PAMELA
or
VIRTUE REWARDED
By Samuel Richardson
CONTENTS
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED
LETTER I
LETTER II
LETTER III
LETTER IV
LETTER V
LETTER VI
LETTER VII
LETTER VIII
LETTER IX
LETTER X
LETTER XI
LETTER XII
LETTER XIII
LETTER XIV
LETTER XV
LETTER XVI
LETTER XVII
LETTER XVIII
LETTER XIX
LETTER XX
LETTER XXI
LETTER XXII
LETTER XXIII
LETTER XXIV
LETTER XXV
LETTER XXVI
LETTER XXVII
LETTER XXVIII
LETTER XXIX
LETTER XXX
LETTER XXXI
LETTER XXXII
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
Samuel Richardson, the first, in order of time, of the great English
novelists, was born in 1689 and died at London in 1761. He was a
printer by trade, and rose to be master of the Stationers’ Company.
That he also became a novelist was due to his skill as a letter-writer,
which brought him, in his fiftieth year, a commission to write a volume
of model “familiar letters” as an aid to persons too illiterate to
compose their own. The notion of connecting these letters by a story
which had interested him suggested the plot of “Pamela”; and determined
its epistolary form—a form which was retained in his later works.
This novel (published 1740) created an epoch in the history of English
fiction, and, with its successors, exerted a wide influence upon
Continental literature. It is appropriately included in a series which
is designed to form a group of studies of English life by the masters
of English fiction. For it marked the transition from the novel of
adventure to the novel of character—from the narration of entertaining
events to the study of men and of manners, of motives and of
sentiments. In it the romantic interest of the story (which is of the
slightest) is subordinated to the moral interest in the conduct of its
characters in the various situations in which they are placed. Upon
this aspect of the “drama of human life” Richardson cast a most
observant, if not always a penetrating glance. His works are an almost
microscopically detailed picture of English domestic life in the early
part of the eighteenth century.
PAMELA, or VIRTUE REWARDED
LETTER I
DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
I have great trouble, and some comfort, to acquaint you with. The
trouble is, that my good lady died of the illness I mentioned to you,
and left us all much grieved for the loss of her; for she was a dear
good lady, and kind to all us her servants. Much I feared, that as I
was taken by her ladyship to wait upon her person, I should be quite
destitute again, and forced to return to you and my poor mother, who
have enough to do to maintain yourselves; and, as my lady’s goodness
had put me to write and cast accounts, and made me a little expert at
my needle, and otherwise qualified above my degree, it was not every
family that could have found a place that your poor Pamela was fit for:
but God, whose graciousness to us we have so often experienced at a
pinch, put it into my good lady’s heart, on her death-bed, just an hour
before she expired, to recommend to my young master all her servants,
one by one; and when it came to my turn to be recommended, (for I was
sobbing and crying at her pillow) she could only say, My dear son!—and
so broke off a little; and then recovering—Remember my poor Pamela—And
these were some of her last words! O how my eyes run—Don’t wonder to
see the paper so blotted.
Well, but God’s will must be done!—And so comes the comfort, that I
shall not be obliged to return back to be a clog upon my dear parents!
For my master said, I will take care of you all, my good maidens; and
for you, Pamela, (and took me by the hand; yes, he took my hand before
them all,) for my dear mother’s sake, I will be a friend to you, and
you shall take care of my linen. God bless him! and pray with me, my
dear father and mother, for a blessing upon him, for he has given
mourning and a year’s wages to all my lady’s servants; and I having no
wages as yet, my lady having said she should do for me as I deserved,
ordered the housekeeper to give me mourning with the rest; and gave me
with his own hand four golden guineas, and some silver, which were in
my old lady’s pocket when she died; and said, if I was a good girl, and
faithful and diligent, he would be a friend to me, for his mother’s
sake. And so I send you these four guineas for your comfort; for
Providence will not let me want: And so you may pay some old debt with
part, and keep the other part to comfort you both. If I get more, I am
sure it is my duty, and it shall be my care, to love and cherish you
both; for you have loved and cherished me, when I could do nothing for
myself. I send them by John, our footman, who goes your way: but he
does not know what he carries; because I seal them up in one of the
little pill-boxes, which my lady had, wrapt close in paper, that they
mayn’t chink; and be sure don’t open it before him.
I know, dear father and mother, I must give you both grief and
pleasure; and so I will only say, Pray for your Pamela; who will ever
be
Your most dutiful DAUGHTER.
I have been scared out of my senses; for just now, as I was folding up
this letter in my late lady’s dressing-room, in comes my young master!
Good sirs! how was I frightened! I went to hide the letter in my bosom;
and he, seeing me tremble, said, smiling, To whom have you been
writing, Pamela?—I said, in my confusion, Pray your honour forgive
me!—Only to my father and mother. He said, Well then, let me see how
you are come on in your writing! O how ashamed I was!—He took it,
without saying more, and read it quite through, and then gave it me
again;—and I said, Pray your honour forgive me!—Yet I know not for
what: for he was always dutiful to his parents; and why should he be
angry that I was so to mine? And indeed he was not angry; for he took
me by the hand, and said, You are a good girl, Pamela, to be kind to
your aged father and mother. I am not angry with you for writing such
innocent matters as these: though you ought to be wary what tales you
send out of a family.—Be faithful and diligent; and do as you should
do, and I like you the better for this. And then he said, Why, Pamela,
you write a very pretty hand, and spell tolerably too. I see my good
mother’s care in your learning has not been thrown away upon you. She
used to say you loved reading; you may look into any of her books, to
improve yourself, so you take care of them. To be sure I did nothing
but courtesy and cry, and was all in confusion, at his goodness. Indeed
he is the best of gentlemen, I think! But I am making another long
letter: So will only add to it, that I shall ever be Your dutiful
daughter, PAMELA ANDREWS.
LETTER II
[In answer to the preceding.]
DEAR PAMELA,
Your letter was indeed a great trouble, and some comfort, to me and
your poor mother. We are troubled, to be sure, for your good lady’s
death, who took such care of you, and gave you learning, and, for three
or four years past, has always been giving you clothes and linen, and
every thing that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed to appear in. But
our chief trouble is, and indeed a very great one, for fear you should
be brought to anything dishonest or wicked, by being set so above
yourself. Every body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel
girl you are; and some say you are very pretty; and, indeed, six months
since, when I saw you last, I should have thought so myself, if you was
not our child. But what avails all this, if you are to be ruined and
undone!—Indeed, my dear Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you;
for what signify all the riches in the world, with a bad conscience,
and to be dishonest! We are, ’tis true, very poor, and find it hard
enough to live; though once, as you know, it was better with us. But we
would sooner live upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the
ditches I contentedly dig, than live better at the price of our child’s
ruin.
I hope the good ’squire has no design: but when he has given you so
much money, and speaks so kindly to you, and praises your coming on;
and, oh, that fatal word! that he would be kind to you, if you would do
as you should do, almost kills us with fears.
I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, who, you know, has
formerly lived in good families; and she puts us in some comfort; for
she says it is not unusual, when a lady dies, to give what she has
about her person to her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in
her illness. But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon you? Why
should he take such a poor girl as you by the hand, as your letter says
he has done twice? Why should he stoop to read your letter to us; and
commend your writing and spelling? And why should he give you leave to
read his mother’s books?—Indeed, indeed, my dearest child, our hearts
ache for you; and then you seem so full of joy at his goodness, so
taken with his kind expressions, (which, truly, are very great favours,
if he means well) that we fear—yes, my dear child, we fear—you should
be too grateful,—and reward him with that jewel, your virtue, which no
riches, nor favour, nor any thing in this life, can make up to you.
I, too, have written a long letter, but will say one thing more; and
that is, that, in the midst of our poverty and misfortunes, we have
trusted in God’s goodness, and been honest, and doubt not to be happy
hereafter, if we continue to be good, though our lot is hard here; but
the loss of our dear child’s virtue would be a grief that we could not
bear, and would bring our grey hairs to the grave at once.
If, then, you love us, if you wish for God’s blessing, and your own
future happiness, we both charge you to stand upon your guard: and, if
you find the least attempt made upon your virtue, be sure you leave
every thing behind you, and come away to us; for we had rather see you
all covered with rags, and even follow you to the churchyard, than have
it said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveniences to her
virtue.
We accept kindly your dutiful present; but, till we are out of pain,
cannot make use of it, for fear we should partake of the price of our
poor daughter’s shame: so have laid it up in a rag among the thatch,
over the window, for a while, lest we should be robbed. With our
blessings, and our hearty prayers for you, we remain,
Your careful, but loving Father and Mother,
JOHN AND ELIZABETH ANDREWS.
LETTER III
DEAR FATHER,
I must needs say, your letter has filled me with trouble, for it has
made my heart, which was overflowing with gratitude for my master’s
goodness, suspicious and fearful: and yet I hope I shall never find him
to act unworthy of his character; for what could he get by ruining such
a poor young creature as me? But that which gives me most trouble is,
that you seem to mistrust the honesty of your child. No, my dear father
and mother, be assured, that, by God’s grace, I never will do any thing
that shall bring your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. I will die a
thousand deaths, rather than be dishonest any way. Of that be assured,
and set your hearts at rest; for although I have lived above myself for
some time past, yet I can be content with rags and poverty, and bread
and water, and will embrace them, rather than forfeit my good name, let
who will be the tempter. And of this pray rest satisfied, and think
better of Your dutiful DAUGHTER till death.
My master continues to be very affable to me. As yet I see no cause to
fear any thing. Mrs. Jervis, the housekeeper, too, is very civil to me,
and I have the love of every body. Sure they can’t all have designs
against me, because they are civil! I hope I shall always behave so as
to be respected by every one; and that nobody would do me more hurt
than I am sure I would do them. Our John so often goes your way, that I
will always get him to call, that you may hear from me, either by
writing, (for it brings my hand in,) or by word of mouth.
LETTER IV
DEAR MOTHER,
For the last was to my father, in answer to his letter; and so I will
now write to you; though I have nothing to say, but what will make me
look more like a vain hussy, than any thing else: However, I hope I
shan’t be so proud as to forget myself. Yet there is a secret pleasure
one has to hear one’s self praised. You must know, then, that my Lady
Davers, who, I need not tell you, is my master’s sister, has been a
month at our house, and has taken great notice of me, and given me good
advice to keep myself to myself. She told me I was a pretty wench, and
that every body gave me a very good character, and loved me; and bid me
take care to keep the fellows at a distance; and said, that I might do,
and be more valued for it, even by themselves.
But what pleased me much was, what I am going to tell you; for at
table, as Mrs. Jervis says, my master and her ladyship talking of me,
she told him she thought me the prettiest wench she ever saw in her
life; and that I was too pretty to live in a bachelor’s house; since no
lady he might marry would care to continue me with her. He said, I was
vastly improved, and had a good share of prudence, and sense above my
years; and that it would be pity, that what was my merit should be my
misfortune.—No, says my good lady, Pamela shall come and live with me,
I think. He said, with all his heart; he should be glad to have me so
well provided for. Well, said she, I’ll consult my lord about it. She
asked how old I was; and Mrs. Jervis said, I was fifteen last February.
O! says she, if the wench (for so she calls all us maiden servants)
takes care of herself, she’ll improve yet more and more, as well in her
person as mind.
Now, my dear father and mother, though this may look too vain to be
repeated by me; yet are you not rejoiced, as well as I, to see my
master so willing to part with me?—This shews that he has nothing bad
in his heart. But John is just going away; and so I have only to say,
that I am, and will always be,
Your honest as well as dutiful DAUGHTER.
Pray make use of the money. You may now do it safely.
LETTER V
MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
John being to go your way, I am willing to write, because he is so
willing to carry any thing for me. He says it does him good at his
heart to see you both, and to hear you talk. He says you are both so
sensible, and so honest, that he always learns something from you to
the purpose. It is a thousand pities, he says, that such worthy hearts
should not have better luck in the world! and wonders, that you, my
father, who are so well able to teach, and write so good a hand,
succeeded no better in the school you attempted to set up; but was
forced to go to such hard labour. But this is more pride to me, that I
am come of such honest parents, than if I had been born a lady.
I hear nothing yet of going to Lady Davers; and I am very easy at
present here: for Mrs. Jervis uses me as if I were her own daughter,
and is a very good woman, and makes my master’s interest her own. She
is always giving me good counsel, and I love her next to you two, I
think, best of any body. She keeps so good rule and order, she is
mightily respected by us all; and takes delight to hear me read to her;
and all she loves to hear read, is good books, which we read whenever
we are alone; so that I think I am at home with you. She heard one of
our men, Harry, who is no better than he should be, speak freely to me;
I think he called me his pretty Pamela, and took hold of me, as if he
would have kissed me; for which, you may be sure, I was very angry: and
she took him to task, and was as angry at him as could be; and told me
she was very well pleased to see my prudence and modesty, and that I
kept all the fellows at a distance. And indeed I am sure I am not
proud, and carry it civilly to every body; but yet, methinks, I cannot
bear to be looked upon by these men-servants, for they seem as if they
would look one through; and, as I generally breakfast, dine, and sup,
with Mrs. Jervis, (so good she is to me,) I am very easy that I have so
little to say to them. Not but they are civil to me in the main, for
Mrs. Jervis’s sake, who they see loves me; and they stand in awe of
her, knowing her to be a gentlewoman born, though she has had
misfortunes. I am going on again with a long letter; for I love
writing, and shall tire you. But, when I began, I only intended to say,
that I am quite fearless of any danger now: and, indeed, cannot but
wonder at myself, (though your caution to me was your watchful love,)
that I should be so foolish as to be so uneasy as I have been: for I am
sure my master would not demean himself, so as to think upon such a
poor girl as I, for my harm. For such a thing would ruin his credit, as
well as mine, you know: who, to be sure, may expect one of the best
ladies in the land. So no more at present, but that I am
Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.
LETTER VI
DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
My master has been very kind since my last; for he has given me a suit
of my late lady’s clothes, and half a dozen of her shifts, and six fine
handkerchiefs, and three of her cambric aprons, and four holland ones.
The clothes are fine silk, and too rich and too good for me, to be
sure. I wish it was no affront to him to make money of them, and send
it to you: it would do me more good.
You will be full of fears, I warrant now, of some design upon me, till
I tell you, that he was with Mrs. Jervis when he gave them me; and he
gave her a mort of good things, at the same time, and bid her wear them
in remembrance of her good friend, my lady, his mother. And when he
gave me these fine things, he said, These, Pamela, are for you; have
them made fit for you, when your mourning is laid by, and wear them for
your good mistress’s sake. Mrs. Jervis gives you a very good word; and
I would have you continue to behave as prudently as you have done
hitherto, and every body will be your friend.
I was so surprised at his goodness, that I could not tell what to say.
I courtesied to him, and to Mrs. Jervis for her good word; and said, I
wished I might be deserving of his favour, and her kindness: and
nothing should be wanting in me, to the best of my knowledge.
O how amiable a thing is doing good!—It is all I envy great folks for.
I always thought my young master a fine gentleman, as every body says
he is: but he gave these good things to us both with such a
graciousness, as I thought he looked like an angel.
Mrs. Jervis says, he asked her, If I kept the men at a distance? for,
he said, I was very pretty; and to be drawn in to have any of them,
might be my ruin, and make me poor and miserable betimes. She never is
wanting to give me a good word, and took occasion to launch out in my
praise, she says. But I hope she has said no more than I shall try to
deserve, though I mayn’t at present. I am sure I will always love her,
next to you and my dear mother. So I rest
Your ever dutiful DAUGHTER.
LETTER VII
DEAR FATHER,
Since my last, my master gave me more fine things. He called me up to
my late lady’s closet, and, pulling out her drawers, he gave me two
suits of fine Flanders laced head-clothes, three pair of fine silk
shoes, two hardly the worse, and just fit for me, (for my lady had a
very little foot,) and the other with wrought silver buckles in them;
and several ribands and top-knots of all colours; four pair of white
fine cotton stockings, and three pair of fine silk ones; and two pair
of rich stays. I was quite astonished, and unable to speak for a while;
but yet I was inwardly ashamed to take the stockings; for Mrs. Jervis
was not there: If she had, it would have been nothing. I believe I
received them very awkwardly; for he smiled at my awkwardness, and
said, Don’t blush, Pamela: Dost think I don’t know pretty maids should
wear shoes and stockings?
I was so confounded at these words, you might have beat me down with a
feather. For you must think, there was no answer to be made to this:
So, like a fool, I was ready to cry; and went away courtesying and
blushing, I am sure, up to the ears; for, though there was no harm in
what he said, yet I did not know how to take it. But I went and told
all to Mrs. Jervis, who said, God put it into his heart to be good to
me; and I must double my diligence. It looked to her, she said, as if
he would fit me in dress for a waiting-maid’s place on Lady Davers’s
own person.
But still your kind fatherly cautions came into my head, and made all
these gifts nothing near to me what they would have been. But yet, I
hope, there is no reason; for what good could it do to him to harm such
a simple maiden as me? Besides, to be sure no lady would look upon him,
if he should so disgrace himself. So I will make myself easy; and,
indeed, I should never have been otherwise, if you had not put it into
my head; for my good, I know very well. But, may be, without these
uneasinesses to mingle with these benefits, I might be too much puffed
up: So I will conclude, all that happens is for our good; and God bless
you, my dear father and mother; and I know you constantly pray for a
blessing upon me; who am, and shall always be,
Your dutiful DAUGHTER.
LETTER VIII
DEAR PAMELA,
I cannot but renew my cautions on your master’s kindness, and his free
expression to you about the stockings. Yet there may not be, and I hope
there is not, any thing in it. But when I reflect, that there possibly
may, and that if there should, no less depends upon it than my child’s
everlasting happiness in this world and the next; it is enough to make
one fearful for you. Arm yourself, my dear child, for the worst; and
resolve to lose your life sooner than your virtue. What though the
doubts I filled you with, lessen the pleasure you would have had in
your master’s kindness; yet what signify the delights that arise from a
few paltry fine clothes, in comparison with a good conscience?
These are, indeed, very great favours that he heaps upon you, but so
much the more to be suspected; and when you say he looked so amiably,
and like an angel, how afraid I am, that they should make too great an
impression upon you! For, though you are blessed with sense and
prudence above your years, yet I tremble to think, what a sad hazard a
poor maiden of little more than fifteen years of age stands against the
temptations of this world, and a designing young gentleman, if he
should prove so, who has so much power to oblige, and has a kind of
authority to command, as your master.
I charge you, my dear child, on both our blessings, poor as we are, to
be on your guard; there can be no harm in that. And since Mrs. Jervis
is so good a gentlewoman, and so kind to you, I am the easier a great
deal, and so is your mother; and we hope you will hide nothing from
her, and take her counsel in every thing. So, with our blessings, and
assured prayers for you, more than for ourselves, we remain,
Your loving FATHER AND MOTHER.
Be sure don’t let people’s telling you, you are pretty, puff you up;
for you did not make yourself, and so can have no praise due to you for
it. It is virtue and goodness only, that make the true beauty. Remember
that, Pamela.
LETTER IX
DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
I am sorry to write you word, that the hopes I had of going to wait on
Lady Davers, are quite over. My lady would have had me; but my master,
as I heard by the by, would not consent to it. He said her nephew might
be taken with me, and I might draw him in, or be drawn in by him; and
he thought, as his mother loved me, and committed me to his care, he
ought to continue me with him; and Mrs. Jervis would be a mother to me.
Mrs. Jervis tells me the lady shook her head, and said, Ah! brother!
and that was all. And as you have made me fearful by your cautions, my
heart at times misgives me. But I say nothing yet of your caution, or
my own uneasiness, to Mrs. Jervis; not that I mistrust her, but for
fear she should think me presumptuous, and vain and conceited, to have
any fears about the matter, from the great distance between such a
gentleman, and so poor a girl. But yet Mrs. Jervis seemed to build
something upon Lady Davers’s shaking her head, and saying, Ah! brother!
and no more. God, I hope, will give me his grace: and so I will not, if
I can help it, make myself too uneasy; for I hope there is no occasion.
But every little matter that happens, I will acquaint you with, that
you may continue to me your good advice, and pray for
Your sad-hearted PAMELA.
LETTER X
DEAR MOTHER,
You and my good father may wonder you have not had a letter from me in
so many weeks; but a sad, sad scene, has been the occasion of it. For
to be sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions were well
grounded. O my dear mother! I am miserable, truly miserable!—But yet,
don’t be frightened, I am honest!—God, of his goodness, keep me so!
O this angel of a master! this fine gentleman! this gracious benefactor
to your poor Pamela! who was to take care of me at the prayer of his
good dying mother; who was so apprehensive for me, lest I should be
drawn in by Lord Davers’s nephew, that he would not let me go to Lady
Davers’s: This very gentleman (yes, I must call him gentleman, though
he has fallen from the merit of that title) has degraded himself to
offer freedoms to his poor servant! He has now shewed himself in his
true colours; and, to me, nothing appear so black, and so frightful.
I have not been idle; but had writ from time to time, how he, by sly
mean degrees, exposed his wicked views; but somebody stole my letter,
and I know not what has become of it. It was a very long one. I fear,
he that was mean enough to do bad things, in one respect, did not stick
at this. But be it as it will, all the use he can make of it will be,
that he may be ashamed of his part; I not of mine: for he will see I
was resolved to be virtuous, and gloried in the honesty of my poor
parents.
I will tell you all, the next opportunity; for I am watched very
narrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl is always scribbling; I
think she may be better employed. And yet I work all hours with my
needle, upon his linen, and the fine linen of the family; and am,
besides, about flowering him a waistcoat.—But, oh! my heart’s broke
almost; for what am I likely to have for my reward, but shame and
disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment! I’ll tell you all
soon, and hope I shall find my long letter.
Your most afflicted DAUGHTER.
May-be, I _he_ and _him_ him too much: but it is his own fault if I do.
For why did he lose all his dignity with me?
LETTER XI
DEAR MOTHER,
Well, I can’t find my letter, and so I’ll try to recollect it all, and
be as brief as I can. All went well enough in the main for some time
after my letter but one. At last, I saw some reason to suspect; for he
would look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a manner, as shewed not
well; and one day he came to me, as I was in the summer-house in the
little garden, at work with my needle, and Mrs. Jervis was just gone
from me; and I would have gone out, but he said, No don’t go, Pamela; I
have something to say to you; and you always fly me when I come near
you, as if you were afraid of me.
I was much out of countenance, you may well think; but said, at last,
It does not become your good servant to stay in your presence, sir,
without your business required it; and I hope I shall always know my
place.
Well, says he, my business does require it sometimes; and I have a mind
you should stay to hear what I have to say to you.
I stood still confounded, and began to tremble, and the more when he
took me by the hand; for now no soul was near us.
My sister Davers, said he, (and seemed, I thought, to be as much at a
loss for words as I,) would have had you live with her; but she would
not do for you what I am resolved to do, if you continue faithful and
obliging. What say’st thou, my girl? said he, with some eagerness;
had’st thou not rather stay with me, than go to my sister Davers? He
looked so, as filled me with affrightment; I don’t know how; wildly, I
thought.
I said, when I could speak, Your honour will forgive me; but as you
have no lady for me to wait upon, and my good lady has been now dead
this twelvemonth, I had rather, if it would not displease you, wait
upon Lady Davers, because—
I was proceeding, and he said, a little hastily—Because you are a
little fool, and know not what’s good for yourself. I tell you I will
make a gentlewoman of you, if you be obliging, and don’t stand in your
own light; and so saying, he put his arm about me, and kissed me!
Now, you will say, all his wickedness appeared plainly. I struggled and
trembled, and was so benumbed with terror, that I sunk down, not in a
fit, and yet not myself; and I found myself in his arms, quite void of
strength; and he kissed me two or three times, with frightful
eagerness.—At last I burst from him, and was getting out of the
summer-house; but he held me back, and shut the door.
I would have given my life for a farthing. And he said, I’ll do you no
harm, Pamela; don’t be afraid of me. I said, I won’t stay. You won’t,
hussy! said he: Do you know whom you speak to? I lost all fear, and all
respect, and said, Yes, I do, sir, too well!—Well may I forget that I
am your servant, when you forget what belongs to a master.
I sobbed and cried most sadly. What a foolish hussy you are! said he:
Have I done you any harm? Yes, sir, said I, the greatest harm in the
world: You have taught me to forget myself and what belongs to me, and
have lessened the distance that fortune has made between us, by
demeaning yourself, to be so free to a poor servant. Yet, sir, I will
be bold to say, I am honest, though poor: and if you was a prince, I
would not be otherwise.
He was angry, and said, Who would have you otherwise, you foolish slut!
Cease your blubbering. I own I have demeaned myself; but it was only to
try you. If you can keep this matter secret, you’ll give me the better
opinion of your prudence; and here’s something, said he, putting some
gold in my hand, to make you amends for the fright I put you in. Go,
take a walk in the garden, and don’t go in till your blubbering is
over: and I charge you say nothing of what is past, and all shall be
well, and I’ll forgive you.
I won’t take the money, indeed, sir, said I, poor as I am I won’t take
it. For, to say truth, I thought it looked like taking earnest, and so
I put it upon the bench; and as he seemed vexed and confused at what he
had done, I took the opportunity to open the door, and went out of the
summer-house.
He called to me, and said, Be secret; I charge you, Pamela; and don’t
go in yet, as I told you.
O how poor and mean must those actions be, and how little must they
make the best of gentlemen look, when they offer such things as are
unworthy of themselves, and put it into the power of their inferiors to
be greater than they!
I took a turn or two in the garden, but in sight of the house, for fear
of the worst; and breathed upon my hand to dry my eyes, because I would
not be too disobedient. My next shall tell you more.
Pray for me, my dear father and mother: and don’t be angry I have not
yet run away from this house, so late my comfort and delight, but now
my terror and anguish. I am forced to break off hastily.
Your dutiful and honest DAUGHTER.
LETTER XII
DEAR MOTHER,
Well, I will now proceed with my sad story. And so, after I had dried
my eyes, I went in, and began to ruminate with myself what I had best
to do. Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the next
town, and wait an opportunity to get to you; but then I was at a loss
to resolve whether to take away the things he had given me or no, and
how to take them away: Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and
only go with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and a
half, and a byway, to the town; and being pretty well dressed, I might
come to some harm, almost as bad as what I would run away from; and
then may-be, thought I, it will be reported, I have stolen something,
and so was forced to run away; and to carry a bad name back with me to
my dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed!—O how I wished for my
grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with which you fitted me
out, (and hard enough too it was for you to do it!) for going to this
place, when I was not twelve years old, in my good lady’s days!
Sometimes I thought of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and
only feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may be ashamed
of his actions, and never attempt the like again: And as poor Mrs.
Jervis depended upon him, through misfortunes, that had attended her, I
thought it would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for
my sake.
In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not knowing what to
do, I passed the time in my chamber till evening; when desiring to be
excused going to supper, Mrs. Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must
I sup without you, Pamela? Come, I see you are troubled at something;
tell me what is the matter.
I begged I might be permitted to be with her on nights; for I was
afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a good person as she.
That was a silly excuse, she said; for why was not you afraid of
spirits before?—(Indeed I did not think of that.) But you shall be my
bed-fellow with all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it
will; only come down to supper. I begged to be excused; for, said I, I
have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of by my
fellow-servants; and I will hide nothing from you, Mrs. Jervis, when we
are alone.
She was so good to indulge me; but made haste to come up to bed; and
told the servants, that I should be with her, because she could not
rest well, and would get me to read her to sleep; for she knew I loved
reading, she said.
When we were alone, I told her all that had passed; for I thought,
though he had bid me not, yet if he should come to know I had told, it
would be no worse; for to keep a secret of such a nature, would be, as
I apprehended, to deprive myself of the good advice which I never
wanted more; and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I
ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do worse by me.
Was I right, my dear mother?
Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears; for I cried
all the time I was telling her the story, and begged her to advise me
what to do; and I shewed her my dear father’s two letters, and she
praised the honesty and editing of them, and said pleasing things to me
of you both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my service;
for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so virtuously, that he
will be ashamed of what he has done, and never offer the like to you
again: though, my dear Pamela, said she, I fear more for your
prettiness than for anything else; because the best man in the land
might love you: so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in her
power to live independent; then she would take a little private house,
and I should live with her like her daughter.
And so, as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved to tarry to
see how things went, except he was to turn me away; although, in your
first letter, you ordered me to come away the moment I had any reason
to be apprehensive. So, dear father and mother, it is not disobedience,
I hope, that I stay; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good
fruits of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient.
All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. He saw me
writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs. Jervis, That girl is always
scribbling; methinks she might find something else to do, or to that
purpose. And when I had finished my letter, I put it under the toilet
in my late lady’s dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and
Mrs. Jervis, besides my master; but when I came up again to seal it, to
my great concern, it was gone; and Mrs. Jervis knew nothing of it; and
nobody knew of my master’s having been near the place in the time; so I
have been sadly troubled about it: But Mrs. Jervis, as well as I,
thinks he has it, some how or other; and he appears cross and angry,
and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did him. It had better be so
than worse!
But he has ordered Mrs. Jervis to bid me not pass so much time in
writing; which is a poor matter for such a gentleman as he to take
notice of, as I am not idle other ways, if he did not resent what he
thought I wrote upon. And this has no very good look.
But I am a good deal easier since I lie with Mrs. Jervis; though, after
all, the fears I live in on one side, and his frowning and displeasure
at what I do on the other, make me more miserable than enough.
O that I had never left my little bed in the loft, to be thus exposed
to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on the other! How happy was I
awhile ago! How contrary now!—Pity and pray for
Your afflicted
PAMELA.
LETTER XIII
My DEAREST CHILD,
Our hearts bleed for your distress, and the temptations you are exposed
to. You have our hourly prayers; and we would have you flee this evil
great house and man, if you find he renews his attempts. You ought to
have done it at first, had you not had Mrs. Jervis to advise with. We
can find no fault in your conduct hitherto: But it makes our hearts
ache for fear of the worst. O my child! temptations are sore
things,—but yet, without them, we know not ourselves, nor what we are
able to do.
Your danger is very great; for you have riches, youth, and a fine
gentleman, as the world reckons him, to withstand; but how great will
be your honour to withstand them! And when we consider your past
conduct, and your virtuous education, and that you have been bred to be
more ashamed of dishonesty than poverty, we trust in God, that He will
enable you to overcome. Yet, as we can’t see but your life must be a
burthen to you, through the great apprehensions always upon you; and
that it may be presumptuous to trust too much to our own strength; and
that you are but very young; and the devil may put it into his heart to
use some stratagem, of which great men are full, to decoy you: I think
you had better come home to share our poverty with safety, than live
with so much discontent in a plenty, that itself may be dangerous. God
direct you for the best! While you have Mrs. Jervis for an adviser and
bed-fellow, (and, O my dear child! that was prudently done of you,) we
are easier than we should be; and so committing you to the divine
protection, remain
Your truly loving, but careful,
FATHER and MOTHER.
LETTER XIV
DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,
Mrs. Jervis and I have lived very comfortably together for this
fortnight past; for my master was all that time at his Lincolnshire
estate, and at his sister’s, the Lady Davers. But he came home
yesterday. He had some talk with Mrs. Jervis soon after, and mostly
about me. He said to her, it seems, Well, Mrs. Jervis, I know Pamela
has your good word; but do you think her of any use in the family? She
told me she was surprised at the question, but said, That I was one of
the most virtuous and industrious young creatures that ever she knew.
Why that word virtuous, said he, I pray you? Was there any reason to
suppose her otherwise? Or has any body taken it into his head to try
her?—I wonder, sir, says she, you ask such a question! Who dare offer
any thing to her in such an orderly and well-governed house as yours,
and under a master of so good a character for virtue and honour? Your
servant, Mrs. Jervis, says he, for your good opinion: but pray, if any
body did, do you think Pamela would let you know it? Why, sir, said
she, she is a poor innocent young creature, and I believe has so much
confidence in me, that she would take my advice as soon as she would
her mother’s. Innocent! again, and virtuous, I warrant! Well, Mrs.
Jervis, you abound with your epithets; but I take her to be an artful
young baggage; and had I a young handsome butler or steward, she’d soon
make her market of one of them, if she thought it worth while to snap
at him for a husband. Alack-a-day, sir, said she, it is early days with
Pamela; and she does not yet think of a husband, I dare say: and your
steward and butler are both men in years, and think nothing of the
matter. No, said he, if they were younger, they’d have more wit than to
think of such a girl; I’ll tell you my mind of her, Mrs. Jervis: I
don’t think this same favourite of yours so very artless a girl as you
imagine. I am not to dispute with your honour, said Mrs. Jervis; but I
dare say, if the men will let her alone, she’ll never trouble herself
about them. Why, Mrs. Jervis, said he, are there any men that will not
let her alone, that you know of? No, indeed, sir, said she; she keeps
herself so much to herself, and yet behaves so prudently, that they all
esteem her, and shew her as great a respect as if she was a gentlewoman
born.
Ay, says he, that’s her art, that I was speaking of: but, let me tell
you, the girl has vanity and conceit, and pride too, or I am mistaken;
and, perhaps, I could give you an instance of it. Sir, said she, you
can see farther than such a poor silly woman as I am; but I never saw
any thing but innocence in her—And virtue too, I’ll warrant ye! said
he. But suppose I could give you an instance, where she has talked a
little too freely of the kindnesses that have been shewn her from a
certain quarter; and has had the vanity to impute a few kind words,
uttered in mere compassion to her youth and circumstances, into a
design upon her, and even dared to make free with names that she ought
never to mention but with reverence and gratitude; what would you say
to that?—Say, sir! said she, I cannot tell what to say. But I hope
Pamela incapable of such ingratitude.
Well, no more of this silly girl, says he; you may only advise her, as
you are her friend, not to give herself too much licence upon the
favours she meets with; and if she stays here, that she will not write
the affairs of my family purely for an exercise to her pen, and her
invention. I tell you she is a subtle, artful gipsy, and time will shew
it you.
Was ever the like heard, my dear father and mother? It is plain he did
not expect to meet with such a repulse, and mistrusts that I have told
Mrs. Jervis, and has my long letter too, that I intended for you; and
so is vexed to the heart. But I can’t help it. I had better be thought
artful and subtle, than be so, in his sense; and, as light as he makes
of the words virtue and innocence in me, he would have made a less
angry construction, had I less deserved that he should do so; for then,
may be, my crime should have been my virtue with him naughty gentleman
as he is!
I will soon write again; but must now end with saying, that I am, and
shall always be, Your honest DAUGHTER.
LETTER XV
DEAR MOTHER,
I broke off abruptly my last letter; for I feared he was coming; and so
it happened. I put the letter in my bosom, and took up my work, which
lay by me; but I had so little of the artful, as he called it, that I
looked as confused as if I had been doing some great harm.
Sit still, Pamela, said he, mind your work, for all me.—You don’t tell
me I am welcome home, after my journey to Lincolnshire. It would be
hard, sir, said I, if you was not always welcome to your honour’s own
house.
I would have gone; but he said, Don’t run away, I tell you. I have a
word or two to say to you. Good sirs, how my heart went pit-a-pat! When
I was a little kind to you, said he, in the summer-house, and you
carried yourself so foolishly upon it, as if I had intended to do you
great harm, did I not tell you you should take no notice of what passed
to any creature? and yet you have made a common talk of the matter, not
considering either my reputation, or your own.—I made a common talk of
it, sir! said I: I have nobody to talk to, hardly.
He interrupted me, and said, Hardly! you little equivocator! what do
you mean by hardly? Let me ask you, have not you told Mrs. Jervis for
one? Pray your honour, said I, all in agitation, let me go down; for it
is not for me to hold an argument with your honour. Equivocator, again!
said he, and took my hand, what do you talk of an argument? Is it
holding an argument with me to answer a plain question? Answer me what
I asked. O, good sir, said I, let me beg you will not urge me farther,
for fear I forget myself again, and be saucy.
Answer me then, I bid you, says he, Have you not told Mrs. Jervis? It
will be saucy in you if you don’t answer me directly to what I ask.
Sir, said I, and fain would have pulled my hand away, perhaps I should
be for answering you by another question, and that would not become me.
What is it you would say? replies he; speak out.
Then, sir, said I, why should your honour be so angry I should tell
Mrs. Jervis, or any body else, what passed, if you intended no harm?
Well said, pretty innocent and artless! as Mrs. Jervis calls you, said
he; and is it thus you taunt and retort upon me, insolent as you are!
But still I will be answered directly to my question. Why then, sir,
said I, I will not tell a lie for the world: I did tell Mrs. Jervis;
for my heart was almost broken; but I opened not my mouth to any other.
Very well, bold-face, said he, and equivocator again! You did not open
your mouth to any other; but did not you write to some other? Why, now,
and please your honour, said I, (for I was quite courageous just then,)
you could not have asked me this question, if you had not taken from me
my letter to my father and mother, in which I own I had broken my mind
freely to them, and asked their advice, and poured forth my griefs!
And so I am to be exposed, am I, said he, in my own house, and out of
my house, to the whole world, by such a sauce-box as you? No, good sir,
said I, and I hope your honour won’t be angry with me; it is not I that
expose you, if I say nothing but the truth. So, taunting again!
Assurance as you are! said he: I will not be thus talked to!
Pray, sir, said I, of whom can a poor girl take advice, if it must not
be of her father and mother, and such a good woman as Mrs. Jervis, who,
for her sex-sake, should give it me when asked? Insolence! said he, and
stamped with his foot, am I to be questioned thus by such a one as you?
I fell down on my knees, and said, For Heaven’s sake, your honour, pity
a poor creature, that knows nothing of her duty, but how to cherish her
virtue and good name: I have nothing else to trust to: and, though poor
and friendless here, yet I have always been taught to value honesty
above my life. Here’s ado with your honesty, said he, foolish girl! Is
it not one part of honesty to be dutiful and grateful to your master,
do you think? Indeed, sir, said I, it is impossible I should be
ungrateful to your honour, or disobedient, or deserve the names of
bold-face or insolent, which you call me, but when your commands are
contrary to that first duty which shall ever be the principle of my
life!
He seemed to be moved, and rose up, and walked into the great chamber
two or three turns, leaving me on my knees; and I threw my apron over
my face, and laid my head on a chair, and cried as if my heart would
break, having no power to stir.
At last he came in again, but, alas! with mischief in his heart! and
raising me up, he said, Rise, Pamela, rise; you are your own enemy.
Your perverse folly will be your ruin: I tell you this, that I am very
much displeased with the freedoms you have taken with my name to my
housekeeper, as also to your father and mother; and you may as well
have real cause to take these freedoms with me, as to make my name
suffer for imaginary ones. And saying so, he offered to take me on his
knee, with some force. O how I was terrified! I said, like as I had
read in a book a night or two before, Angels and saints, and all the
host of heaven, defend me! And may I never survive one moment that
fatal one in which I shall forfeit my innocence! Pretty fool! said he,
how will you forfeit your innocence, if you are obliged to yield to a
force you cannot withstand? Be easy, said he; for let the worst happen
that can, you will have the merit, and I the blame; and it will be a
good subject for letters to your father and mother, and a tale into the
bargain for Mrs. Jervis.
He by force kissed my neck and lips; and said, Whoever blamed Lucretia?
All the shame lay on the ravisher only and I am content to take all the
blame upon me, as I have already borne too great a share for what I
have not deserved.
May I, said I, Lucretia like, justify myself with my death, if I am
used barbarously! O my good girl! said he, tauntingly, you are well
read, I see; and we shall make out between us, before we have done, a
pretty story in romance, I warrant ye.
He then put his hand in my bosom, and indignation gave me double
strength, and I got loose from him by a sudden spring, and ran out of
the room! and the next chamber being open, I made shift to get into it,
and threw to the door, and it locked after me; but he followed me so
close, he got hold of my gown, and tore a piece off, which hung without
the door; for the key was on the inside.
I just remember I got into the room; for I knew nothing further of the
matter till afterwards; for I fell into a fit with my terror, and there
I lay, till he, as I suppose, looking through the key-hole, spyed me
upon the floor, stretched out at length, on my face; and then he called
Mrs. Jervis to me, who, by his assistance, bursting open the door, he
went away, seeing me coming to myself; and bid her say nothing of the
matter, if she was wise.
Poor Mrs. Jervis thought it was worse, and cried over me like as if she
was my mother; and I was two hours before I came to myself; and just as
I got a little up on my feet, he coming in, I fainted away again with
the terror; and so he withdrew: but he staid in the next room to let
nobody come near us, that his foul proceedings might not be known.