The rest, as the event has proved, behaved as if they would have been satisfied had they not further points to carry by intimidating me. All this made it evident, as I mentioned above, that they themselves expected not my voluntary compliance, and was a tacit confession of the disagreeableness of the person they had to propose.

I was no sooner silent than my brother swore, although in my papa’s presence (swore, unchecked either by eye or countenance), that, for his part, he would never be reconciled to that libertine; and that he would renounce me for a sister if I encouraged the addresses of a man so obnoxious to them all.

A man who had like to have been my brother’s murderer, my sister said, with a face even bursting with restraint of passion.

The poor Bella has, you know, a plump, high-fed face, if I may be allowed the expression—you, I know, will forgive me for this liberty of speech sooner than I can myself; yet how can one be such a reptile as not to turn when trampled upon!

My papa, with vehemence both of action and voice (my father has, you know, a terrible voice, when he is angry!), told me that I had met with too much indulgence in being allowed to refuse this gentleman and the other gentleman, and it was now his turn to be obeyed.

Very true, my mamma said—and hoped his will would not now be disputed by a child so favoured.

To show they were all of a sentiment, my uncle Harlowe said he hoped his beloved niece only wanted to know her papa’s will to obey it.

And my uncle Antony, in his rougher manner, that I would not give them reason to apprehend that I thought my grandfather’s favour to me had made me independent of them all. If I did, he could tell me, the will could be set aside, and should.

I did not know, I said, that I had given occasion for this harshness; I hoped I should always have a just sense of their favour to me, superadded to the duty I owed as a daughter and a niece; but that I was so much surprised at a reception so unusual and unexpected that I hoped my papa and mamma would give me leave to retire in order to recollect myself.

No one gainsaying, I made my silent compliments and withdrew—leaving my brother and sister, as I thought, pleased, and as if they wanted to congratulate each other on having occasioned so severe a beginning to be made with me.

But I will at present only add my humble thanks and duty to your honoured mamma (to whom I will particularly write to express the grateful sense I have of her goodness to me) and that I am,

Your ever-obliged

CL. HARLOWE

Letter 8: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

Feb. 24

They drive on here at a furious rate. The man [Solmes] lives here, I think. He courts them and is more and more a favourite. Such terms, such settlements! That’s the cry!

I have already stood the shock of three of this man’s particular visits, besides my share in his more general ones, and find it is impossible I should ever endure him. He has but a very ordinary share of understanding, is very illiterate, knows nothing but the value of estates and how to improve them, and what belongs to land-jobbing, and husbandry. Yet am I as one stupid, I think. They have begun so cruelly with me that I have not spirit enough to assert my own negative.

Help me, dear Miss Howe, to a little of your charming spirit; I never more wanted it.

The man, you may suppose, has no reason to boast of his progress with me. He has not the sense to say anything to the purpose. His courtship, indeed, is to them; and my brother pretends to court me as his proxy, truly!

•   •   •

February 25

I hate him more than before. One great estate is already obtained at the expense of the relations to it, though distant relations, my brother’s, I mean, by his godmother; and this has given the hope, however chimerical that hope, of procuring others, and that my own at least may revert to the family. And yet, in my opinion, the world is but one great family; originally it was so; what then is this narrow selfishness that reigns in us, but relationship remembered against relationship forgot?

But here, upon my absolute refusal of him upon any terms, have I had a signification made me that wounds me to the heart. How can I tell it you? Yet I must. It is, my dear, that I must not for a month to come or till licence obtained correspond with anybody out of the house.

How have I deserved this?

•   •   •

Feb. 25 in the evening

What my brother and sister have said against me I cannot tell. But I am in heavy disgrace with my papa.

I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very cheerful aspect, but had occasion soon to change it.

Such a solemnity in everybody’s countenance! My mamma’s eyes were fixed upon the tea-cups; and when she looked up it was heavily, as if her eyelids had weights upon them, and then not to me. My papa sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his head might be turned from me; his hands folded, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry to the very ends of them.

I took my seat. Shall I make tea, madam, to my mamma? I always used, you know, my dear, to make tea.

No! a very short sentence in one very short word was the expressive answer; and she was pleased to take the canister in her own hand.

My heart was up at my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself. What is to follow? thought I.

Just after the second dish out stepped my mamma. So I was left alone with my papa.

He looked so very sternly that my heart failed me, as twice or thrice I would have addressed myself to him; nothing but solemn silence on all hands having passed before.

At last, I asked, if it were his pleasure that I should pour him out another dish?

He answered me with the same angry monosyllable which I had received from my mamma before, and then arose and walked about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet, but was too much over-awed by his sternness even to make such an expression of my duty to him as my heart overflowed with.

At last, as he supported himself because of his gout on the back of a chair, I took a little more courage, and approaching him, besought him to acquaint me in what I had offended him?

He turned from me and, in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, said he, know that I will be obeyed.

God forbid, sir, that you should not! I have never yet opposed your will—

Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he. Don’t let me run the fate of all who show indulgence to your sex, to be the more contradicted for mine to you.

My papa, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a kind opinion of our sex, although there is not a more condescending wife in the world than my mamma.

I was going to make protestations of duty. No protestations, girl! No words. I will not be prated to! I will be obeyed! I have no child—I will have no child, but an obedient one.

Sir, you never had reason, I hope—

Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.

And I hope, sir—

Hope nothing. Tell me not of hopes, but of facts.