Io Triumphe!—Io Clarissa, sing!—Once more, what a happy man thy friend!—A silly dear novice, to be heard to tell the coachman where to carry her!—And to go to Hampstead, of all the villages about London!— The place where we had been together more than once!
Methinks I am sorry she managed no better!—I shall find the recovery of her too easy a task, I fear! Had she but known how much difficulty enhances the value of any thing with me, and had she the least notion of obliging me by it, she would never have stopped short at Hampstead, surely.
Well, but after all this exultation, thou wilt ask, If I have already got back my charmer?—I have not;—But knowing where she is, is almost the same thing as having her in my power. And it delights me to think how she will start and tremble when I first pop upon her! How she will look with conscious guilt, that will more than wipe off my guilt of Wednesday night, when she sees her injured lover, and acknowledged husband, from whom, the greatest of felonies, she would have stolen herself. […]
Now, Belford, what canst thou say in behalf of this sweet rogue of a lady? What canst thou say for her? ‘Tis apparent, that she was fully determined upon an elopement when she wrote it. And thus would she make me of party against myself, by drawing me in to give her a week’s time to complete it. And, more wicked still, send me upon a fool’s errand to bring up one of my cousins.—When we came to have the satisfaction of finding her gone off, and me exposed for ever!—What punishment can be bad enough for such a little villain of a lady? […]
Suffice it at present to tell thee, in the first place, that she is determined never to be my wife.—To be sure there ought to be no compulsion in so material a case. Compulsion was her parents’ fault, which I have censured so severely, that I shall hardly be guilty of the same. I am therefore glad I know her mind as to this essential point.
I have ruined her! she says.—Now that’s a fib, take it her own way—if I had, she would not, perhaps, have run away from me.
She is thrown upon the wide world! Now I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects; but ’tis not the wide world neither. And suppose that to be her grievance, I hope soon to restore her to a narrower.
I am the enemy of her soul, as well as of her honour!—Confoundedly severe! Nevertheless, another fib!—For I love her soul very well; but think no more of it in this case than of my own.
She is to be thrown upon strangers!—And is not that her own fault?—Much against my will, I am sure!
She is cast from a state of independency into one of obligation. She never was in a state of independency; nor is it fit a woman should, of any age, or in any state of life. And as to the state of obligation, there is no such thing as living without being beholden to somebody. Mutual obligation is the very essence and soul of the social and commercial life:—Why should she be exempt from it? I am sure the person she raves at desires not such an exemption; has been long dependent upon her; and would rejoice to owe further obligations to her than he can boast of hitherto.
She talks of her father’s curse!—But have I not repaid him for it an hundred fold in the same coin? But why must the faults of other people be laid at my door? Have I not enow of my own?
But the grey-eyed dawn begins to peep—let me sum up all.
In short, then, the dear creature’s letter is a collection of invectives not very new to me: though the occasion for them, no doubt is new to her. A little sprinkling of the romantic and contradictory runs through it. She loves, and she hates; she encourages me to pursue her, by telling me I safely may; and yet she begs I will not. She apprehends poverty and want, yet resolves to give away her estate; To gratify whom?—Why, in short, those who have been the cause of her misfortunes. And finally, though she resolves never to be mine, yet she has some regrets at leaving me, because of the opening prospects of a reconciliation with her friends.
But never did morning dawn so tardily as this!—Neither is the chariot yet come.
Take into consideration Lovelace's comment: "She is cast from a state of independency into one of obligation. She never was in a state of independency; nor is it fit a woman should, of any age, or in any state of life." Sexual politics at play in the novel have been mentioned previously in class and in the comments. Obviously the morals and lessons in the novel are not so transparent. Is it possible that Lovelace's comments in this letter are serving some didactic purpose? Or is it a commentary on the sexual politics of the eighteenth century?
What Lovelace says about the proper dependent place of women I find interesting because its NOT just an expression of some kind of rake's creed, but of the depressingly conventional patriarchal ethos of the society that he and Clarissa live within. Of course, it sounds even worse (happily) coming from him, given that he completely accepts the patriarchy but not his society's laws–and that makes him even more dangerous to any woman who is in a dependent relationship to him.A question for other commenters: is anybody else beginning to find his flippant tone a bit tiresome? ("It delights me to think how she will start and tremble, when I first pop upon her!" "A silly dear novice to tell the coachman whither to carry her!" etc., etc.)
I agree that his tone becomes increasingly tiresome, as does the length of some of the letters in this section. But I think he is trying to do in language what he can't do in reality–which is to contain her. I am really struck by the dialogic nature of this letter. From the original invocation of triumph (and its association with classical texts) used satirically to demeaning flippancy to his rehearing of her voice with his own meanings glossed (e.g.,",She is thrown upon the wide world! Now I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects; but 'tis not the wide world neither.") This parody of her (and the ideology of virtue and chastity that she embodies) is ultimately defeating. But I do think it is significant that he is so invested, at this point, in reducing her to his level in his writing (something he is never able to do in his actions).
"I have ruined her! she says. — Now that's a fib, take it her own way — if I had, she would not, perhaps, have run away from me." This is another passage bound up with multiple interpretations. Some ways I read this: 1. Lovelace's continued denial of Clarissa's human pain and suffering2. Lovelace mocking Clarissa ("now that's a fib") by taking her literally, ie., literally ruined3. Lovelace acknowledging that Clarissa has a spirit, something that makes her human – the urge to run from danger, which she does4. So, this passage could also indicate Lovelace's desire to "ruin her" (as a way of completely "breaking" her as a person) to suit his wishesSome of these are contradictory…are they all there? Perhaps I've progressed through the layers, because the last seems most plausible. That is, Clarissa running away is evidence to him that he has not been able to sufficiently control her, which is probably obvious to us (to Lovelace, if she was really "ruined," she wouldn't run away, let alone articulate to him, "you have ruined me"). I think he wants her completely "ruined" in the sense that she stops thinking of escape and is completely dependent on him. We've been arguing to some extent that she is dependent on him (when we look on her situation as outsiders, especially with the benefit of knowing Lovelace's "designs"), but Clarissa is reluctant to believe this.
Kendra – I had a very similar thought when I read that line. We have talked so much about agency in this novel and how we think Anna and Clarissa represent a new type of young woman who wants to take more control of her marital destiny, but this, unfortunately, is the truth of the time period. Women aren't independent, and they won't be for a while. In addition, I really liked the next line — "there is no such thing as living with being beholden to somebody" (L231). As much as I'd like to paint Lovelace as completely crazy and misunderstanding of social norms, I thought this was a really nice sort of universal truth. I don't think he means it in the way that I want to (upholding the importance of relationships between people and how you are always connected to others), but it's a very true sentiment whether you think about it optimistically or pessimistically (which I'm guess Lovelace is doing — thinking more about being in actual debt to others throughout one's life).
“I shall find the recovery of her too easy a task, I fear! Had she but known how much difficulty enhances the value of any thing with me, and had she the least notion of obliging me by it, she would never have stopped short at Hampstead, surely.”
I have noted several places in the novel where Lovelace uses the term “fear,” sometimes wondering if Lovelace is, in fact, fearful of Clarissa because she challenges him with her ability to write and also her ability to see through his many schemes and performances. This particular reference to fear, however, seems to instead suggest Lovelace fears that he has mastered his game too quickly and too easily. Prior to this scene, though, Lovelace did not necessarily appear to enjoy the seemingly difficult task that Clarissa’s disappearance posed for him, but when he discovers her whereabouts so quickly, he laments that she has taken the fun out of the game by eliminating the element of mystery.
At least she gives him the opportunity to play dress-up yet again, though. I suppose there’s some fun for him in that.