"Clarissa Harlowe," written after "Pamela," brought Richardson
a European reputation. The first four volumes of the novel
appeared in 1747, the last four in 1748, and during the next
few years translations were being executed in French and
German. Like "Pamela," the story itself is thin and simple,
but the characters are drawn with a bolder and surer touch.
"No work had appeared before," says Scott, "perhaps none has
appeared since, containing so many direct appeals to the
passions." Yet opinions were singularly divided as to its
merits. Dr. Johnson said that the novel "enlarged the
knowledge of human nature."
_I.--At Harlowe Place_
CLARISSA is persecuted by her family to marry Mr. Roger Solmes, but
favours Richard Lovelace, who is in love with her. That her grandfather
had left Clarissa a considerable estate accounts mainly for the
hostility of the family to Clarissa's desire for independence.
Clarissa writes to her friend, Miss Howe:
"_January_ 15. The moment, my dear, that Mr. Lovelace's visits were
mentioned to my brother on his arrival from Scotland he expressed his
disapprobation, declaring he had ever hated him since he had known him
at college, and would never own me for a sister if I married him.
"This antipathy I have heard accounted for in this manner:
"Mr. Lovelace was always noted for his vivacity and courage, and for the
surprising progress he made in literature, while for diligence in study
he had hardly his equal. This was his character at the university, and
it gained him many friends, 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 showed in supporting it. My brother's haughtiness
could not bear a superiority; and those whom we fear more than love we
are not far from hating. Having less command of his passions than the
other, he was evermore the subject of his ridicule, so that they never
met without quarrelling, and everybody siding with Lovelace, my brother
had an uneasy time of it, while both continued in the same college.
"Then on my brother's return he found my sister (to whom Lovelace had
previously paid some attention) ready to join him in his resentment
against the man he hated. She utterly disclaimed all manner of regard
for him.
"Their behaviour to him when they could not help seeing him was very
disobliging, and at last they gave such loose rein to their passion
that, instead of withdrawing when he came, they threw themselves in his
way to affront him.
"Mr. Lovelace, you may believe, ill brooked this, but contented himself
by complaining to me, adding that, but for my sake, my brother's
treatment of him was not to be borne.
"After several excesses, which Mr. Lovelace returned with a haughtiness
too much like that of the aggressor, my brother took upon himself to
fill up the doorway once when he came, as if to oppose his entrance;
and, upon his asking for me, demanded what his business was with his
sister.
"The other, with a challenging air, told him he would answer a gentleman
_any_ question. Just then the good Dr. Lewin, the clergyman, came to the
door, and, hearing the words, interposed between, both gentlemen having
their hands upon their swords, and, telling Mr. Lovelace where I was,
the latter burst by my brother to come to me, leaving him chafing, he
said, like a hunted boar at bay.
"After this, my father was pleased to hint that Mr. Lovelace's visits
should be discontinued, and I, by his command, spoke a great deal
plainer; but no absolute prohibition having been given, things went on
for a while as before, till my brother again took occasion to insult Mr.
Lovelace, when an unhappy recontre followed, in which my brother was
wounded and disarmed, and on being brought home and giving us ground to
suppose he was worse hurt than he was, and a fever ensuing, everyone
flamed out, and all was laid at my door.
"Mr. Lovelace sent twice a day to inquire after my brother, and on the
fourth day came in person, and received great incivilities from my two
uncles, who happened to be there.
"I fainted away with terror, seeing everyone so violent; hearing his
voice swearing he could not depart without seeing me, my mamma
struggling with my papa, and my sister insulting me. When he was told
how ill I was, he departed, vowing vengeance.
"He was ever a favourite with our domestics; and on this occasion they
privately reported his behaviour in such favourable terms that those
reports and my apprehensions of the consequences, induced me to 'read a
letter' he sent me that night imploring me 'to answer' it some days
after.
"To this unhappy necessity is owing our correspondence; meantime I am
extremely concerned to find that I am become the public talk."
"_February_ 20. Alas, my dear, I have sad prospects! My brother and
sister have found another lover for me; he is encouraged by everybody.
Who do you think it is? No other than that Solmes. They are all
determined too, my mother with the rest.
"Yesterday, Mr. Solmes came in before we had done tea. My uncle Antony
presented him as a gentleman he had a particular friendship for. My
father said, 'Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe.' My mother
looked at him, and at me; and I at her, with eyes appealing for pity,
while my brother and sister sir'd him at every word."
"_February_ 24. They drive on at a furious rate. The man lives here.
Such terms, such settlements. That's the cry. I have already stood the
shock of three of this man's visits.
"What my brother and sister have said of me, I cannot tell. I am in
heavy disgrace with my papa.
"_March_ 9. I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace, although I have not
answered his former one. He knows all that passes here, and is
excessively uneasy upon what he hears, and solicits me to engage my
honour to him never to have Mr. Solmes. I think I can safely promise him
that.
"I am now confined to my room; my maid has been taken away from me. In
answer to my sincere declaration, that I would gladly compound to live
single, my father said angrily that my proposal was an artifice. Nothing
but marrying Solmes should do."
"_April_ 5. I must keep nothing by me now; and when I write lock myself
in that I may not be surprised now they think I have no pen and ink.
"I found another letter from this diligent man, and he assures me they
are more and more determined to subdue me.
"He sends me the compliments of his family, and acquaints me with their
earnest desire to see me amongst them. Vehemently does he press for my
quitting this house while it is in my power to get away, and again
craves leave to order his uncle's chariot-and-six to attend my commands
at the stile leading to the coppice adjoining to the paddock.
"Settlements he again offers; Lord M. and Lady Sarah and Lady Betty to
be guarantees of his honour.
"As to the disgrace a person of my character may be apprehensive of on
quitting my father's house, he observes, too truly I doubt, that the
treatment I meet with is in everybody's mouth, that all the disgrace I
can receive they have given me. He says he will oppose my being sent
away to my uncle's. He tells me my brother and sister and Mr. Solmes
design to be there to meet me; that my father and mother will not come
till the ceremony is over, and then to try to reconcile me to my odious
husband.
"How, my dear, am I driven!"
_April_ 8. Whether you will blame me or not I cannot tell. I have
deposited a letter to Mr. Lovelace confirming my resolution to leave
this house on Monday next. I tell him I shall not bring any clothes than
those I have on, lest I be suspected. That it will be best to go to a
private lodging near Lady Betty Lawrance's that it may not appear to the
world I have refuged myself with his family; that he shall instantly
leave me nor come near me but by my leave, and that if I find myself in
danger of being discovered and carried back by violence, I will throw
myself into the protection of Lady Betty or Lady Sarah.
"Oh, my dear, what a sad thing is the necessity forced upon me for all
this contrivance!"
_II.--In London_
Clarissa, after staying in lodgings at St. Albans, is persuaded by
Lovelace that she will be safer from her family in London. After
refusing a proposal for an immediate marriage, she therefore moves to
London to lodge in a house recommended as thoroughly respectable by
Lovelace, but which in reality is kept by a widow, Mrs. Sinclair, of no
good repute, who is in the pay of Lovelace.
Clarissa to her friend, Miss Howe:
"_April 26._ At length, my dear, I am in London. My lodgings are neatly
furnished, and though I like not the old gentlewoman, yet she seems
obliging, and her kinswomen are genteel young people.
"I am exceedingly out of humour with Mr. Lovelace, and have great reason
to be so. He began by letting me know that he had been to inquire the
character of the widow. It was well enough, he said, but as she lived by
letting lodgings and had other rooms in the houses which might be taken
by the enemy, he knew no better way than to take them all, unless I
would remove to others.
"It was easy to see he spoke the slighter of the widow to have a
pretence to lodge here himself, and he frankly owned that if I chose to
stay here he could not think of leaving me for six hours together. He
had prepared the widow to expect that we should be here only a few days,
till we could fix ourselves in a house suitable to our condition.
"'Fix _ourselves_ in a house, Mr. Lovelace?' I said. 'Pray in what
light?'
"'My dearest life, hear me with patience. I am afraid I have been too
forward, for my friends in town conclude me to be married.'
"'Surely, sir, you have not presumed----'
"'Hear me, dearest creature. You have received with favour my addresses,
yet, by declining my fervent tender of myself you have given me
apprehension of delay. Your brother's schemes are not given up. I have
taken care to give Mrs. Sinclair a reason why two apartments are
necessary for us in our retirement.'
"I raved at him. I would have flung from him, yet where could I go?
"Still, he insisted upon the propriety of appearing to be married. 'But
since you dislike what I have said, let me implore you,' he added, 'to
give a sanction to it by naming an early day--would to Heaven it were
to-morrow!'
"What could I say? I verily believe, had he urged me in a proper way, I
should have consented to meet him at a more sacred place than the
parlour below.
"The widow now directs all her talk to me as 'Mrs. Lovelace,' and I,
with a very ill-grace, bear it."
"_April 28._ Mr. Lovelace has returned already. 'My dearest life,' said
he. 'I cannot leave you for so long a time as you seem to expect I
should. Spare yourself the trouble of writing to any of your friends
till we are married. When they know we are married, your brother's plots
will be at an end, and they must all be reconciled to you. Why, then,
would you banish me from you? Why will you not give the man who has
brought you into difficulties, and who so honourably wishes to extricate
you from them, the happiness of doing so?'
"But, my dear although the opportunity was so inviting, he urged not for
the _day_. Which is the _more extraordinary_, as he was so pressing for
marriage before we came to town."
After some weeks, Clarissa succeeds in escaping from Mrs. Sinclair's
house and takes lodgings at Hampstead. But Lovelace finds out her
refuge, and sends two women, who pretend to be his relatives, Lady Betty
and Lady Sarah, and Clarissa is beguiled back to Mrs. Sinclair's for an
interview. Once inside the house, however, she is not allowed to leave
it. Her health is now seriously injured, and her letters home have been
answered by her father's curse.
Lovelace to his friend, John Belford:
"_June 18._ I went out early this morning, and returned just now, when I
was informed that my beloved, in my absence, had taken it into her head
to attempt to get away.
"She tripped down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, her hood on,
and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair saw her.
"'Pray, madam,' whipping between her and the street-door, 'be pleased to
let me know whither you are going?'
"'Who has a right to control me?' was the word.
"'I have, madam, by order of your spouse, and I desire you will be
pleased to walk up again.'
"She would have spoken, but could not; and, bursting into tears, turned
back, and went to her chamber.
"That she cannot fly me, that she must see me, are circumstances greatly
in my favour. What can she do but rave and exclaim?
"To-night, as I was sitting with my pen in my chamber, she entered the
dining-room with such dignity in her manner as struck with me great awe,
and prepared me for the poor figure I made in the subsequent
conversation. But I will do her justice. She accosted me with an air I
never saw equalled.
"'You see before you, sir, the wretch whose preference of you to all
your sex you have rewarded as it _deserved_ to be rewarded. Too evident
is it that it will not be your fault, villainous man, if the loss of my
soul as well as my honour, which you have robbed me of, will not be
completed. But, tell me--for no doubt thou hast _some_ scheme to
pursue,--since I am a prisoner in the vilest of houses, and have not a
friend to protect me, what thou intendest shall become of the remnant of
a life not worth keeping; tell me if there are more evils reserved for
me, and whether thou hast entered into a compact with the grand
deceiver, in the person of the horrid agent of this house, and if the
ruin of my soul is to complete the triumphs of so vile a confederacy?
Say, if thou hast courage to speak out to her whom thou hast ruined;
tell me what further I am to suffer from thy barbarity.'
"I had prepared myself for raving and execrations. But such a majestic
composure--seeking me--whom yet, it is plain, by her attempt to get
away, she would have avoided seeing. How could I avoid looking like a
fool, and answering in confusion?
"'I--I--I--cannot but say--must own--confess--truly sorry--upon my soul
I am--and--and--will do all--do everything--all that--all that you
require to make amends!'
"'Amends, thou despicable wretch! And yet I hate thee not, base as thou
art, half as much as I hate myself, that I saw thee not sooner in thy
proper colours, that I hoped either morality, gratitude, or humanity
from one who defies moral sanction. What amends hast _thou_ to propose?
What amends can such a one as thou make to a person of spirit or common
sense for the evils thou hast made me suffer?'
"'As soon, madam; as soon as----'
"'I know what thou wouldst tell me. But thinkest thou that marriage will
satisfy for a guilt like thine? Destitute as thou hast made me both of
friends and fortune, I too much despise the wretch who could rob himself
of his wife's honour, to endure the thoughts of thee in the light thou
seemest to hope I will accept thee. Had I been able to account for
myself and your proceedings, a whole week should not have gone over my
head before I had told you what I now tell you, that the man who has
been the villain to me you have been shall never make me his wife. All
my prospects are shut in. I give myself up for a lost creature as to
this world. Hinder me not from entering upon a life of penitence. Let me
try to secure the only hope I have left. This is all the amends I ask of
you. I repeat, am I now at liberty to dispose of myself as I please?'
"Now comes the fool, the miscreant, hesitating in his broken answer. 'My
dearest love, I am quite confounded. There is no withstanding your
eloquence. If you can forgive a repentant villain, I vow by all that's
sacred--and may a thunderbolt strike me dead at your feet if I am not
sincere--that I will, by marriage, before to-morrow noon, without
waiting for anybody, do you all the justice I can. And you shall ever
after direct me as you please till you have made me more worthy of your
angelic purity. Nor will I presume so much as to touch your garment till
I can call so great a blessing lawfully mine.'
"'Oh, thou guileful betrayer! Hadst thou not seemed beyond the
possibility of forgiveness, I might have been induced to think of taking
a wretched chance with a man so profligate. But it would be criminal to
bind my soul in covenant to a man allied to perdition.'
"'_Allied to perdition_, madam?'
"But she would not hear me, and insisted upon being at her own disposal
for the remainder of her short life. She abhorred me in every light; and
more particularly in that in which I offered myself to her acceptance.
"And saying this she flung from me, leaving me shocked and confounded at
her part of a conversation which she began with such severe composure,
and concluded with such sincere and unaffected indignation. Now, Jack,
to be thus hated and despised."
_III.--The Death of Clarissa_
In the absence of Lovelace from London Clarissa manages to escape from
Mrs. Sinclair's, and takes refuge in the house of Mrs. Smith, who keeps
a glove shop in King Street, Covent Garden. Her health is now ruined
beyond recovery, and she is ready to die. Belford discovers her retreat,
and protects her from Lovelace.
Mr. Mowbray, a friend, to Robert Lovelace, Esq.:
"_June 29._ Dear Lovelace,--I have plaguey news to acquaint thee with.
Miss Harlowe is gone off. Here's the devil to pay. I heartily condole
with thee. But it may turn out for the best. They tell me thou wouldst
have married her had she staid. But I know thee better.
"Thine heartily,
"RICHARD MOWBRAY."
Belford to Lovelace:
"_June 29._ Thou hast heard the news. Bad or good I know not which thou
wilt deem it.
"How strong must be her resentment of the barbarous treatment she has
received, that has made her _hate_ the man she once _loved_, and rather
than marry him to expose her disgrace to the world!"
Lovelace to Belford:
"_June 30._ I am ruined, undone, destroyed.
"If thou canst find her out, and prevail upon her to consent, I will, in
thy presence, marry her. She cannot be long concealed; I have set all
engines at work to find her out, and if I do, who will care to embroil
themselves with a man of my figure, fortune, and resolution?"
Belford to Lovelace:
"_August 31._ When I concluded my last, I hoped that my next attendance
upon this surprising lady would furnish me with some particulars as
agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining way she is in;
but I think I was never more shocked in my life than on the occasion I
shall mention.
"When I attended her about seven in the evening, she had hardly spoken
to me, when she started, and a blush overspread her sweet face on
hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumbering noise upon the stairs, as if
a large trunk were bringing up between two people. 'Blunderers!' said
she. 'They have brought in something two hours before the time. Don't be
surprised, sir, it is all to save _you_ trouble.'
"Before I could speak in came Mrs. Smith. 'Oh, madam,' said she, 'what
have you done?'
"' Lord have mercy upon me, madam,' cried I, 'what have you done?' For
she, stepping at the instant to the door, Mrs. Smith told me it was a
coffin. Oh, Lovelace that thou hadst been there at the moment! Thou, the
causer of all these shocking scenes! Surely thou couldst not have been
less affected than I, who have no guilt as to _her_ to answer for.
"With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having directed
them to carry it into her bed-chamber, she returned to us. 'They were
not to have brought it till after dark,' said she. 'Pray excuse me, Mr.
Belford; and don't you be concerned, Mrs. Smith. Why should you? There
is nothing more in it than the unusualness of the thing. Why may we not
be as reasonably shocked at going to the church where are the monuments
of our ancestors, as to be moved at such a sight as this.'
"How reasonable was all this. But yet we could not help being shocked at
the thoughts of the coffin thus brought in; the lovely person before our
eyes who is in all likelihood so soon to fill it."
Belford to Lovelace:
"_September 7._ I may as well try to write, since were I to go to bed I
should not sleep; and you may be glad to know the particulars of her
happy exit. All is now hushed and still. At four o'clock yesterday I was
sent for. Her cousin, Colonel Mordern, and Mrs. Smith were with her. She
was silent for a few minutes. Her breath grew shorter. Her sweet voice
and broken periods methinks still fill my ears, and never will be out of
my memory. 'Do you, sir,' turning her head towards me, 'tell your friend
that I forgive him, and I pray to God to forgive him. Let him know how
happily I die, and that such as my own I wish to be his last hour.'
"With a smile of charming serenity overspreading her face, she expired.
"Oh, Lovelace, but I can write no more."
* * * * *