Clarissa, Volume 6 - The History Of A Young Lady

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Clarissa, Volume 6 − The History Of A Young Lady 46 villain: and as this is what you both said beforehand, and nothing worse can be said, I desire, if thou wouldst not have me quite serious with thee, and that I should think thou meanest more by thy tilting hint than I am willing to believe thou dost, that thou wilt forbear thy invectives: For is not the thing done?−−Can it be helped?−−And must I not now try to make the best of it?−−And the rather do I enjoin to make thee this, and inviolable secrecy; because I begin to think that my punishment will be greater than the fault, were it to be only from my own reflection. LETTER XVI MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. FRIDAY, JUNE 16. I am sorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie by it. Thy servant tells me what narrow escape thou hadst with thy neck, I wish it may not be ominous: but I think thou seemest not to be in so enterprising a way as formerly; and yet, merry or sad, thou seest a rake's neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his own horse. But, 'tis a vicious toad, it seems; and I think thou shouldst never venture upon his back again; for 'tis a plaguy thing for rider and horse both to be vicious. The fellow tells me, thou desirest me to continue to write to thee in order to divert thy chagrin on thy forced confinement: but how can I think it in my power to divert, when my subject is not pleasing to myself? Caesar never knew what it was to be hipped, I will call it, till he came to be what Pompey was; that is to say, till he arrived at the height of his ambition: nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to be gloomy, till he had completed his wishes upon the most charming creature in the world. And yet why say I completed? when the will, the consent, is wanting−−and I have still views before me of obtaining that? Yet I could almost join with thee in the wish, which thou sendest me up by thy servant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortune before Monday night last: for here, the poor lady has run into a contrary extreme to that I told thee of in my last: for now is she as much too lively, as before she was too stupid; and 'bating that she has pretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deemed raving mad, and I should be obliged to confine her. I am most confoundedly disturbed about it: for I begin to fear that her intellects are irreparably hurt. Who the devil could have expected such strange effects from a cause so common and so slight? But these high−souled and high−sensed girls, who had set up for shining lights and examples to the rest of the sex, are with such difficulty brought down to the common standard, that a wise man, who prefers his peace of mind to his glory, in subduing one of that exalted class, would have nothing to say to them. I do all in my power to quiet her spirits, when I force myself into her presence. I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vowing truth and honour another. I would at first have persuaded her, and offered to call witnesses to the truth of it, that we were actually married. Though the license was in her hands, I thought the assertion might go down in her disorder; and charming consequences I hoped would follow. But this would not do.−− I therefore gave up that hope: and now I declare to her, that it is my resolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me that he will grace the ceremony with his presence. But she believes nothing I say; nor, (whether in her senses, or not) bears me with patience in her sight.
Clarissa, Volume 6 − The History Of A Young Lady 47 I pity her with all my soul; and I curse myself, when she is in her wailing fits, and when I apprehend that intellects, so charming, are for ever damped. But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient! Lord! Lord! what a hand have I made of it!−−And all for what? Last night, for the first time since Monday night, she got to her pen and ink; but she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, as show too evidently her discomposure. I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits. *** Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throws the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what she does, or disliking it: then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and shifts her seat all round the room: then returns to her table, sits down, and writes again. *** One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from her−−Carry this, said she, to the vilest of men. Dorcas, a toad, brought it, without any further direction to me. I sat down, intending (though 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: but, for my life, I cannot; 'tis so extravagant. And the original is too much an original to let it go out of my hands. But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn through, or flung aside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to show thee how her mind works now she is in the whimsical way. Yet I know I am still furnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy comments. My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her lady will ask for them: so wishes to have them to lay again under the table. By the first thou'lt guess that I have told her that Miss Howe is very ill, and can't write; that she may account the better for not having received the letter designed for her. PAPER I (Torn in two pieces.) MY DEAREST MISS HOWE, O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot tell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature informs me you are? But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: and yet, if it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!−−But what have I to do to upbraid?−−You may well be tired of me!−−And if you are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: and all my own relations were tired of me long before you were. How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!−−But how I ramble! I sat down to say a great deal−−my heart was full−−I did not know what to say first−−and thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poor head) I cannot tell what−−and thought, and grief and confusion, came crowding so thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first; all would be first; so I can write nothing at all.−−Only that, whatever they have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was−in any one thing did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,
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