For I need not say how much I am,

Your sincere and ever-affectionate,

CL. HARLOWE

Letter 17: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

Determined and perverse, my dear mamma called me; and after walking twice or thrice in anger about the room, she turned to me. Your heart free! Clarissa! How can you tell me your heart is free? Such extraordinary antipathies to a particular person must be owing to extraordinary prepossessions in another’s favour! Tell me, Clary, and tell me truly—Do you not continue to correspond with Mr Lovelace?

Dearest madam, replied I, you know my motives; to prevent mischief, I answered his letters. The reason for our apprehensions of this sort are not over.

I see not, that the continuance of your correspondence with him either can, or ought to be permitted. I therefore now forbid it to you, as you value my favour.

Be pleased, madam, only to advise me how to break it off with safety to my brother and uncles; and it is all I wish for. But, madam, as my uncles and my brother will keep no measures—as he has heard what the view is; and as I have reason to think that he is only restrained by his regard for me from resenting their violent treatment of him and his family; what can I do? Would you have me, madam, make him desperate?

The law will protect us, child!

But, madam, may not some dreadful mischief first happen? The law asserts not itself till it is offended.

You have made offers, Clary. Are you really in earnest to break off all correspondence with Mr Lovelace? Let me know this.

Indeed, I am; and I will. You, madam, shall see every letter that has passed between us. You shall see I have given him no encouragement, independent of my duty. And when you have seen them you will be better able to direct me how, on that condition, to break entirely with him.

•   •   •

I take you at your word, Clarissa. Give me his letters; and the copies of yours.

I am sure, madam, you will keep the knowledge that I write, and what I write—

No conditions with your mamma. Surely my prudence may be trusted to.

I begged her pardon, and besought her to take the key of the private drawer in my escritoire where they lay, that she herself might see that I had no reserves to my mamma.

She did; and took all his letters, and the copies of mine, un-conditioned with; she was pleased to say, they shall be yours again, unseen by anybody else.

I thanked her; and she withdrew to read them, saying she would return them when she had.

•   •   •

In about an hour my mamma returned. Take your letters, Clary: I have nothing to task your discretion with, as to the wording of yours to him. You have even kept up a proper dignity, as well as decorum; and you have resented, as you ought to resent, his menacing invectives. But can you think from the avowed hatred of one side, and the avowed defiance of the other, that this can be a suitable match? Can you think it becomes you to encourage an address from a man who has fought a duel with your brother, let his fortune and professions be what they will?

By no means it can, madam; you will be pleased to observe that I have said as much to him. But now, madam, the whole correspondence is before you; and I beg your commands what to do in a situation so very disagreeable.

One thing I will tell you, Clary Harlowe: but I charge you, as you would not have me question the generosity of your spirit, to take no advantage of it, either mentally or verbally were the words: that I am so much pleased with the offer of your keys to me, in so cheerful and unreserved a manner, and in the prudence you have shown in your letters, that were it practicable to bring everyone, or your father only, into my opinion, I should readily leave all the rest to your discretion, reserving only to myself the direction or approbation of your future letters; and to see that you broke off the correspondence as soon as possible. But as it is not, and as I know your papa would have no patience with you, should it be acknowledged that you correspond with Mr Lovelace, or that you have corresponded with him since the time he prohibited you so to do, I forbid you continuing such a liberty. Yet, as the case is difficult, let me ask you, what you yourself can propose? Your heart, you say, is free. You own that you cannot think, as matters are circumstanced, that a match with a man so obnoxious as he now is to us all is proper to be thought of. What do you propose to do? What, Clary, are your own thoughts of the matter?

Without hesitation (for I saw I was upon a new trial) thus I answered. What I humbly propose is this: ‘That I will write to Mr Lovelace (for I have not answered his last) that he has nothing to do between my father and me: that I neither ask his advice, nor need it: but that since he thinks he has some pretence for interfering, because of my brother’s avowal of the interest of Mr Solmes in malice to him, I will assure him, without giving him any reason to impute the assurance to be in the least favourable to himself, that I never will be that man’s.’ And if, proceeded I, I may be permitted to give him this assurance; and Mr Solmes, in consequence of it, be discouraged from prosecuting his address; let Mr Lovelace be satisfied or dissatisfied, I will go no farther; nor write another line to him; nor ever see him more, if I can avoid it: and shall have a good excuse for it, without bringing in any of my family.

Ah! my love! But what shall we do about the terms Mr Solmes offers. Your brother, in short, has given in a plan that captivates us all; and a family so rich in all its branches that has its views to honour must be pleased to see a very great probability of being on a footing with the principal in the kingdom.

And for the sake of these views, for the sake of this plan of my brother’s, am I, madam, to be given in marriage to a man I never can endure! Oh my dear mamma, save me, save me, if you can, from this heavy evil! I had rather be buried alive, indeed I had, than have that man!

She chid me for my vehemence, but was so good as to tell me that she would venture to talk with my uncle Harlowe, and, if he encouraged her (or would engage to second her), with my papa; and I should hear further in the morning.

She went down to tea and kindly undertook to excuse my attendance at supper; and I immediately had recourse to my pen, to give you these particulars.

Letter 19: MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS HOWE

Sat. March 4, 12 o’clock

Hannah has just now brought me from the usual place your favour of yesterday. The contents of it have made me very thoughtful, and you will have an answer in my gravest style.

As to the article of giving up to my papa’s control the estate bequeathed me, my motives at the time, as you acknowledge, were not blameable. Your advice to me on the subject was grounded, as I remember, on your good opinion of me; believing that I should not make a bad use of the power willed me.

It is true, thought I, that I have formed agreeable schemes of making others as happy as myself by the proper discharge of the stewardship entrusted to me (are not all estates stewardships, my dear?). But let me examine myself: is not vanity or secret love of praise a principal motive with me at the bottom? Ought I not to suspect my own heart? If I set up for myself, puffed up with everyone’s good opinion, may I not be left to myself? Everyone’s eyes are upon the conduct, upon the visits, upon the visit-ors of a young creature of our sex made independent. And then, left to myself, should I take a wrong step though with ever so good an intention, how many should I have to triumph over me, how few to pity?—the more of the one, and the fewer of the other, for having aimed at excelling.

These were some of my reflections at the time: and I have no doubt but that in the same situation I should do the very same thing; and that upon the maturest deliberation. Who can command or foresee events? To act up to our best judgements at the time is all we can do. If I have erred, ‘tis to worldly wisdom only that I have erred. If we suffer by an act of duty, or even by an act of generosity, is it not pleasurable on reflection that the fault is in others, rather than in ourselves? I had rather, a vast deal, have reason to think others unkind, than that they should have any to think me undutiful.