.
I enclose my brother's letter. He was resolved to let me see, that I should have nothing to expect from his kindness. But surely he will not be permitted to carry every point. The assembling of my friends to-morrow is a good sign: and I will hope something from that, and from proposals so reasonable. And now I will try if any repose will fall to my lot for the remainder of this night.
I’ve included my brother’s letter. He made it clear that I shouldn’t expect anything from his kindness. But surely, he can’t always get his way. The gathering of my friends tomorrow is a good sign, and I’m hoping for something positive from that and from such reasonable proposals. Now, I’ll see if I can find some peace for the rest of this night.
TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE [ENCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING.]
TO MISS CLARY HARLOWE [ENCLOSED IN THE PRECEDING.]
Your proposals will be considered by your father and mother, and all your friends, to-morrow morning. What trouble does your shameful forwardness give us all! I wonder you have the courage to write to me, upon whom you are so continually emptying your whole female quiver. I have no patience with you, for reflecting upon me as the aggressor in a quarrel which owed its beginning to my consideration for you.
Your parents and all your friends will look over your proposals tomorrow morning. What a hassle your shameless boldness causes us all! I’m surprised you have the nerve to write to me, especially since you seem to unload your entire emotional arsenal on me constantly. I have no patience for you, for thinking of me as the one who started this conflict when it actually began because I was considerate of you.
You have made such confessions in a villain's favour, as ought to cause all your relations to renounce you for ever. For my part, I will not believe any woman in the world, who promises against her avowed inclination. To put it out of your power to ruin yourself is the only way left to prevent your ruin. I did not intend to write; but your too-kind sister has prevailed upon me. As to your going to Scotland, that day of grace is over.—Nor would I advise, that you should go to grandfather-up your cousin Morden. Besides, that worthy gentleman might be involved in some fatal dispute, upon your account; and then be called the aggressor.
You’ve made confessions that favor a villain, which should make all your family disown you for good. As for me, I can't trust any woman who goes against her true feelings. The only way to prevent your downfall is to stop yourself from ruining your life. I didn't mean to write, but your overly kind sister convinced me to. As for your trip to Scotland, that chance has passed. I also wouldn’t recommend that you go and bother your cousin Morden. Besides, that decent man might get caught up in a serious conflict because of you and then be seen as the troublemaker.
A fine situation you have brought yourself to, to propose to hide yourself from your rake, and to have falsehoods told, to conceal you!—Your confinement, at this rate, is the happiest thing that could befal you. Your bravo's behaviour at church, looking out for you, is a sufficient indication of his power over you, had you not so shamelessly acknowledged it.
You've put yourself in quite a situation, planning to hide from your rake and have lies told to keep you hidden! At this rate, your confinement is the best thing that could happen to you. The way your tough guy acted at church, watching for you, clearly shows how much power he has over you, especially since you’ve so boldly admitted it.
One word for all—Your parents and uncles may do as they will: but if, for the honour of the family, I cannot carry this point, I will retire to Scotland, and never see the face of any one of it more.
One word for all—Your parents and uncles can do whatever they want: but if I can’t win this for the sake of the family, I’ll move to Scotland and never see any of them again.
JAMES HARLOWE. ***
JAMES HARLOWE. ***
There's a brother!—There's flaming duty to a father, and mother, and uncles!—But he sees himself valued, and made of consequence; and he gives himself airs accordingly!—Nevertheless, as I said above, I will hope better things from those who have not the interest my brother has to keep open these unhappy differences.
There's a brother!—There's a strong obligation to a father, and mother, and uncles!—But he sees himself valued and important; and he acts like it!—However, as I mentioned before, I hold out hope for better things from those who don’t have my brother's stake in maintaining these unfortunate disagreements.
LETTER XLIII
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE TUESDAY, MARCH 21.
Would you not have thought, my dear Miss Howe, as well as I, that my proposal must have been accepted: and that my brother, by the last article of his unbrotherly letter (where he threatens to go to Scotland if it should be hearkened to) was of opinion that it would.
Wouldn't you have thought, my dear Miss Howe, just like I did, that my proposal would have been accepted? And that my brother, in the last part of his unbrotherly letter (where he threatens to go to Scotland if it's considered), believed that it would be?
For my part, after I had read the unkind letter over and over, I concluded, upon the whole, that a reconciliation upon terms so disadvantageous to myself, as hardly any other person in my case, I dare say, would have proposed, must be the result of this morning's conference. And in that belief I had begun to give myself new trouble in thinking (this difficulty over) how I should be able to pacify Lovelace on that part of my engagement, by which I undertook to break off all correspondence with him, unless my friends should be brought, by the interposition of his powerful friends, and any offers they might make, (which it was rather his part to suggest, than mine to intimate,) to change their minds.
After reading the harsh letter multiple times, I concluded that a reconciliation on such unfair terms, which I doubt anyone else in my situation would have suggested, was the outcome of our meeting this morning. With that in mind, I started to worry about how I would be able to calm Lovelace regarding that part of my commitment, which involved cutting off all communication with him unless my friends were persuaded, through the influence of his powerful contacts and any offers they might make—which he should suggest rather than me bringing it up—to change their minds.
Thus was I employed, not very agreeably, you may believe, because of the vehemence of the tempers I had to conflict with; when breakfasting-time approached, and my judges began to arrive.
So I was occupied, not very happily, you can imagine, because of the intensity of the personalities I had to deal with; when breakfast time came around, and my judges started to show up.
And oh! how my heart fluttered on hearing the chariot of the one, and then of the other, rattle through the court-yard, and the hollow-sounding foot-step giving notice of each person's stepping out, to take his place on the awful bench which my fancy had formed for them and my other judges!
And oh! how my heart raced when I heard the chariot of one, and then the other, rattle through the courtyard, and the echoing footsteps announcing each person stepping out to take their place on the intimidating bench that my imagination had created for them and my other judges!
That, thought I, is my aunt Hervey's! That my uncle Harlowe's! Now comes my uncle Antony! And my imagination made a fourth chariot for the odious Solmes, although it happened he was not there.
That, I thought, is my aunt Hervey's! That's my uncle Harlowe's! Now here comes my uncle Antony! And my imagination created a fourth chariot for the awful Solmes, even though he wasn't there.
And now, thought I, are they all assembled: and now my brother calls upon my sister to make her report! Now the hard-hearted Bella interlards her speech with invective! Now has she concluded her report! Now they debate upon it!—Now does my brother flame! Now threaten to go to Scotland! Now is he chidden, and now soothed!
And now, I thought, are they all gathered: and now my brother asks my sister to give her update! Now the tough Bella fills her speech with insults! Now she has finished her report! Now they discuss it!—Now my brother is furious! Now he threatens to go to Scotland! Now he's scolded, and now calmed down!
And then I ran through the whole conference in my imagination, forming speeches for this person and that, pro and con, till all concluded, as I flattered myself, in an acceptance of my conditions, and in giving directions to have an instrument drawn to tie me up to my good behaviour; while I supposed all agreed to give Solmes a wife every way more worthy of him, and with her the promise of my grandfather's estate, in case of my forfeiture, or dying unmarried, on the righteous condition he proposes to entitle himself to it with me.
And then I ran through the entire conference in my mind, creating speeches for this person and that, arguing both sides, until it all ended, as I convinced myself, with everyone agreeing to my terms and making plans to set up a contract to hold me accountable for my behavior; while I imagined everyone agreeing to give Solmes a wife who was far more deserving of him, along with the promise of my grandfather's estate if I lost it or died single, based on the fair condition he suggested to qualify for it with me.
And now, thought I, am I to be ordered down to recognize my own proposals. And how shall I look upon my awful judges? How shall I stand the questions of some, the set surliness of others, the returning love of one or two? How greatly shall I be affected!
And now, I wondered, am I going to be told to go down and acknowledge my own proposals? And how will I face my terrifying judges? How will I handle the questions from some, the stubbornness of others, the returning affection from one or two? How much will this impact me!
Then I wept: then I dried my eyes: then I practised at my glass for a look more cheerful than my heart.
Then I cried: then I wiped my tears: then I practiced in the mirror for a look that was cheerier than how I felt.
And now [as any thing stirred] is my sister coming to declare the issue of all! Tears gushing again, my heart fluttering as a bird against its wires; drying my eyes again and again to no purpose.
And now, as anything moves, my sister is coming to reveal everything! Tears are streaming again, my heart racing like a bird trapped in a cage; I keep drying my eyes again and again, but it doesn't help.
And thus, my Nancy, [excuse the fanciful prolixity,] was I employed, and such were my thoughts and imaginations, when I found a very different result from the hopeful conference.
And so, my Nancy, [sorry for the elaborate wording,] I was occupied, and those were my thoughts and dreams, when I got a completely different outcome from the optimistic meeting.
For about ten o'clock up came my sister, with an air of cruel triumph, waving her hand with a light flourish—
For about ten o'clock, my sister showed up, looking triumphantly smug, waving her hand with a casual flourish—
Obedience without reserve is required of you, Clary. My papa is justly incensed, that you should presume to dispute his will, and to make conditions with him. He knows what is best for you: and as you own matters are gone a great way between this hated Lovelace and you, they will believe nothing you say; except you will give the one only instance, that will put them out of doubt of the sincerity of your promises.
Obedience without question is expected from you, Clary. My dad is rightly upset that you would dare to challenge his wishes and try to negotiate with him. He knows what's best for you, and since things have progressed so far between you and this despised Lovelace, no one will believe anything you say unless you provide the one clear example that will convince them of the honesty of your promises.
What, child, are you surprised?—Cannot you speak?—Then, it seems, you had expected a different issue, had you?—Strange that you could!—With all your acknowledgements and confessions, so creditable to your noted prudence—!
What, kid, are you surprised?—Can’t you talk?—So, it looks like you were expecting a different outcome, right?—How odd that you could!—With all your acknowledgments and confessions, so commendable for your well-known caution—!
I was indeed speechless for some time: my eyes were even fixed, and ceased to flow. But upon the hard-hearted Bella's proceeding with her airs of insult, Indeed I was mistaken, said I; indeed I was!——For in you, Bella, I expected, I hoped for, a sister—
I was completely speechless for a while; my eyes were even glued shut and had stopped crying. But when the cold-hearted Bella continued with her insulting behavior, I said, "I was wrong, wasn’t I? I really was!—Because with you, Bella, I expected and hoped for a sister—
What! interrupted she, with all your mannerly flings, and your despising airs, did you expect that I was capable of telling stories for you?—Did you think, that when I was asked my own opinion of the sincerity of your declarations, I could not tell tem, how far matters had gone between you and your fellow?—When the intention is to bend that stubborn will of yours to your duty, do you think I would deceive them?—Do you think I would encourage them to call you down, to contradict all that I should have invented in your favour?
What! she interrupted, with all your polite pretenses and your condescending attitude, did you really think I could tell stories for you?—Did you believe that when I was asked about my honest opinion on the sincerity of your claims, I wouldn't explain how far things had gone between you and your friend?—When the goal is to get that stubborn will of yours to do what you should, do you think I would lie to them?—Do you think I would encourage them to confront you, to counter everything I would have made up in your favor?
Well, well, Bella; I am the less obliged to you; that's all. I was willing to think that I had still a brother and sister. But I find I am mistaken.
Well, Bella, I owe you less than I thought; that's all. I wanted to believe that I still had a brother and sister. But I realize I was wrong.
Pretty mopsy-eyed soul!—was her expression!—And was it willing to think it had still a brother and sister? And why don't you go on, Clary? [mocking my half-weeping accent] I thought I had a father, and mother, two uncles, and an aunt: but I am mis—taken, that's all—come, Clary, say this, and it will in part be true, because you have thrown off all their authority, and because you respect one vile wretch more than them all.
Pretty mopsy-eyed soul! — that was her expression! — And did it really believe it still had a brother and sister? And why aren’t you continuing, Clary? [mocking my half-weeping tone] I thought I had a dad, a mom, two uncles, and an aunt: but I’ve got it wrong, that’s all — come on, Clary, say this, and it will partly be true, because you’ve rejected all their authority, and because you respect one despicable person more than any of them.
How have I deserved this at your hands, Sister?—But I will only say, I pity you.
How did I deserve this from you, Sister?—But I'll just say, I feel sorry for you.
And with that disdainful air too, Clary!—None of that bridled neck! none of your scornful pity, girl!—I beseech you!
And with that arrogant attitude too, Clary!—None of that held-back pride! none of your mocking pity, girl!—I beg you!
This sort of behaviour is natural to you, surely, Bella!—What new talents does it discover in you!—But proceed—If it be a pleasure to you, proceed, Bella. And since I must not pity you, I will pity myself: for nobody else will.
This kind of behavior comes naturally to you, for sure, Bella!—What new skills does it reveal in you!—But go on—If it makes you happy, go for it, Bella. And since I can't feel sorry for you, I guess I'll feel sorry for myself: because no one else will.
Because you don't, said she—
Because you don't, she said—
Hush, Bella, interrupting her, because I don't deserve it—I know you were going to say so. I will say as you say in every thing; and that's the way to please you.
Hush, Bella, I interrupted her, because I don't deserve it—I know you were about to say that. I'll agree with you on everything; that's the way to make you happy.
Then say, Lovelace is a villain.
Then say, Lovelace is a bad guy.
So I will, when I think him so.
So I will, whenever I think of him that way.
Then you don't think him so?
Then you don't think he's that way?
Indeed I don't. You did not always, Bella.
Indeed, I don't. You didn't always, Bella.
And what, Clary, mean you by that? [bristling up to me]—Tell me what you mean by that reflection?
And what do you mean by that, Clary? [getting defensive]—Tell me what you mean by that comment?
Tell me why you call it a reflection?—What did I say?
Tell me why you call it a reflection?—What did I say?
Thou art a provoking creature—But what say you to two or three duels of that wretch's?
You’re quite the troublemaker—But what do you think about two or three duels with that guy?
I can't tell what to say, unless I knew the occasions.
I can't figure out what to say unless I know the situations.
Do you justify duelling at all?
Do you think dueling is justified at all?
I do not: neither can I help his duelling.
I don't: nor can I stop him from dueling.
Will you go down, and humble that stubborn spirit of yours to your mamma?
Will you go and humble that stubborn spirit of yours to your mom?
I said nothing.
I didn't say anything.
Shall I conduct your Ladyship down? [offering to take my declined hand].
Shall I walk you down, my lady? [offering to take my declined hand].
What! not vouchsafe to answer me?
What! You won’t even answer me?
I turned from her in silence.
I turned away from her without saying a word.
What! turn your back upon me too!—Shall I bring up your mamma to you, love? [following me, and taking my struggling hand] What? not speak yet! Come, my sullen, silent dear, speak one word to me—you must say two very soon to Mr. Solmes, I can tell you that.
What! You're turning your back on me too!—Should I bring up your mom to you, love? [following me and grabbing my struggling hand] What? Still not speaking! Come on, my moody, quiet dear, say just one word to me—you'll need to say two very soon to Mr. Solmes, trust me on that.
Then [gushing into tears, which I could not hold in longer] they shall be the last words I will ever speak.
Then, [bursting into tears that I couldn't hold back any longer] these will be the last words I will ever say.
Well, well, [insultingly wiping my averted face with her handkerchief, while her other hand held mine, in a ridiculing tone,] I am glad any thing will make thee speak: then you think you may be brought to speak the two words—only they are to be the last!—How like a gentle lovyer from its tender bleeding heart was that!
Well, well, [insultingly wiping my turned-away face with her handkerchief, while her other hand held mine, in a mocking tone,] I’m glad anything will get you to talk: so you think you’ll actually say those two words—only they have to be the last!—How much like a gentle lover from its tender, bleeding heart that was!
Ridiculous Bella!
Silly Bella!
Saucy Clary! [changing her sneering tone to an imperious one] But do you think you can humble yourself to go down to your mamma?
Saucy Clary! [changing her sneering tone to a commanding one] But do you really think you can bring yourself to go see your mom?
I am tired of such stuff as this. Tell me, Bella, if my mamma will condescend to see me?
I’m fed up with this kind of stuff. Tell me, Bella, will my mom agree to see me?
Yes, if you can be dutiful at last.
Yes, if you can finally be responsible.
I can. I will.
I can. I will.
But what call you dutiful?
But what do you call dutiful?
To give up my own inclinations—That's something more for you to tell of—in obedience to my parents' commands; and to beg that I may not be made miserable with a man that is fitter for any body than for me.
To ignore my own desires—that’s something for you to explain—in order to follow my parents' orders; and to plead that I shouldn't be stuck with a guy who's better suited for anyone else than for me.
For me, do you mean, Clary?
Are you talking about me, Clary?
Why not? since you have put the question. You have a better opinion of him than I have. My friends, I hope, would not think him too good for me, and not good enough for you. But cannot you tell me, Bella, what is to become of me, without insulting over me thus?—If I must be thus treated, remember, that if I am guilty of any rashness, the usage I meet with will justify it.
Why not? Since you asked the question. You think more highly of him than I do. My friends, I hope, wouldn’t consider him too good for me or not good enough for you. But can’t you tell me, Bella, what’s going to happen to me without putting me down like this? If I have to be treated this way, remember that if I act recklessly, the way I’m treated will justify it.
So, Clary, you are contriving an excuse, I find, for somewhat that we have not doubted has been in your head a great while.
So, Clary, I see you’re coming up with an excuse for something that we’ve all suspected has been on your mind for quite a while.
If it were so, you seem resolved, for your part, and so does my brother for his, that I shall not want one.—But indeed, Bella, I can bear no longer this repetition of the worst part of yesterday's conversation: I desire I may throw myself at my father's and mother's feet, and hear from them what their sentence is. I shall at least avoid, by that means, the unsisterly insults I meet with from you.
If that's the case, you definitely seem determined, and my brother feels the same way, that I won’t get what I want. But honestly, Bella, I can’t handle hearing again the worst part of yesterday's conversation. I want to throw myself at my parents' feet and hear their judgment. At least that way, I can avoid the hurtful things you say to me.
Hey-day! What, is this you? Is it you, my meek sister Clary?
Hey there! Is that really you? Is that you, my timid sister Clary?
Yes, it is I, Bella; and I will claim the protection due to a child of the family, or to know why I am to be thus treated, when I offer only to preserve to myself the liberty of refusal, which belongs to my sex; and, to please my parents, would give up my choice. I have contented myself till now to take second-hand messengers, and first-hand insults: you are but my sister: my brother is not my sovereign. And while I have a father and mother living, I will not be thus treated by a brother and sister, and their servants, all setting upon me, as it should seem, to make me desperate, and do a rash thing.—I will know, in short, sister Bella, why I am to be constrained thus?—What is intended by it?—And whether I am to be considered as a child or a slave?
Yes, it's me, Bella, and I will demand the protection that's due to a child of the family, or at least an explanation for why I'm being treated this way when all I want is to keep my right to refuse, which is part of being a woman; and to make my parents happy, I would give up my choice. I've tolerated taking messages from others and facing insults directly: you’re just my sister; my brother isn’t my ruler. As long as my parents are alive, I won't accept being treated this way by a brother and sister, along with their servants, who all seem to be trying to push me to a breaking point and make me act irrationally. To put it plainly, sister Bella, I want to know why I'm being forced into this? What’s the goal here? And am I to be seen as a child or a slave?
She stood aghast all this time, partly with real, partly with affected, surprise.
She stood in shock the whole time, partly with genuine, partly with feigned, surprise.
And is it you? Is it indeed you?—Well, Clary, you amaze me! But since you are so desirous to refer yourself to your father and mother, I will go down, and tell them what you say. Your friends are not yet gone, I believe: they shall assemble again; and then you may come down, and plead your own cause in person.
And is it really you? Seriously, Clary, you surprise me! But since you really want to talk to your mom and dad, I’ll go down and tell them what you’ve said. Your friends aren’t gone just yet, I think—they’ll gather again; then you can come down and make your own case in person.
Let me then. But let my brother and you be absent. You have made yourselves too much parties against me, to sit as my judges. And I desire to have none of yours or his interpositions. I am sure you could not have represented what I proposed fairly: I am sure you could not. Nor is it possible you should be commissioned to treat me thus.
Let me do that. But please keep my brother and you out of this. You both have taken sides against me, so you can't judge me. I don't want your involvement or his. I'm certain you wouldn't have presented what I suggested fairly: I know you wouldn't. It's also impossible for you to have the right to treat me this way.
Well, well, I'll call up my brother to you.—I will indeed.—He shall justify himself, as well as me.
Well, I'll call my brother over. I really will. He'll explain himself just like I will.
I desire not to see my brother, except he will come as a brother, laying aside the authority he has unjustly assumed over me.
I don’t want to see my brother unless he comes as a brother, letting go of the authority he has wrongly taken over me.
And so, Clary, it is nothing to him, or to me, is it, that our sister shall disgrace her whole family?
And so, Clary, it doesn’t matter to him, or to me, does it, that our sister is going to shame our entire family?
As how, Bella, disgrace it?—The man whom you thus freely treat, is a man of birth and fortune: he is a man of parts, and nobly allied.—He was once thought worthy of you: and I wish to Heaven you had had him. I am sure it was not thus my fault you had not, although you treat me thus.
As for how, Bella, can you do this?—The man you treat so casually is someone of high status and wealth: he has talent and comes from a noble family.—He was once seen as a good match for you, and I wish to God you had been with him. I know it wasn’t my fault you weren’t, even if you treat me this way.
This set her into a flame: I wish I had forborne it. O how the poor Bella raved! I thought she would have beat me once or twice: and she vowed her fingers itched to do so—but I was not worth her anger: yet she flamed on.
This pushed her over the edge: I wish I had held back. Oh, how the poor Bella raged! I thought she might hit me once or twice; she said her hands were itching to do it—but I wasn’t worth her anger: still, she kept going.
We were heard to be high.—And Betty came up from my mother to command my sister to attend her.—She went down accordingly, threatening me with letting every one know what a violent creature I had shewn myself to be.
We were said to be loud. And Betty came up from my mom to order my sister to come to her. She went down as instructed, warning me that she would tell everyone what a crazy person I had been.
TUESDAY NOON, MARCH 21.
Tuesday, March 21, noon.
I have as yet heard no more of my sister: and have not courage enough to insist upon throwing myself at the feet of my father and mother, as I thought in my heat of temper I should be able to do. And I am now grown as calm as ever; and were Bella to come up again, as fit to be played upon as before.
I still haven't heard anything more about my sister, and I don’t have the courage to throw myself at my parents' feet like I thought I could when I was angry. Now, I'm as calm as ever, and if Bella were to come back, I’d be ready to deal with her just like before.
I am indeed sorry that I sent her from me in such disorder. But my papa's letter threatening me with my uncle Antony's house and chapel, terrifies me strangely; and by their silence I'm afraid some new storm is gathering.
I truly regret sending her away in such a mess. But my dad's letter, warning me about my Uncle Antony's house and chapel, scares me a lot; and their silence makes me worry that some new trouble is brewing.
But what shall I do with this Lovelace? I have just now, but the unsuspected hole in the wall (that I told you of in my letter by Hannah) got a letter from him—so uneasy is he for fear I should be prevailed upon in Solmes's favour; so full of menaces, if I am; so resenting the usage I receive [for, how I cannot tell, but he has undoubtedly intelligence of all that is done in the family]; such protestations of inviolable faith and honour; such vows of reformation; such pressing arguments to escape from this disgraceful confinement—O my Nancy, what shall I do with this Lovelace?—
But what am I supposed to do with this Lovelace? I just now, through the unexpected hole in the wall (that I mentioned in my letter by Hannah), received a letter from him—he's so anxious that I might be convinced to choose Solmes instead; he's full of threats if I do; he's so upset about how I'm being treated [for some reason, I can't figure out how, but he clearly knows everything that's happening in the family]; he makes such claims of unwavering faith and honor; such promises to change; such urgent pleas to get away from this humiliating confinement—Oh my Nancy, what am I supposed to do with this Lovelace?—
LETTER XLIV
MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE, TO MISS HOWE WENESDAY MORNING, NINE O'CLOCK.
My aunt Hervey lay here last night, and is but just gone from me. She came up to me with my sister. They would not trust my aunt without this ill-natured witness. When she entered my chamber, I told her, that this visit was a high favour to a poor prisoner, in her hard confinement. I kissed her hand. She, kindly saluting me, said, Why this distance to your aunt, my dear, who loves you so well?
My aunt Hervey was here last night, and she's just left. She came in with my sister. They didn’t want to leave my aunt alone with me, considering the unkind witness. When she walked into my room, I told her that this visit was a great favor to a poor prisoner like me, stuck in such hard confinement. I kissed her hand. She kindly greeted me and said, "Why so much distance from your aunt, my dear, who loves you so much?"
She owned, that she came to expostulate with me, for the peace-sake of the family: for that she could not believe it possible, if I did not conceive myself unkindly treated, that I, who had ever shewn such a sweetness of temper, as well as manners, should be thus resolute, in a point so very near to my father, and all my friends. My mother and she were both willing to impute my resolution to the manner I had been begun with; and to my supposing that my brother had originally more of a hand in the proposals made by Mr. Solmes, than my father or other friends. In short, fain would my aunt have furnished me with an excuse to come off my opposition; Bell all the while humming a tune, and opening this book and that, without meaning; but saying nothing.
She admitted that she came to talk to me for the sake of family peace because she couldn’t believe that if I didn’t feel I was being treated unfairly, someone like me, who had always shown such a sweet nature and good manners, would be so stubborn about something so important to my father and all my friends. My mother and she both wanted to attribute my determination to the way I had been treated when this all started and to my assumption that my brother had a bigger role in the proposals made by Mr. Solmes than my father or other friends. In short, my aunt would have loved to give me an excuse to back down from my opposition; meanwhile, Bell was humming a tune, flipping through this book and that without any real purpose, but not saying a word.
After having shewed me, that my opposition could not be of signification, my father's honour being engaged, my aunt concluded with enforcing upon me my duty, in stronger terms than I believe she would have done, (the circumstances of the case considered), had not my sister been present.
After showing me that my resistance didn't matter, since my father's honor was at stake, my aunt insisted on my duty in a way I don't think she would have if my sister hadn't been there.
It would be repeating what I have so often mentioned, to give you the arguments that passed on both sides.—So I will only recite what she was pleased to say, that carried with it a new face.
It would be redundant to repeat the arguments I’ve mentioned many times before on both sides. So, I’ll just share what she said, which presented a fresh perspective.
When she found me inflexible, as she was pleased to call it, she said, For her part, she could not but say, that if I were not to have either Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and yet, to make my friends easy, must marry, she should not think amiss of Mr. Wyerley. What did I think of Mr. Wyerley?
When she found me unwilling to change my mind, which she liked to call inflexible, she said that for her part, she couldn’t help but say that if I weren’t going to marry either Mr. Solmes or Mr. Lovelace, and still needed to marry to make my friends happy, she wouldn’t think poorly of Mr. Wyerley. What did I think of Mr. Wyerley?
Ay, Clary, put in my sister, what say you to Mr. Wyerley?
“Hey, Clary,” my sister interjected. “What do you think of Mr. Wyerley?”
I saw through this immediately. It was said on purpose, I doubted not, to have an argument against me of absolute prepossession in Mr. Lovelace's favour: since Mr. Wyerley every where avows his value, even to veneration, for me; and is far less exceptionable both in person and mind, than Mr. Solmes: and I was willing to turn the tables, by trying how far Mr. Solmes's terms might be dispensed with; since the same terms could not be expected from Mr. Wyerley.
I saw through this right away. It was clearly said on purpose, I had no doubt, to create a reason to accuse me of being completely biased in favor of Mr. Lovelace; since Mr. Wyerley openly expresses his admiration for me, even to the point of reverence, and is much less objectionable both in looks and character than Mr. Solmes. I was eager to flip the situation by seeing how far Mr. Solmes's demands could be relaxed; since the same demands wouldn’t be expected from Mr. Wyerley.
I therefore desired to know, whether my answer, if it should be in favour of Mr. Wyerley, would release me from Mr. Solmes?—For I owned, that I had not the aversion to him, that I had to the other.
I wanted to know if my answer, if it favored Mr. Wyerley, would free me from Mr. Solmes?—Because I admitted that I didn’t dislike him as much as I did the other.
Nay, she had no commission to propose such a thing. She only knew, that my father and mother would not be easy till Mr. Lovelace's hopes were entirely defeated.
No, she had no authority to suggest such a thing. She only knew that my parents wouldn't be at ease until Mr. Lovelace's hopes were completely crushed.
Cunning creature! said my sister.
Sly creature! said my sister.
And this, and her joining in the question before, convinced me, that it was a designed snare for me.
And this, along with her joining in the earlier question, made me realize that it was a setup aimed at me.
Don't you, dear Madam, said I, put questions that can answer no end, but to support my brother's schemes against me.—But are there any hopes of an end to my sufferings and disgrace, without having this hated man imposed upon me? Will not what I have offered be accepted? I am sure it ought—I will venture to say that.
"Don't you, dear Madam," I said, "ask questions that only serve to support my brother's plans against me? But is there any hope of putting an end to my suffering and disgrace without forcing this detested man on me? Won't what I've proposed be accepted? I'm certain it should—I dare say that."
Why, Niece, if there be not any such hopes, I presume you don't think yourself absolved from the duty due from a child to her parents?
Why, Niece, if there aren't any such hopes, I assume you don't believe you're free from the duty a child owes to her parents?
Yes, said my sister, I do not doubt but it is Miss Clary's aim, if she does not fly to her Lovelace, to get her estate into her own hands, and go to live at The Grove, in that independence upon which she builds all her perverseness. And, dear heart! my little love, how will you then blaze away! Your mamma Norton, your oracle, with your poor at your gates, mingling so proudly and so meanly with the ragged herd! Reflecting, by your ostentation, upon all the ladies in the county, who do not as you do. This is known to be your scheme! and the poor without-doors, and Lovelace within, with one hand building up a name, pulling it down with the other!—O what a charming scheme is this!—But let me tell you, my pretty little flighty one, that your father's living will shall controul your grandfather's dead one; and that estate will be disposed of as your fond grandfather would have disposed of it, had he lived to see such a change in his favourite. In a word, Miss, it will be kept out of your hands, till my father sees you discreet enough to have the management of it, or till you can dutifully, by law, tear it from him.
"Of course," my sister said, "I have no doubt that Miss Clary's plan, if she doesn't run off with her Lovelace, is to gain control of her estate and move to The Grove, relishing the independence she bases all her defiance on. And, sweetie, how will you shine then! Your mom Norton, your guiding star, with your poor neighbors at your door, mingling so proudly yet so poorly with the ragged crowd! With your showiness reflecting on all the ladies in the county who don’t live like you do. Everyone knows this is your plan! The poor outside, and Lovelace inside, building up a reputation with one hand while tearing it down with the other!—Oh, what a lovely plan!—But let me tell you, my cute little dreamer, that your father's living will will override your grandfather's dead one; that estate will be managed as your loving grandfather would have wanted, had he lived to see such a change in his favorite. In short, Miss, it will be kept from you until my father believes you’re responsible enough to manage it, or until you can lawfully take it from him."
Fie, Miss Harlowe! said my aunt: this is not pretty to your sister.
"Come on, Miss Harlowe!" said my aunt. "This isn't a nice thing to do to your sister."
O Madam, let her go on. This is nothing to what I have borne from Miss Harlowe. She is either commissioned to treat me ill by her envy, or by an higher authority, to which I must submit.—As to revoking the estate, what hinders, if I pleased? I know my power; but have not the least thought of exerting it. Be pleased to let my father know, that, whatever be the consequence to myself, were he to turn me out of doors, (which I should rather he would do, than to be confined and insulted as I am), and were I to be reduced to indigence and want, I would seek no relief that should be contrary to his will.
Oh Madam, let her continue. This is nothing compared to what I've dealt with from Miss Harlowe. She's either been told to treat me poorly out of jealousy or by someone in a higher position, to whom I must submit. As for revoking the estate, what's stopping me if I wanted to? I know my power, but I have no intention of using it. Please let my father know that, no matter what happens to me, if he were to throw me out (which I would actually prefer over being trapped and insulted as I am), and if I were to end up in poverty and need, I wouldn't seek any help that went against his wishes.
For that matter, child, said my aunt, were you to marry, you must do as your husband will have you. If that husband be Mr. Lovelace, he will be glad of any opportunity of further embroiling the families. And, let me tell you, Niece, if he had the respect for you which he pretends to have, he would not throw out defiances as he does. He is known to be a very revengeful man; and were I you, Miss Clary, I should be afraid he would wreak upon me that vengeance, though I had not offended him, which he is continually threatening to pour upon the family.
"That being said, dear, my aunt remarked, if you decide to marry, you’ll have to follow your husband’s wishes. If that husband is Mr. Lovelace, he’ll be eager to stir up more trouble between the families. And let me tell you, Niece, if he truly respected you like he claims, he wouldn’t be making the bold threats that he does. He has a reputation for being quite vengeful; if I were you, Miss Clary, I would worry that he might take out that revenge on me, even if I hadn’t wronged him, which he’s always threatening to unleash on the family."
Mr. Lovelace's threatened vengeance is in return for threatened vengeance. It is not every body will bear insult, as, of late, I have been forced to bear it.
Mr. Lovelace's threatened revenge is in response to threatened revenge. Not everyone can put up with insults, as I have been forced to lately.
O how my sister's face shone with passion!
O how my sister's face lit up with passion!
But Mr. Lovelace, proceeded I, as I have said twenty and twenty times, would be quite out of question with me, were I to be generously treated!
But Mr. Lovelace, I continued, as I've said over and over again, would be completely out of the picture for me if I were treated fairly!
My sister said something with great vehemence: but only raising my voice, to be heard, without minding her, Pray, Madam, (provokingly interrogated I), was he not known to have been as wild a man, when he was at first introduced into our family, as he now is said to be? Yet then, the common phrases of wild oats, and black oxen, and such-like, were qualifiers; and marriage, and the wife's discretion, were to perform wonders—but (turning to my sister) I find I have said too much.
My sister said something with a lot of passion: but I just raised my voice to make sure I could be heard, not really caring what she thought. "Come on, Madam," I asked provocatively, "wasn't he known to be just as wild when he first came into our family as he is said to be now? Back then, people used phrases like 'wild oats' and 'black sheep' to justify it, and they said that marriage and a wife's discretion would work miracles—but" (turning to my sister) "I realize I've said too much."
O thou wicked reflecter!—And what made me abhor him, think you, but the proof of those villainous freedoms that ought to have had the same effect upon you, were you but half so good a creature as you pretend to be?
O you wicked mirror!—And what made me hate him, do you think, but the evidence of those despicable actions that should have had the same impact on you, if you were even half as good a person as you pretend to be?
Proof, did you say, Bella! I thought you had not proof?—But you know best.
Proof, did you say, Bella! I thought you didn't have any proof?—But you know best.
Was not this very spiteful, my dear?
Wasn't this really mean, my dear?
Now, Clary, said she, would I give a thousand pounds to know all that is in thy little rancorous and reflecting heart at this moment.
Now, Clary, she said, I would give a thousand pounds to know everything that's in your little bitter and thoughtful heart right now.
I might let you know for a much less sum, and not be afraid of being worse treated than I have been.
I might let you know for a much smaller amount, and I’m not afraid of being treated any worse than I already have been.
Well, young ladies, I am sorry to see passion run so high between you. You know, Niece, (to me,) you had not been confined thus to your apartment, could your mother by condescension, or your father by authority, have been able to move you. But how can you expect, when there must be a concession on one side, that it should be on theirs? If my Dolly, who has not the hundredth part of your understanding, were thus to set herself up in absolute contradiction to my will, in a point so material, I should not take it well of her—indeed I should not.
Well, young ladies, I’m sorry to see such strong feelings between you. You know, Niece, if you hadn't been stuck in your room like this, your mother could have persuaded you through kindness, or your father could have insisted with his authority. But how can you expect that any compromise would come from them? If my Dolly, who has a tiny fraction of your intelligence, were to openly defy my wishes on something so important, I wouldn’t take it well—indeed, I wouldn’t.
I believe not, Madam: and if Miss Hervey had just such a brother, and just such a sister [you may look, Bella!] and if both were to aggravate her parents, as my brother and sister do mine—then, perhaps, you might use her as I am used: and if she hated the man you proposed to her, and with as much reason as I do Mr. Solmes—
I don't think so, Madam: and if Miss Hervey had a brother and a sister just like mine [you can look, Bella!] and if they both annoyed her parents, like my siblings annoy mine—then maybe you could treat her the way I’m treated: and if she disliked the guy you suggested to her, with as much reason as I dislike Mr. Solmes—
And loved a rake and libertine, Miss, as you do Lovelace, said my sister—
And loved a rogue and playboy, Miss, just like you love Lovelace, my sister said—
Then might she [continued I, not minding her,] beg to be excused from obeying. Yet if she did, and would give you the most solemn assurances, and security besides, that she would never have the man you disliked, against your consent—I dare say, Miss Hervey's father and mother would sit down satisfied, and not endeavour to force her inclinations.
Then she could just ask to be excused from obeying. But if she did, and promised very seriously, along with guarantees, that she would never be with the man you disapproved of, even without your consent—I’m sure Miss Hervey's parents would feel content and wouldn’t try to impose their wishes on her.
So!—[said my sister, with uplifted hands] father and mother now come in for their share!
So!—[said my sister, raising her hands] Mom and Dad are getting their turn now!
But if, child, replied my aunt, I knew she loved a rake, and suspected that she sought only to gain time, in order to wire-draw me into a consent—
But if, kid, my aunt replied, I knew she was into a player, and figured she was just trying to stall so she could manipulate me into agreeing—
I beg pardon, Madam, for interrupting you; but if Miss Hervey could obtain your consent, what further would be said?
I apologize for interrupting you, Madam; but if Miss Hervey could get your approval, what else would be discussed?
True, child; but she never should.
True, kid; but she never should.
Then, Madam, it would never be.
Then, ma'am, it would never happen.
That I doubt, Niece.
I doubt that, Niece.
If you do, Madam, can you think confinement and ill usage is the way to prevent the apprehended rashness?
If you do, ma'am, do you really think that confinement and mistreatment are the best ways to prevent the expected recklessness?
My dear, this sort of intimation would make one but too apprehensive, that there is no trusting to yourself, when one knows your inclination.
My dear, this kind of hint would make anyone too worried that you can't trust yourself when they know your tendencies.
That apprehension, Madam, seems to have been conceived before this intimation, or the least cause for it, was given. Why else the disgraceful confinement I have been laid under?—Let me venture to say, that my sufferings seem to be rather owing to a concerted design to intimidate me [Bella held up her hands], (knowing there were too good grounds for my opposition,) than to a doubt of my conduct; for, when they were inflicted first, I had given no cause of doubt: nor should there now be room for any, if my discretion might be trusted to.
That anxiety, Madam, seems to have been created before this warning or any reason for it was given. Why else would I be subjected to such disgraceful confinement?—Let me just say that my suffering appears to stem more from a planned effort to intimidate me [Bella held up her hands], (since there were very solid reasons for my opposition) than from any doubts about my behavior; because when this punishment first began, I hadn’t given anyone any reason to doubt me: nor should there be any now, if my judgment could be trusted.
My aunt, after a little hesitation, said, But, consider, my dear, what confusion will be perpetuated in your family, if you marry this hated Lovelace!
My aunt, after a moment of hesitation, said, "But, think about it, my dear, what chaos will continue in your family if you marry that detested Lovelace!"
And let it be considered, what misery to me, Madam, if I marry that hated Solmes!
And just think about how miserable it would be for me, Madam, if I marry that loathed Solmes!
Many a young creature has thought she could not love a man, with whom she has afterwards been very happy. Few women, child, marry their first loves.
Many young people have believed they couldn't love a man, only to end up very happy with him later. Few women, my dear, marry their first loves.
That may be the reason there are so few happy marriages.
That might be why there are so few happy marriages.
But there are few first impressions fit to be encouraged.
But there are hardly any first impressions worth promoting.
I am afraid so too, Madam. I have a very indifferent opinion of light and first impressions. But, as I have often said, all I wish for is, to have leave to live single.
I’m afraid I feel the same way, ma'am. I don't think much of light and first impressions. But as I've said many times, all I want is to be allowed to live alone.
Indeed you must not, Miss. Your father and mother will be unhappy till they see you married, and out of Lovelace's reach. I am told that you propose to condition with him (so far are matters gone between you) never to have any man, if you have not him.
Indeed you must not, Miss. Your dad and mom will be unhappy until they see you married and out of Lovelace's reach. I’ve heard that you plan to make a deal with him (that's how far things have gone between you) to never be with any man if it isn’t him.
I know no better way to prevent mischief on all sides, I freely own it—and there is not, if he be out of the question, another man in the world I can think favourably of. Nevertheless, I would give all I have in the world, that he were married to some other person—indeed I would, Bella, for all you put on that smile of incredulity.
I can't think of a better way to stop trouble on all fronts, I admit it—and if we're not talking about him, there's no other guy I can have a good opinion of. Still, I would give everything I own for him to be married to someone else—seriously, I would, Bella, despite that look of disbelief you have on your face.
May be so, Clary: but I will smile for all that.
Maybe so, Clary: but I will smile regardless.
If he be out of the question! repeated my aunt—So, Miss Clary, I see how it is—I will go down—[Miss Harlowe, shall I follow you?]—And I will endeavour to persuade your father to let my sister herself come up: and a happier event may then result.
If he's out of the question! my aunt repeated—So, Miss Clary, I see how it is—I will go down—[Miss Harlowe, should I follow you?]—And I will try to convince your father to let my sister come up herself: and a happier outcome may then result.
Depend upon it, Madam, said my sister, this will be the case: my mother and she will both be in tears; but with this different effect: my mother will come down softened, and cut to the heart; but will leave her favourite hardened, from the advantages she will think she has over my mother's tenderness—why, Madam, it is for this very reason the girl is not admitted into her presence.
You can count on it, Madam, my sister said, this will happen: my mother and she will both be in tears; but with a different outcome: my mother will come down feeling emotional and heartbroken; but she will leave her favorite feeling toughened, because of the advantage she thinks she has over my mother's kindness—this is exactly why the girl is not allowed to be around her.
Thus she ran on, as she went downstairs.
Thus she ran on, as she went down the stairs.
END OF VOL. 1
END OF VOL. 1
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