Had he given me time to answer, it could not have been in the
affirmative, you must think--but, in the same breath, he went on--Or the
day after that?--and taking both my hands in his, he stared me into a
half-confusion--Would you have had patience with him, my dear?
No, no, said I, as calmly as possible, you cannot think that I should
imagine there can be reason for such a hurry. It will be most agreeable,
to be sure, for my Lord to be present.
I am all obedience and resignation, returned the wretch, with a self-
pluming air, as if he had acquiesced to a proposal made by me, and had
complimented me with a great piece of self denial.
Is it not plain, my dear, that he designs to vex and tease me? Proud,
yet mean and foolish man, if so!--But you say all punctilio is at an end
with me. Why, why, will he take pains to make a heart wrap itself up in
reserve, that wishes only, and that for his sake as well as my own, to
observe due decorum?
Modesty, I think, required of me, that it should pass as he had put it:
Did it not?--I think it did. Would to heaven--but what signifies
wishing?
But when he would have rewarded himself, as he had heretofore called it,
for this self-supposed concession, with a kiss, I repulsed him with a
just and very sincere disdain.
He seemed both vexed and surprised, as one who had made the most
agreeable proposals and concessions, and thought them ungratefully
returned. He plainly said, that he thought our situation would entitle
him to such an innocent freedom: and he was both amazed and grieved to be
thus scornfully repulsed.
No reply could be made be me on such a subject.
I abruptly broke from him. I recollect, as I passed by one of the pier-
glasses, that I saw in it his clenched hand offered in wrath to his
forehead: the words, Indifference, by his soul, next to hatred, I heard
him speak; and something of ice he mentioned: I heard not what.
Whether he intends to write to my Lord, or Miss Montague, I cannot tell.
But, as all delicacy ought to be over with me now, perhaps I am to blame
to expect it from a man who may not know what it is. If he does not, and
yet thinks himself very polite, and intends not to be otherwise, I am
rather to be pitied, than he to be censured.
And after all, since I must take him as I find him, I must: that is to
say, as a man so vain and so accustomed to be admired, that, not being
conscious of internal defect, he has taken no pains to polish more than
his outside: and as his proposals are higher than my expectations; and
as, in his own opinion, he has a great deal to bear from me, I will (no
new offence preventing) sit down to answer them; and, if possible, in
terms as unobjectionable to him, as his are to me.
But after all, see you not, my dear, more and more, the mismatch that
there is in our minds?
However, I am willing to compound for my fault, by giving up, (if that
may be all my punishment) the expectation of what is deemed happiness in
this life, with such a husband as I fear he will make. In short, I will
content myself to be a suffering person through the state to the end of
my life.--A long one it cannot be!
This may qualify him (as it may prove) from stings of conscience from
misbehaviour to a first wife, to be a more tolerable one to a second,
though not perhaps a better deserving one: while my story, to all who
shall know it, will afford these instructions: That the eye is a traitor,
and ought ever to be mistrusted: that form is deceitful: in other words;
that a fine person is seldom paired by a fine mind: and that sound
principle and a good heart, are the only bases on which the hopes of a
happy future, either with respect to this world, or the other, can be
built.
And so much at present for Mr. Lovelace's proposals: Of which I desire
your opinion.*
* We cannot forbear observing in this place, that the Lady has been
particularly censured, even by some of her own sex, as over-nice in her
part of the above conversations: but surely this must be owing to want
of attention to the circumstances she was in, and to her character, as
well as to the character of the man she had to deal with: for, although
she could not be supposed to know so much of his designs as the reader
does by means of his letters to Belford, yet she was but too well
convinced of his faulty morals, and of the necessity there was, from the
whole of his behaviour to her, to keep such an encroacher, as she
frequently calls him, at a distance. In Letter XXXIII. of Vol. III. the
reader will see, that upon some favourable appearances she blames herself
for her readiness to suspect him. But his character, his principles,
said she, are so faulty!--He is so light, so vain, so various.----Then,
my dear, I have no guardian to depend upon. In Letter IX. of Vol. III.
Must I not with such a man, says she, be wanting to myself, were I not
jealous and vigilant?
By this time the reader will see, that she had still greater reason for
her jealousy and vigilance. And Lovelace will tell the sex, as he does
in Letter XI. of Vol. V., that the woman who resents not initiatory
freedoms, must be lost. Love is an encroacher, says he: loves never goes
backward. Nothing but the highest act of love can satisfy an indulged
love.
But the reader perhaps is too apt to form a judgment of Clarissa's
conduct in critical cases by Lovelace's complaints of her coldness; not
considering his views upon her; and that she is proposed as an example;
and therefore in her trials and distresses must not be allowed to
dispense with those rules which perhaps some others of the sex, in her
delicate situation, would not have thought themselves so strictly bound
to observe; although, if she had not observed them, a Lovelace would have
carried all his points.
[Four letters are written by Mr. Lovelace from the date of his last,
giving the state of affairs between him and the Lady, pretty much the
same as in hers in the same period, allowing for the humour in his,
and for his resentments expressed with vehemence on her resolution to
leave him, if her friends could be brought to be reconciled to her.--
A few extracts from them will be only given.]
What, says he, might have become of me, and of my projects, had not her
father, and the rest of the implacables, stood my friends?
[After violent threatenings of revenge, he says,]
'Tis plain she would have given me up for ever: nor should I have been
able to prevent her abandoning of me, unless I had torn up the tree by
the roots to come at the fruit; which I hope still to bring down by a
gentle shake or two, if I can but have patience to stay the ripening
seasoning.
[Thus triumphing in his unpolite cruelty, he says,]
After her haughty treatment of me, I am resolved she shall speak out.
There are a thousand beauties to be discovered in the face, in the
accent, in the bush-beating hesitations of a woman who is earnest about a
subject she wants to introduce, yet knows not how. Silly fellows,
calling themselves generous ones, would value themselves for sparing a
lady's confusion: but they are silly fellows indeed; and rob themselves
of prodigious pleasure by their forwardness; and at the same time deprive
her of displaying a world of charms, which can only be manifested on
these occasions.
I'll tell thee beforehand, how it will be with my charmer in this case--
she will be about it, and about it, several times: but I will not
understand her: at least, after half a dozen hem--ings, she will be
obliged to speak out--I think, Mr. Lovelace--I think, Sir--I think you
were saying some days ago--Still I will be all silence--her eyes fixed
upon my shoe-buckles, as I sit over-against her--ladies when put to it
thus, always admire a man's shoe-buckles, or perhaps some particular
beauties in the carpet. I think you said that Mrs. Fretchville--Then a
crystal tear trickles down each crimson cheek, vexed to have her virgin
pride so little assisted. But, come, my meaning dear, cry I to myself,
remember what I have suffered for thee, and what I have suffered by thee!
Thy tearful pausings shall not be helped out by me. Speak out, love!--O
the sweet confusion! Can I rob myself of so many conflicting beauties by
the precipitate charmer-pitying folly, by which a politer man [thou
knowest, lovely, that I am no polite man!] betrayed by his own
tenderness, and unused to female tears, would have been overcome? I will
feign an irresolution of mind on the occasion, that she may not quite
abhor me--that her reflections on the scene in my absence may bring to
her remembrance some beauties in my part of it: an irresolution that
will be owing to awe, to reverence, to profound veneration; and that will
have more eloquence in it than words can have. Speak out then, love, and
spare not.
Hard-heartedness, as it is called, is an essential of the libertine's
character. Familiarized to the distresses he occasions, he is seldom
betrayed by tenderness into a complaisant weakness unworthy of himself.
[Mentioning the settlements, he says,]
I am in earnest as to the terms. If I marry her, [and I have no doubt
that I shall, after my pride, my ambition, my revenge, if thou wilt, is
gratified,] I will do her noble justice. The more I do for such a
prudent, such an excellent economist, the more shall I do for myself.--
But, by my soul, Belford, her haughtiness shall be brought down to own
both love and obligation to me. Nor will this sketch of settlements
bring us forwarder than I would have it. Modesty of sex will stand my
friend at any time. At the very altar, our hands joined, I will engage
to make this proud beauty leave the parson and me, and all my friends who
should be present, though twenty in number, to look like fools upon one
another, while she took wing, and flew out of the church door, or window,
(if that were open, and the door shut); and this only by a single word.
[He mentions his rash expression, That she should be his, although his
damnation was to be the purchase.]
At that instant, says he, I was upon the point of making a violent
attempt, but was checked in the very moment, and but just in time to save
myself, by the awe I was struck with on again casting my eye upon her
terrified but lovely face, and seeing, as I thought, her spotless heart
in every line of it.
O virtue, virtue! proceeds he, what is there in thee, that can thus
against his will affect the heart of a Lovelace!--Whence these
involuntary tremors, and fear of giving mortal offence?--What art thou,
that acting in the breast of a feeble woman, which never before, no, not
in my first attempt, young as I then was, and frightened at my own
boldness (till I found myself forgiven,) had such an effect upon me!
[He paints in lively colours, that part of the scene between him and the
Lady, where she says, The word father has a sweet and venerable sound
with it.]
I was exceedingly affected, says he, upon the occasion, but was ashamed
to be surprised into such a fit of unmanly weakness--so ashamed, that I
was resolved to subdue it at the instant, and to guard against the like
for the future. Yet, at that moment, I more than half regretted that I
could not permit her to enjoy a triumph which she so well deserved to
glory in--her youth, her beauty, her artless innocence, and her manner,
equally beyond comparison or description. But her indifference, Belford!
--That she could resolve to sacrifice me to the malice of my enemies; and
carry on the design in so clandestine a manner--and yet love her, as I
do, to phrensy!--revere her, as I do, to adoration!--These were the
recollections with which I fortified my recreant heart against her!--Yet,
after all, if she persevere, she must conquer!--Coward, as she has made
me, that never was a coward before!
[He concludes his fourth letter in a vehement rage, upon her repulsing
him, when he offered to salute her; having supposed, as he owns, that
she would have been all condescension on his proposals to her.]
This, says he, I will for ever remember against her, in order to steel my
heart, that I may cut through a rock of ice to hers; and repay her for
the disdain, the scorn, which glowed in her countenance, and was apparent
in her air, at her abrupt departure for me, after such obliging behaviour
on my side, and after I had so earnestly pressed her for an early day.
The women below say she hates me; she despises me!--And 'tis true: she
does; she must.--And why cannot I take their advice? I will not long,
my fair-one, be despised by thee, and laughed at by them!
Let me acquaint thee, Jack, adds he, by way of postscript, that this
effort of hers to leave me, if she could have been received; her sending
for a coach on Sunday; no doubt, resolving not to return, if she had gone
out without me, (for did she not declare that she had thoughts to retire
to some of the villages about town, where she could be safe and private?)
have, all together, so much alarmed me, that I have been adding to the
written instructions for my fellow and the people below how to act in
case she should elope in my absence: particularly letting Will. know what
he shall report to strangers in case she shall throw herself upon any
such with a resolution to abandon me. To these instructions I shall
further add as circumstances offer.