I will not bear thy heavy preachments, Belford, upon this affecting letter. So, not a word of that sort! The paper, thou’lt see, is blistered with the tears even of the hardened transcriber; which has made her ink run here and there.
Mrs. Sinclair is a true heroine, and, I think, shames us all. And she is a woman too! Thou’lt say, the beset things corrupted become the worst. But this is certain, that whatever the sex set their hearts upon, they make thorough work of it. And hence it is, that a mischief which would end in simple robbery among men rogues, becomes murder, if a woman be in it.
I know thou wilt blame me for having had recourse to art. But do not physicians prescribe opiates in acute cases, where the violence of the disorder would be apt to throw the patient into a fever or delirium? I aver, that my motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be any thing else. For a rape, thou knowest, to us rakes, is far from being an undesirable thing. Nothing but the law stands in our way, upon that account; and the opinion of what a modest woman will suffer rather than become a viva voce accuser, lessens much an honest fellow’s apprehensions on that score. Then, if these somnivolencies [I hate the word opiates on this occasion,] have turned her head, that is an effect they frequently have upon some constitutions; and in this case was rather the fault of the dose than the design of the giver.
But is not wine itself an opiate in degree?—How many women have been taken advantage of by wine, and other still more intoxicating viands?— Let me tell thee, Jack, that the experience of many of the passive sex, and the consciences of many more of the active, appealed to, will testify that thy Lovelace is not the worst of villains. Nor would I have thee put me upon clearing myself by comparisons.
If she escape a settled delirium when my plots unravel, I think it is all I ought to be concerned about. What therefore I desire of thee, is, that, if two constructions may be made of my actions, thou wilt afford me the most favourable. For this, not only friendship, but my own ingenuousness, which has furnished thee with the knowledge of the facts against which thou art so ready to inveigh, require of thee.
Lovelace already knows how appalled Belford is by the rape–what do you think he's trying to do in this letter?
I wondered this, too. A defensive reaction maybe. Sometimes in his letters to Belford, Lovelace isn't sure what he thinks or believes; but his word choice and tone in this letter make him sound assured and even stern. He writes, “I will not bear thy heavy preachments”… so he doesn't seem guided much by his emotions in this one (which usually make him confused and contradictory). Instead, he lays out several appeals to rationality, even if they do read as someone desperate to defend himself when obviously in the wrong: doctors prescribe medications to help patients cope with pain. Raping Clarissa, Lovelace knew, would cause her pain. “My motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be anything else.”
I disagree with Lovelace there. He was determined to have Clarissa, as the past several hundred pages show. We recognize that a merciful act would have been not to rape her at all (or keep her in a house against her will, or kidnap her, or pursue her, and on and on).
Dead right, I think. First, the stunning, utterly blind claim (a lie, I think) that “mercy” was his motive for drugging Clarissa–even while reminding Belford “For a rape, thou knowest, to us rakes is far from being an undesirable thing.” These specious comparisons to the work of doctors, or the effects of wine, are just more of his self-admired “wit.” And then to end by telling Belford to take the most “favorable” construction of his actions–for the sake of friendship AND in admiration of his own “ingenuity” (interesting typo in the Gutenberg version, yes?).
Yes, as you both noted, Lovelace certainly recognizes what Belford's reaction will be, as Belford has already demonstrated his disgust with Lovelace on numerous occasions now, which is why I still cannot wrap my head around this “friendship,” as he calls it. As the question for this excerpt suggests, it is really difficult to determine what Lovelace's motives for writing to Belford are. It is still astonishing to me that earlier in the novel Lovelace compared his friendship with Belford to Clarissa and Anna's, but perhaps that was just part of another of his schemes.
As Jessica notes, it could be a defensive reaction. He feels compelled to write to someone to justify his actions, but why he feels he needs this justification, I'm still not sure. His attempts at doing so, though, as Tony notes here, are extremely weak, as his “evidence” is very fallacious.
All that to say — Lovelace, you're just too confusing for me, sir.
I think Lovelace's claim that the drugs were for “mercy” is as ridiculous as almost everything else he has said. He knows that he drugged her because it was the only way to get to her body. But of course he is going to to wave excuses. He has been doing it throughout the novel. At this point, I think it's hard to say exactly when Lovelace “lies” and when he tells the “truth,” because they wave in and out in completely incoherent ways. So why does he write Belford, who he KNOWs will not agree with him and who he KNOWS will not accept the drugs as mercy theory? Because he cannot not write. The episode (like the whole adventure) means NOTHING if he does not write about it. As I said earlier, what would be the point of all this he didn't have someone to write to about the whole thing? Belford (the actual person) has become almost unnecessary at this point. Lovelace's letters are less rhetorical (he must be aware he will not convince Belford) than expressive. I think this is his own “stream-of-consciousness.”
Here's a really choice point–that everything Lovelace writes is a stream of consciousness textuality. The nice point about this is that it makes everything he does (textually, not sexually) make sense. And then it makes every excuse for his sexual behavior also “make sense” (not morally)–it's the source of his corrupted textuality.
I am spinning from trying to understand all this!
I know it feels awful to think/say, but I'm going to put it in writing anyway: this particular volume of the book, so far, has been AMAZING for various remarkable and astounding reasons. SO rich and complex–many of the same tropes, moves, excuses, yes, but weaving together in moments of particularly fascinating textuality.
I agree Rachel. This volume is the dark heart of the book. Everything before leads up to this, and everything after leads away. This is where the novel becomes a work of extraordinary depth, complexity, and (utter) originality
I think the drugging has another important component that Lovelace doesn't address here, but becomes important later. Drugging Clarissa means that he didn't “really” overcome her in the ways that he finds important. In other words, to paraphrase what he says later on, drugging her avoids the possibility that she might, on any level, consent to what's happening with the rape. That consent would, for Lovelace, be the end of “testing” her honor. By drugging her, he gets both to rape her and then entertain the possibility of marrying her later; the challenge of gaining her actual consent remains.