to read them; but to give them to me again. To whom, says he, are they
written?—To my father, sir; but I suppose you see to whom.—Indeed,
returned he, I have not read three lines yet. Then, pray, sir, don’t
read them; but give them to me again. That I will not, said he, till I
have read them. Sir, said I, you served me not well in the letters I
used to write formerly: I think it was not worthy your character to
contrive to get them in your hands, by that false John Arnold! for
should such a gentleman as you mind what your poor servant writes?—Yes,
said he, by all means, mind what such a servant as my Pamela writes.
Your Pamela! thought I. Then the sham marriage came into my head; and
indeed it has not been out of it, since the gipsy affair.—But, said he,
have you any thing in these papers you would not have me see? To be
sure, sir, said I, there is; for what one writes to one’s father and
mother, is not for every body to see. Nor, said he, am I every body.
Those letters, added he, that I did see by John’s means, were not to
your disadvantage, I’ll assure you; for they gave me a very high
opinion of your wit and innocence: And if I had not loved you, do you
think I would have troubled myself about your letters?
Alas! sir, said I, great pride to me that! For they gave you such an
opinion of my innocence, that you was resolved to ruin me. And what
advantage have they brought me!—Who have been made a prisoner, and used
as I have been between you and your housekeeper.
Why, Pamela, said he, a little seriously, why this behaviour, for my
goodness to you in the garden?—This is not of a piece with your conduct
and softness there, that quite charmed me in your favour: And you must
not give me cause to think that you will be the more insolent, as you
find me kinder. Ah! sir, said I, you know best your own heart and
designs! But I fear I was too open-hearted then; and that you still
keep your resolution to undo me, and have only changed the form of your
proceedings.
When I tell you once again, said he, a little sternly, that you cannot
oblige me more, than by placing some confidence in me, I will let you
know, that these foolish and perverse doubts are the worst things you
can be guilty of. But, said he, I shall possibly account for the cause
of them, in these papers of yours; for I doubt not you have been
sincere to your father and mother, though you begin to make me suspect
you: For I tell you, perverse girl, that it is impossible you should be
thus cold and insensible, after what has passed in the garden, if you
were not prepossessed in some other person’s favour: And let me add,
that if I find it so, it shall be attended with such effects, as will
make every vein in your heart bleed.
He was going away in wrath; and I said, One word, good sir, one word
before you read them, since you will read them: Pray make
allowances—for all the harsh reflections that you will find in them, on
your own conduct to me: And remember only, that they were not written
for your sight; and were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and who
was in constant apprehension of receiving from you the worst treatment
that you could inflict upon her.
If that be all, said he, and there be nothing of another nature, that I
cannot forgive, you have no cause for uneasiness; for I had as many
instances of your saucy reflections upon me in your former letters, as
there were lines; and yet, you see, I have never upbraided you on that
score; though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of your
epithets, and your freedoms of that sort.
Well, sir, said I, since you will, you must read them; and I think I
have no reason to be afraid of being found insincere, or having, in any
respect, told you a falsehood; because, though I don’t remember all I
wrote, yet I know I wrote my heart; and that is not deceitful. And
remember, sir, another thing, that I always declared I thought myself
right to endeavour to make my escape from this forced and illegal
restraint; and so you must not be angry that I would have done so, if I
could.
I’ll judge you, never fear, said he, as favourably as you deserve; for
you have too powerful a pleader within me. And so went down stairs.
About nine o’clock he sent for me down into the parlour. I went a
little fearfully; and he held the paper in his hand, and said, Now,
Pamela, you come upon your trial. Said I, I hope I have a just judge to
hear my cause. Ay, said he, and you may hope for a merciful one too, or
else I know not what will become of you.
I expect, continued he, that you will answer me directly, and plainly,
to every question I shall ask you.—In the first place, here are several
love-letters between you and Williams. Love-letters! sir, said I.—Well,
call them what you will, said he, I don’t entirely like them, I’ll
assure you, with all the allowances you desired me to make for you. Do
you find, sir, said I, that I encouraged his proposal, or do you not?
Why, said he, you discourage his address in appearance; but no
otherwise than all your cunning sex do to ours, to make us more eager
in pursuing you.
Well, sir, said I, that is your comment; but it does not appear so in
the text. Smartly said! says he: Where a d—l gottest thou, at these
years, all this knowledge? And then thou hast a memory, as I see by
your papers, that nothing escapes. Alas! sir, said I, what poor
abilities I have, serve only to make me more miserable!—I have no
pleasure in my memory, which impresses things upon me, that I could be
glad never were, or everlastingly to forget.
Well, said he, so much for that—But where are the accounts (since you
have kept so exact a journal of all that has befallen you) previous to
these here in my hand? My father has them, sir, said I.—By whose means?
said he—By Mr. Williams’s, said I. Well answered, said he. But cannot
you contrive to get me a sight of them? That would be pretty! said I. I
wish I could have contrived to have kept those you have from your
sight. Said he, I must see them, Pamela, or I shall never be easy; for
I must know how this correspondence between you and Williams began: and
if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they answer what
these give me hope they will.
I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the beginning was;
for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That won’t do, said he; for
though this may appear a punctilio to you, to me it is of high
importance. Sir, said I, if you please to let me go to my father, I
will send them to you by any messenger you shall send for them. Will
you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them
to you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself: and I beg
you will.
I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all my former letters through
John’s baseness, and now these, through your faithful housekeeper’s
officious watchfulness, you might see all the rest: But I hope you will
not desire it, till I can see how much my pleasing you in this
particular will be of use to myself.
You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, Pamela, said the sly
gentleman, since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shewn me
those, had they been in your possession?
I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, I think I
should, if you commanded it. Well then, Pamela, said he, as I am sure
you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the
former part can come, that you will shew me the succeeding.—O sir, sir,
said I, have you caught me so?—But indeed you must excuse me there.
Why, said he, tell me truly, have you not continued your account till
now? Don’t ask me, sir, said I. But I insist upon your answer, replied
he. Why then, sir, I will not tell an untruth; I have.—That’s my good
girl! said he, I love sincerity at my heart.—In another, sir, said I, I
presume you mean!—Well, said he, I’ll allow you to be a little witty
upon me; because it is in you, and you cannot help it: but you will
greatly oblige me, to shew me voluntarily what you have written. I long
to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment, where
your papers leave off: for you have so beautiful a manner, that it is
partly that, and partly my love for you, that has made me desirous of
reading all you write; though a great deal of it is against myself; for
which you must expect to suffer a little: and as I have furnished you
with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits of your
pen.—Besides, said he, there is such a pretty air of romance, as you
relate them, in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better
directed in what manner to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel.
If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very provoking
way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought upon me.
O, said he, the liberties you have taken with my character in your
letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that respect. Sir, I could not
have taken those liberties, if you had not given me the cause: and the
cause, sir, you know, is before the effect.
True, Pamela, said he; you chop logic very prettily. What the deuse do
we men go to school for? If our wits were equal to women’s, we might
spare much time and pains in our education: for nature teaches your
sex, what, in a long course of labour and study, ours can hardly attain
to.—But, indeed, every lady is not a Pamela.
You delight to banter your poor servant, said I.
Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half the merit of
your wit, too; for the innocent exercises you have had for it, from me,
have certainly sharpened your invention.
Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent exercises, as you
are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull
as a beetle. But then, Pamela, said he, I should not have loved you so
well. But then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.—Ay, may
be so, and may be not; and the wife, too, of some clouterly plough-boy.
But then, sir, I should have been content and innocent; and that’s
better than being a princess, and not so. And may be not, said he; for
if you had had that pretty face, some of us keen fox-hunters should
have found you out; and, in spite of your romantic notions, (which
then, too, perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind,)
might have been more happy with the ploughman’s wife, than I have been
with my mother’s Pamela. I hope, sir, said I, God would have given me
more grace.
Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that follow your
fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help
it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better, than that, in all your arts,
shifts, and stratagems, you have had a great regard to truth; and have,
in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few wilful fibs. Now I
expect you’ll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with
me.—Let me know then, where you have found supplies of pen, ink, and
paper, when Mrs. Jewkes was so vigilant, and gave you but two sheets at
a time?—Tell me truth.
Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them; but,
when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr.
Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr.
Longman! All your confederates are good, every one of them: but such of
my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted
out by you as black as devils! nay, so am I too, for that matter.
Sir, said I, I hope you won’t be angry, but, saving yourself, do you
think they are painted worse than they deserve? or worse than the parts
they acted require?
You say, saving myself, Pamela; but is not that saying a mere
compliment to me, because I am present, and you are in my hands? Tell
me truly.—Good sir, excuse me; but I fancy I might ask you, Why you
should think so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told
you, there was but too much reason for it?
He kissed me, and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you;
for you are very saucy, Pamela.—But, with your bewitching chit-chat,
and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you
hide your paper, pens, and ink?
Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left,
if others should be found.—That’s a good girl! said he; I love you for
your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written
papers, your saucy journal?—I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said
I. But indeed, answered he, you will not have it: for I will know, and
I will see them.—This is very hard, sir, said I; but I must say, you
shall not, if I can help it.
We were standing most of this time; but he then sat down, and took me
by both my hands, and said, Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can
help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your
pocket? No, sir, said I; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you
won’t tell a downright fib for the world: but for equivocation! no
jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, Are they in neither of
your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays?
No, sir, replied I: But pray no more questions: for ask me ever so
much, I will not tell you.
O, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad, when the
criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.—But pray, sir, said
I, is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal; and I won’t
confess.
O, my girl! said he, many an innocent person has been put to the
torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the
question, as they call it abroad.
Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t
bring it up. Admirably said! said the naughty gentleman.—But I can tell
you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won’t plead with us, here in
England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now,
Pamela, that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t
tell without.
Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, This, sir, is very cruel and
barbarous.—No matter, said he; it is but like your Lucifer, you know,
in my shape! And, after I have done so many heinous things by you as
you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at
least, it is but of a piece with the rest.
But, sir, said I, (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about
me,) if you will be obeyed in this unreasonable manner, though it is
sad tyranny, to be sure!—let me go up to them, and read them over
again, and you shall see so far as to the end of the sad story that
follows those you have.
I’ll see them all, said he, down to this time, if you have written so
far:—Or, at least, till within this week.—Then let me go up to them,
said I, and see what I have written, and to what day, to shew them to
you; for you won’t desire to see every thing. But I will, replied
he.—But say, Pamela, tell me truth: Are they above? I was much
affrighted. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. Why, sir,
answered I, I have sometimes hid them under the dry mould in the
garden; sometimes in one place, sometimes in another; and those you
have in your hand, were several days under a rose-bush, in the garden.
Artful slut! said he, What’s this to my question?—Are they not about
you?—If, said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding-place behind the
wainscot, won’t you see me?—Still more and more artful! said he—Is this
an answer to my question?—I have searched every place above, and in
your closet, for them, and cannot find them; so I will know where they
are. Now, said he, it is my opinion they are about you; and I never
undressed a girl in my life; but I will now begin to strip my pretty
Pamela; and I hope I shall not go far before I find them.
I fell a crying, and said, I will not be used in this manner. Pray,
sir, said I, (for he began to unpin my handkerchief,) consider! Pray
sir, do!—And pray, said he, do you consider. For I will see these
papers. But may be, said he, they are tied about your knees, with your
garters, and stooped. Was ever any thing so vile and so wicked?—I fell
on my knees, and said, What can I do? What can I do? If you’ll let me
go up I’ll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on your honour, let me
see them uncurtailed, and not offer to make them away; no not a single
paper?—I will, sir.—On your honour? Yes, sir. And so he let me go up
stairs, crying sadly for vexation to be so used. Sure nobody was ever
so served as I am!
I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could not bear the
thoughts of giving up my papers. Besides, I must all undress me, in a
manner, to untack them. So I writ thus:
‘SIR,
‘To expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman, I know will signify
nothing; and most hardly do you use the power you so wickedly have got
over me. I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you
regret using me thus; and I can hardly bear it, and what I am further
to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds me; thank God, it
does!—I will, however, keep my word, if you insist upon it when you
have read this; but, sir, let me beg of you to give me time till
to-morrow morning, that I may just run them over, and see what I put
into your hands against me: and I will then give my papers to you,
without the least alteration, or adding or diminishing: But I should
beg still to be excused, if you please: But if not, spare them to me
but till to-morrow morning: and this, so hardly am I used, shall be
thought a favour, which I shall be very thankful for.’
I guessed it would not be long before I heard from him and he
accordingly sent up Mrs. Jewkes for what I had promised. So I gave her
this note to carry to him. And he sent word, that I must keep my
promise, and he would give me till morning; but that I must bring them
to him, without his asking again.
So I took off my under-coat, and with great trouble of mind, unsewed
them from it. And there is a vast quantity of it. I will just slightly
touch upon the subjects; because I may not, perhaps, get them again for
you to see.
They begin with an account of ‘my attempting to get away out of the
window first, and then throwing my petticoat and handkerchief into the
pond. How sadly I was disappointed, the lock of the back-door being
changed. How, in trying to climb over the door, I tumbled down, and was
piteously bruised; the bricks giving way, and tumbling upon me. How,
finding I could not get off, and dreading the hard usage I should
receive, I was so wicked as to think of throwing myself into the water.
My sad reflections upon this matter. How Mrs. Jewkes used me upon this
occasion, when she found me. How my master had like to have been
drowned in hunting; and my concern for his danger, notwithstanding his
usage of me. Mrs. Jewkes’s wicked reports, to frighten me, that I was
to be married to the ugly Swiss; who was to sell me on the wedding-day
to my master. Her vile way of talking to me, like a London prostitute.
My apprehensions of seeing preparations made for my master’s coming.
Her causeless fears that I was trying to get away again, when I had no
thoughts of it; and my bad usage upon it. My master’s dreadful arrival;
and his hard, very hard treatment of me; and Mrs. Jewkes’s insulting of
me. His jealousy of Mr. Williams and me. How Mrs. Jewkes vilely
instigated him to wickedness.’ And down to here, I put into one parcel,
hoping that would content him. But for fear it should not, I put into
another parcel the following; viz.
‘A copy of his proposals to me, of a great parcel of gold, and fine
clothes and rings, and an estate of I can’t tell what a year; and 50l.
a year for the life of both you, my dear parents, to be his mistress;
with an insinuation, that, may be, he would marry me at the year’s end:
All sadly vile: With threatenings, if I did not comply, that he would
ruin me, without allowing me any thing. A copy of my answer, refusing
all, with just abhorrence: But begging at last his goodness towards me,
and mercy on me, in the most moving manner I could think of. An account
of his angry behaviour, and Mrs. Jewkes’s wicked advice hereupon. His
trying to get me to his chamber; and my refusal to go. A deal of stuff
and chit-chat between me and the odious Mrs. Jewkes; in which she was
very wicked and very insulting. Two notes I wrote, as if to be carried
to church, to pray for his reclaiming, and my safety; which Mrs. Jewkes
seized, and officiously shewed him. A confession of mine, that,
notwithstanding his bad usage, I could not hate him. My concern for Mr.
Williams. A horrid contrivance of my master’s to ruin me; being in my
room, disguised in clothes of the maid’s, who lay with me and Mrs.
Jewkes. How narrowly I escaped, (it makes my heart ache to think of it
still!) by falling into fits. Mrs. Jewkes’s detestable part in this sad
affair. How he seemed moved at my danger, and forbore his abominable
designs; and assured me he had offered no indecency. How ill I was for
a day or two after; and how kind he seemed. How he made me forgive Mrs.
Jewkes. How, after this, and great kindness pretended, he made rude
offers to me in the garden, which I escaped. How I resented them.’ Then
I had written, ‘How kindly he behaved himself to me; and how he praised
me, and gave me great hopes of his being good at last. Of the too
tender impression this made upon me; and how I began to be afraid of my
own weakness and consideration for him, though he had used me so ill.
How sadly jealous he was of Mr. Williams; and how I, as justly could,
cleared myself as to his doubts on that score. How, just when he had
raised me up to the highest hope of his goodness, he dashed me sadly
again, and went off more coldly. My free reflections upon this trying
occasion.’
This brought down matters from Thursday, the 20th day of my
imprisonment, to Wednesday the 41st, and here I was resolved to end,
let what would come; for only Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, remain to
give an account of; and Thursday he set out to a ball at Stamford; and
Friday was the gipsy story; and this is Saturday, his return from
Stamford. And truly, I shall have but little heart to write, if he is
to see all.
So these two parcels of papers I have got ready for him against
to-morrow morning. To be sure I have always used him very freely in my
writings, and shewed him no mercy; but yet he must thank himself for
it; for I have only writ truth; and I wish he had deserved a better
character at my hands, as well for his own sake as mine.—So, though I
don’t know whether ever you’ll see what I write, I must say, that I
will go to bed, with remembering you in my prayers, as I always do, and
as I know you do me: And so, my dear parents, good night.
Sunday morning.
I remembered what he said, of not being obliged to ask again for my
papers; and what I should be forced to do, and could not help, I
thought I might as well do in such a manner as might shew I would not
disoblige on purpose: though I stomached this matter very heavily too.
I had therefore got in readiness my two parcels; and he, not going to
church in the morning, bid Mrs. Jewkes tell me he was gone into the
garden.
I knew that was for me to go to him; and so I went: for how can I help
being at his beck? which grieves me not a little, though he is my
master, as I may say; for I am so wholly in his power, that it would do
me no good to incense him; and if I refused to obey him in little
matters, my refusal in greater would have the less weight. So I went
down to the garden; but as he walked in one walk, I took another, that
I might not seem too forward neither.
He soon ’spied me, and said, Do you expect to be courted to come to me?
Sir, said I, and crossed the walk to attend him, I did not know but I
should interrupt you in your meditations this good day.
Was that the case, said he, truly, and from your heart? Why, sir, said
I, I don’t doubt but you have very good thoughts sometimes, though not
towards me. I wish, said he, I could avoid thinking so well of you as I
do. But where are the papers?—I dare say you had them about you
yesterday; for you say in those I have, that you will bury your
writings in the garden, for fear you should be searched, if you did not
escape. This, added he, gave me a glorious pretence to search you; and
I have been vexing myself all night, that I did not strip you garment
by garment, till I had found them. O fie, sir, said I; let me not be
scared, with hearing that you had such a thought in earnest.
Well, said he, I hope you have not now the papers to give me; for I had
rather find them myself, I’ll assure you.
I did not like this way of talk at all; and thinking it best not to
dwell upon it, said, Well, but, sir, you will excuse me, I hope, giving
up my papers.