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LETTER XVI.
Miss Clarissa Harlowe, To Miss Howe.
[Her preceding not at the time received.]
Friday, March 3.
O my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict! Trial upon trial; Conference upon conference!---But what Law, what Ceremony, can give a man a right to a heart which abhors him more than it does any living creature?
I hope my Mother will be able to prevail for me.---But I will recount all, tho' I sit up the whole night to do it; for I have a vast deal to write; and will be as minute as you wish me to be.
I concluded my last in a fright. It was occasioned by a conversation that passed between my Mother and my Aunt, part of which Hannah overheard. I need not give you the particulars; since what I have to relate to you from different conversations that have passed between my Mother and me in the space of a very few hours, will include them all. I will begin then.
I went down this morning when breakfast was ready with a very uneasy heart, from what Hannah had informed me of yesterday afternoon; wishing for an opportunity, however, to appeal to my Mother, in hopes to engage her interest in my behalf, and purposing to try to find one when she retired to her own apartment after breakfast: But, unluckily, there was the odious Solmes sitting asquat between my Mother and Sister, with so much assurance in his looks!---But you know, my dear, that those we love not, cannot do any-thing to please us.
Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have been well enough: But the bent and broad-shouldered creature must needs rise, and stalk towards a chair; which was just by that which was set for me.
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I removed it to a distance, as if to make way to my own: And down I sat, abruptly I believe; what I had heard all in my head.
But this was not enough to daunt him. The man is a very confident, he is a very bold, staring man!---Indeed, my dear, the man is very confident!
He took the removed chair, and drew it so near mine, squatting in it with his ugly weight, that he pressed upon my hoop.---I was so offended (all I had heard, as I said, in my head) that I removed to another chair. I own I had too little command of myself. It gave my Brother and Sister too much advantage. I dare say they took it. But I did it involuntarily, I think. I could not help it.---I knew not what I did.
I saw that my Father was excessively displeased. When angry, no man's countenance ever shews it so much as my Father's. Clarissa Harlowe! said he with a big voice---and there he stopped.---Sir! said I, trembling and courtesying (for I had not then sat down again): And put my chair nearer the wretch, and sat down---My face, as I could feel, all in a glow.
Make Tea, child, said my kind Mamma: Sit by me, Love; and make Tea.
I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had quitted; and being thus indulgently put into employment, soon recovered myself; and in the course of the breakfasting officiously asked two or three questions of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have done, but to make up with my Father.---Proud spirits may be brought to! whisperingly spoke my Sister to me, over her shoulder, with an air of triumph and scorn: But I did not mind her.
My Mother was all kindness and condescension. I asked her once, if she were pleased with the Tea? She said softly (and again called me dear) she was pleased with all I did. I was very proud of this encouraging
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goodness: And all blew over, as I hoped, between my Father and me; for he also spoke kindly to me two or three times.
Small incidents these, my dear, to trouble you with; only as they lead to greater, as you shall hear.
Before the usual breakfast-time was over, my Father withdrew with my Mother, telling her he wanted to speak to her. Then my Sister and next my Aunt (who was with us) dropt away.
My Brother gave himself some airs of insult, which I understood well enough; but which Mr. Solmes could make nothing of: And at last he arose from his seat---Sister, said he, I have a curiosity to shew you. I will fetch it. And away he went, shutting the door close after him.
I saw what all this was for. I arose; the man hemming up for a speech, rising, and beginning to set his splay-feet [Indeed, my dear, the man in all his ways is hateful to me!] in an approaching posture.---I will save my Brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I. I courtesied---Your servant, Sir---The man cried, Madam, Madam, twice, and looked like a fool.---But away I went---to find my Brother, to save my word.---But my Brother, indifferent as the weather was, was gone to walk in the garden with my Sister. A plain case, that he had left his curiosity with me, and designed to shew me no other.
I had but just got into my own apartment, and began to think of sending Hannah to beg an Audience of my Mother (the more encouraged by her condescending goodness at breakfast) when Shorey her woman brought me her commands to attend her in her closet.
My Father, Hannah told me, was just gone out of it with a positive angry countenance. Then I as much dreaded the audience as I had wished for it before.
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I went down however; but, apprehending the subject she intended to talk to me upon, approached her trembling, and my heart in visible palpitations.
She saw my concern. Holding out her kind arms, as she sat, Come kiss me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sun-beam breaking through the cloud that overshadowed her naturally benign aspect. Why flutters my jewel so?
This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, confirmed my apprehensions. My Mother saw the bitter pill wanted gilding.
O my Mamma! was all I could say; and I clasped my arms round her neck, and my face sunk into her bosom.
My child! my child! restrain, said she, your powers of moving! I dare not else trust myself with you.---And my tears trickled down her bosom, as hers bedewed my neck.
O the words of kindness, all to be expressed in vain, that flowed from her lips!
Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa Harlowe?---O my daughter, best-beloved of my heart, lift up a face so ever-amiable to me!---Why these sobs?---Is an apprehended duty so affecting a thing, that before I can speak---But I am glad, my Love, you can guess at what I have to say to you. I am spared the pains of breaking to you what was a task upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you.
Then rising, she drew a chair near her own, and made me sit down by her, overwhelmed as I was with tears of apprehension of what she had to say, and of gratitude for her truly maternal goodness to me---Sobs still my only language.
And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my neck, and my glowing cheek, wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me talk to you, my child. Since Silence is your choice, hearken to me, and be silent.
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You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace. Your Papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not be controuled; nor yet persuaded. You have sometimes seemed to pity me, that I am obliged to give up every point. Poor man! his reputation the less for it; mine the greater: Yet would I not have this credit, if I could help it, at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a dutiful, a prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say, in hope, no doubt, to make me so: You would not add, I am sure, to my trouble: You would not wilfully break that peace which costs your Mother so much to preserve. Obedience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me I have apprehended too much!---I see your concern! I see your perplexity! I see your conflict [loosing her arm, and rising, not willing I should see how much she herself was affected]. I will leave you a moment.---Answer me not---[For I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped, and lifted up in a supplicating manner]. I am not prepared for your irresistible expostulation, she was pleased to say. I will leave you to recollection: And I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.
And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes, as she went from me; as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the whole compass of her meaning.
She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness.
Still on my knees, I had thrown my face cross the chair she had sat in.
Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe---No sullenness, I hope!
No, indeed, my ever-to-be-revered Mamma.---And I arose. I bent my knee.
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She raised me. No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and compliance. Your heart, not your knees, must bend. It is absolutely determined---Prepare yourself therefore to receive your Father, when he visits you by-and-by, as he would wish to receive you. But on this one quarter of an hour depends the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of all the family, and your own security from a man of violence: And I charge you besides, on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.
There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk: And when I recovered, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my Sister's Betty holding open my reluctantly-opened palm, my laces cut, my linen scented with hartshorn; and my Mother gone. Had I been less kindly treated, the hated name still forborne to be mentioned, or mentioned with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion---But to be bid, on the Blessing of a Mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenced, to think of being Mrs. SOLMES---what a denunciation was that!
Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn way): Your Mamma, Miss, is concerned for your disorder: She expects you down again in an hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes everything from your duty.
I made no reply; for what could I say? And leaning upon my Hannah's arm, withdrew to my own apartment. There you will guess how the greatest part of the hour was employed.
Within that time, my Mother came up to me.
I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment!---No emotions, child! No flutters!---Am I not your Mother!---And I not your fond, your indulgent Mother!---Do not discompose me by discomposing yourself! Do not occasion me uneasiness,
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when I would give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear, we will go into your closet.
She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her: And after she had enquired how I did, she began in a strain as if she had supposed I had made use of the intervening space to overcome all my objections.
She was pleased to tell me, that my Father and she, in order to spare my natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves---
Hear me out; and then speak; for I was going to expostulate. You are no stranger to the end of Mr. Solmes's visits---
O Madam!---
Hear me out; and then speak.---He is not indeed every-thing I wish him to be: But he is a man of probity, and has no vices---
No vices, Madam!---
Hear me out, child---You have not behaved much amiss to him: We have seen with pleasure that you have not---
O Madam, must I not now speak!---
I shall have done presently---A young creature of your virtuous and pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: You love your Brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to have killed him, and who threatened your Uncles, and defies us all. You have had your own way Six or Seven times: We want to secure you against a man so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know) whether you prefer this man to all others?---Yet God forbid that I should know you do! for such a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet, tell me, are your affections engaged to this man?
I knew what the inference would be, if I had said they were not.
You hesitate---You answer me not---You cannot
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answer me.---Rising---Never more will I look upon you with an eye of favour---
O Madam, Madam! Kill me not with your displeasure---I would not, I need not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the inference, if I answer you as you wish.---Yet be that inference what it will, your threatened displeasure will make me speak. And I declare to you, that I know not my own heart, if it be not absolutely free. And pray, let me ask my dearest Mamma, in what has my conduct been faulty, that, like a giddy creature, I must be forced to marry, to save me from---From what? Let me beseech you, Madam, to be the guardian of my reputation---Let not your Clarissa be precipitated into a State she wishes not to enter into with any man! And this upon a supposition that otherwise she shall marry herself, and disgrace her whole family.
Well then, Clary [passing over the force of my plea] if your heart be free---
O my beloved Mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate in my favour. Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate.
I won't be interrupted, Clary---You have seen in my behaviour to you, on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that I have undertaken this task with some reluctance, because the man is not every-thing; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too high---
Dearest Madam, this one time excuse me!---Is there then any danger that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at?
Again interrupted!---Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You know this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then, ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you think from my indulgence to you, you may?
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What can I say? What can I do? What must that cause be that will not bear being argued upon?
Again! Clary Harlowe!---
Dearest Madam, forgive me: It was always my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that man---see but the disagreeableness of his person---
Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye!---Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as another man has a much more specious person.
But, Madam, are not his manners equally so?---Is not this person the true representative of his mind?---That other man is not, shall not be, any-thing to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden, resists.
Condition thus with your Father. Will he bear, do you think, to be thus dialogued with? Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace---What is it that I do not give up?---This very task, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offered to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family.
And saying this, she arose, and went from me. But at the chamber-door stopt; and turned back: I will not say below in what a disposition I leave you. Consider of every-thing. The matter is resolved upon. As you value your Father's Blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve to comply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will come up to you again. See that I find you as I wish to find you; and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.
In about half an hour, my Mother returned. She found me in tears. She took my hand: It is my part evermore, said she, to be of the acknowleging
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side. I believe I have needlesly exposed myself to your opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself.
Do not, my dearest Mamma! do not, say so!
Were the occasion for this debate, proceeded she, to have risen from myself; were it in my power to dispense with your compliance; you too well know what you can do with me.
Would any-body, my dear Miss Howe, wish to marry, who sees a Wife of such a temper, and blessed with such an understanding as my Mother is noted for, not only deprived of all power; but obliged to be even active in bringing to bear points of high importance, which she thinks ought not to be insisted upon?
When I came to you a second time, proceeded she, knowing that your opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: And in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinc'd by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now, therefore, this third time, see you; and am come resolved to hear all you have to say: And let me, my dear, by my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it; because it is to You I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous.---Let me, if your heart be really free, let me see what it will induce you to do to oblige me: And so as you permit your usual discretion to govern you, I will hear all you have to say; but with this intimation, that say what you will, it will be of no avail elsewhere.
What a dreadful saying is that! But could I engage your pity, Madam, it would be somewhat.
You have as much of my Pity, as of my Love. But what is person, Clary, with one of your prudence, and your heart disengaged?
Should the eye be disgusted, when the heart is to be
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engaged?---O Madam, who can think of marrying when the heart is shocked at the first appearance, and where the disgust must be confirmed by every conversation afterwards?
This, Clary, is owing to your prepossession. Let me not have cause to regret that noble firmness of mind in so young a creature which I thought your glory, and which was my boast in your character. In this instance it would be obstinacy, and want of duty.---Have you not made objections to several---
That was to their minds, to their principles, Madam---But this man---
Is an honest man, Clary Harlowe. He has a good mind. He is a virtuous man.
He an honest man! His a good mind, Madam! He a virtuous man!---
No-body denies him these qualities.
Can he be an honest man who offers terms that will rob all his own Relations of their just expectations?---Can his mind be good---
You, Clary Harlowe, for whose sake he offers so much, are the last person that should make this observation.
Give me leave to say, Madam, that a person preferring happiness to fortune, as I do; that want not even what I have, and can give up the use of that, as an instance of duty---
No more, no more of your merits!---You know you will be a gainer by that chearful instance of your duty; not a loser. You know you have but cast your bread upon the waters---So no more of that!---For it is not understood as a merit by every-body, I assure you; tho' I think it a high one; and so did your Father and Uncles at the time---
At the time, Madam!---How unworthily do my Brother and Sister, who are afraid that the favour I was so lately in---
I hear nothing against your Brother and Sister---
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What family-feuds have I in prospect, at a time when I hoped most comfort from you all!
God bless my Brother and Sister in all their worthy views! You shall have no family-feuds, if I can prevent them. You yourself, Madam, shall tell me what I shall bear from them, and I will bear it: But let my actions, not their misrepresentations (as I am sure by the disgraceful prohibitions I have met with has been the case) speak for me.
Just then, up came my Father, with a sternness in his looks that made me tremble.---He took two or three turns about my chamber, tho' pained by his gout.---And then said to my Mother, who was silent as soon as she saw him---
My dear, you are long absent.---Dinner is near ready. What you had to say, lay in a very little compass. Surely, you have nothing to do but to declare your will, and my will---But perhaps you may be talking of the preparations---Let us have you soon down---Your Daughter in your hand, if worthy of the name.
And down he went, casting his eye upon me with a look so stern, that I was unable to say one word to him, or even for a few minutes to my Mother.
Was not this very intimidating, my dear?
My Mother, seeing my concern, seemed to pity me. She called me her good child, and kissed me; and told me that my Father should not know I had made such opposition. He has kindly furnished us with an excuse for being so long together, said she.---Come, my dear---Dinner will be upon table presently---Shall we go down?---And took my hand.
This made me start: What, Madam, go down to let it be supposed we were talking of preparations!---O my beloved Mamma, command me not down upon such a supposition.
You see, child, that to stay longer together, will be owning that you are debating about an absolute
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duty: And that will not be borne. Did not your Father himself some days ago tell you, he would be obeyed? I will a third time leave you. I must say something by way of excuse for you: And that you desire not to go down to dinner---That your modesty on the occasion---
O Madam! say not my modesty on such an occasion: For that will be to give hope---
And design you not to give hope?---Perverse girl!---Rising, and flinging from me; Take more time for consideration!---Since it is necessary, take more time---And when I see you next, let me know what blame I have to cast upon myself, or to bear from your Father, for my indulgence to you.
She made, however, a little stop at the chamberdoor; and seemed to expect that I would have besought her to make the gentlest construction for me; for, hesitating, she was pleased to say, I suppose you would not have me make a report---
O Madam, interrupted I, whose favour can I hope for, if I lose my Mamma's?
To have desired a favourable report, you know, my dear, would have been qualifying upon a point that I was too much determined upon, to give room for any of my friends to think I have the least hesitation about it. And so my Mother went down stairs.
I will deposit thus far; and, as I know you will not think me too minute in my relation of particulars so very interesting to one you honour with your Love, proceed in the same way. As matters stand, I don't care to have papers so freely written about me.
Pray let Robert call every day, if you can spare him, whether I have any-thing ready or not.
I should be glad you would not send him empty-handed. What a generosity will it be in you, to write as frequently from friendship, as I am forced to do from misfortune! The Letters being taken away will be an assurance that you have them. As I shall write
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and deposit as I have opportunity, the formality of super and sub scription will be excused. For I need not say how much I am,
Your sincere and ever-affectionate
Cl. Harlowe.