I have been frighted out of my wits—still am in a manner out of breath—thus occasioned—I went down, under the usual pretence, in hopes to find something from you. Concerned at my disappointment, I was returning from the wood-house, when I heard a rustling as of somebody behind a stack of wood. I was extremely surprised: but still more, to behold a man coming from behind the furthermost stack. Oh! thought I, at that moment, the sin of a prohibited correspondence!
>In the same point of time that I saw him, he besought me not to be frighted: and, still nearer approaching me, threw open a horseman’s coat: And who should it be but Mr. Lovelace!—I could not scream out (yet attempted to scream, the moment I saw a man; and again, when I saw who it was); for I had no voice: and had I not caught hold of a prop which supported the old roof, I should have sunk.
I had hitherto, as you know, kept him at a distance: And now, as I recovered myself, judge of my first emotions, when I recollected his character from every mouth of my family; his enterprising temper; and found myself alone with him, in a place so near a bye-lane, and so remote from the house.
But his respectful behaviour soon dissipated these fears, and gave me others; lest we should be seen together, and information of it given to my brother: the consequences of which, I could readily think, would be, if not further mischief, an imputed assignation, a stricter confinement, a forfeited correspondence with you, my beloved friend, and a pretence for the most violent compulsion: and neither the one set of reflections, nor the other, acquitted him to me for his bold intrusion.
As soon therefore as I could speak, I expressed with the greatest warmth my displeasure; and told him, that he cared not how much he exposed me to the resentment of all my friends, provided he could gratify his own impetuous humour. I then commanded him to leave the place that moment; and was hurrying from him, when he threw himself in the way at my feet, beseeching my stay for one moment; declaring, that he suffered himself to be guilty of this rashness, as I thought it, to avoid one much greater:—for, in short, he could not bear the hourly insults he received from my family, with the thoughts of having so little interest in my favour, that he could not promise himself that his patience and forbearance would be attended with any other issue than to lose me for ever, and be triumphed over and insulted upon it.
This man, you know, has very ready knees. You have said, that he ought, in small points, frequently to offend, on purpose to shew what an address he is master of.
>He ran on, expressing his apprehensions that a temper so gentle and obliging, as he said mine was, to every body but him, (and a dutifulness so exemplary inclined me to do my part to others, whether they did theirs or not by me,) would be wrought upon in favour of a man set up in part to be revenged upon myself, for my grandfather’s envied distinction of me; and in part to be revenged upon him, for having given life to one, who would have taken his; and now sought to deprive him of hopes dearer to him than life.
I told him, he might be assured, that the severity and ill-usage I met with would be far from effecting the proposed end: that although I could, with great sincerity, declare for a single life (which had always been my choice); and particularly, that if ever I married, if they would not insist upon the man I had an aversion to, it should not be with the man they disliked—
He interrupted me here: He hoped I would forgive him for it; but he could not help expressing his great concern, that, after so many instances of his passionate and obsequious devotion—
And pray, Sir, said I, let me interrupt you in my turn;—Why don’t you assert, in still plainer words, the obligation you have laid me under by this your boasted devotion? Why don’t you let me know, in terms as high as your implication, that a perseverance I have not wished for, which has set all my relations at variance with me, is a merit that throws upon me the guilt of ingratitude for not having answered it as you seem to expect?
I must forgive him, he said, if he, who pretended only to a comparative merit, (and otherwise thought no man living could deserve me,) had presumed to hope for a greater share in my favour, than he had hitherto met with, when such men as Mr. Symmes, Mr. Wyerley, and now, lastly, so vile a reptile as this Solmes, however discouraged by myself, were made his competitors. As to the perseverance I mentioned, it was impossible for him not to persevere: but I must needs know, that were he not in being, the terms Solmes had proposed were such, as would have involved me in the same difficulties with my relations that I now laboured under. He therefore took the liberty to say, that my favour to him, far from increasing those difficulties, would be the readiest way to extricate me from them. They had made it impossible [he told me, with too much truth] to oblige them any way, but by sacrificing myself to Solmes. They were well apprized besides of the difference between the two; one, whom they hoped to manage as they pleased; the other, who could and would protect me from every insult; and who had natural prospects much superior to my brother’s foolish views of a title.
How comes this man to know so well all our foibles? But I more wonder, how he came to have a notion of meeting me in this place?
I was very uneasy to be gone; and the more as the night came on apace. But there was no getting from him, till I had heard a great deal more of what he had to say.
As he hoped, that I would one day make him the happiest man in the world, he assured me, that he had so much regard for my fame, that he would be as far from advising any step that was likely to cast a shade upon my reputation, (although that step was to be ever so much in his own favour,) as I would be to follow such advice. But since I was not to be permitted to live single, he would submit it to my consideration, whether I had any way but one to avoid the intended violence to my inclinations—my father so jealous of his authority: both my uncles in my father’s way of thinking: my cousin Morden at a distance: my uncle and aunt Hervey awed into insignificance, was his word: my brother and sister inflaming every one: Solmes’s offers captivating: Miss Howe’s mother rather of a party with them, for motives respecting example to her own daughter.
And then he asked me, if I would receive a letter from Lady Betty Lawrance, on this occasion: for Lady Sarah Sadleir, he said, having lately lost her only child, hardly looked into the world, or thought of it farther than to wish him married, and, preferably to all the women in the world, with me.
To be sure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man said—I may be allowed to say this, without an imputed glow or throb. But I told him nevertheless, that although I had great honour for the ladies he was related to, yet I should not choose to receive a letter on a subject that had a tendency to promote an end I was far from intending to promote: that it became me, ill as I was treated at present, to hope every thing, to bear every thing, and to try ever thing: when my father saw my steadfastness, and that I would die rather than have Mr. Solmes, he would perhaps recede—
Interrupting me, he represented the unlikelihood there was of that, from the courses they had entered upon; which he thus enumerated:—Their engaging Mrs. Howe against me, in the first place, as a person I might have thought to fly to, if pushed to desperation—my brother continually buzzing in my father’s ears, that my cousin Morden would soon arrive, and then would insist upon giving me possession of my grandfather’s estate, in pursuance of the will; which would render me independent of my father—their disgraceful confinement of me—their dismissing so suddenly my servant, and setting my sister’s over me—their engaging my mother, contrary to her own judgment, against me: these, he said, were all so many flagrant proofs that they would stick at nothing to carry their point; and were what made him inexpressibly uneasy.
He appealed to me, whether ever I knew my father recede from any resolution he had once fixed; especially, if he thought either his prerogative, or his authority concerned in the question. His acquaintance with our family, he said, enabled him to give several instances (but they would be too grating to me) of an arbitrariness that had few examples even in the families of princes: an arbitrariness, which the most excellent of women, my mother, too severely experienced. He was proceeding, as I thought, with reflections of this sort; and I angrily told him, I would not permit my father to be reflected upon; adding, that his severity to me, however unmerited, was not a warrant for me to dispense with my duty to him.
He had no pleasure, he said, in urging any thing that could be so construed; for, however well warranted he was to make such reflections from the provocations they were continually giving him, he knew how offensive to me any liberties of this sort would be. And yet he must own, that it was painful to him, who had youth and passions to be allowed for, as well as others, and who had always valued himself under speaking his mind, to curb himself, under such treatment. Nevertheless, his consideration for me would make him confine himself, in his observations, to facts that were too flagrant, and too openly avowed, to be disputed. It could not therefore justly displease, he would venture to say, if he made this natural inference from the premises, That if such were my father’s behaviour to a wife, who disputed not the imaginary prerogatives he was so unprecedently fond of asserting, what room had a daughter to hope, that he would depart from an authority he was so earnest, and so much more concerned, to maintain?—Family-interests at the same time engaging; an aversion, however causelessly conceived, stimulating my brother’s and sister’s resentments and selfish views cooperating; and my banishment from their presence depriving me of all personal plea or entreaty in my own favour.
How unhappy, my dear, that there is but too much reason for these observations, and for this inference; made, likewise, with more coolness and respect to my family than one would have apprehended from a man so much provoked, and of passions so high, and generally thought uncontroulable!
Will you not question me about throbs and glows, if from such instances of a command over his fiery temper, for my sake, I am ready to infer, that were my friends capable of a reconciliation with him, he might be affected by arguments apparently calculated for his present and future good! Nor is it a very bad indication, that he has such moderate notions of that very high prerogative in husbands, of which we in our family have been accustomed to hear so much.
…
A strange man barges into your woodhouse at night and you decide…he might not be that bad? What changes Clarissa's mind in this letter? I'm not sure I get it.
Reading this letter made me nervous. I see the themes of agency and consent gradually building now. Lovelace points out to her that she has no options but to marry Solmes or seek protection with him. He is relentlessly creepy in his insistence that Clarissa just MUST be with him because *he* wants her (that's perhaps the definition of someone who does not respect boundaries). Then Clarissa awesomely interrupts his boundary-crossing to point out that she doesn't have an obligation to him simply because he is "devoted" to her. She reminds him that he pursues her with "a perseverance [she has] not wished for," and that he frames her refusal as "ingratitude." I see Clarissa using discourse to reassert her agency – though I'm not sure she really has it. Her discourse assumes that she believes she's still in control over what happens between her and Lovelace.What so disturbs me about this letter is that Lovelace is masterful at rhetorically framing himself as a hurt party whose pain could be alleviated if only the object of his desire would just go along with what he wants. And Clarissa is so good at seeing and articulating the underlying bias of Lovelace's construction of reality, even though she's persuaded on some level that he is "suffering." It's disappointing that Clarissa's rhetoric – her relentless, airtight reasoning – appears to have an unintended effect on Lovelace. Instead of backing off, he puts his emoting in overdrive. Lovelace is the one who makes gains in this encounter: Clarissa agrees to keep writing to him even though she doesn't want to.
Absolutely! I'm going to try to pick up on Jessica's point, in my answer to Stephen's question.Jessica writes, “Clarissa is so good at seeing and articulating the underlying bias of Lovelace's construction of reality, even though she's persuaded on some level that he is "suffering." I think this is a great point to make about Clarissa because, while Lovelace and her family and even Anna elevate her to angelic status, this vulnerability makes Clarissa, to me (to us?), quite human.Clarissa has a weakness for Lovelace—is it her Puritan optimism that there is redemption for every rake? I’m not sure. Because I also think that Clarissa likes Lovelace with her mind and reasoning just as much as her soul and hope for redemption.Debra bolded these moments where Clarissa identifies her preferences for Lovelace:“This man, you know, has very ready knees.”Does Clarissa here see Lovelace as truly penitent? Or does she see him as willing to pretend, which might one day transform pretense into true belief? If she thinks he is willing to admit wrong—he might be perfect for her!“How comes this man to know so well all our foibles?”This seems like a recognition of Lovelace’s wisdom, knowledge, experience, etc. I think Clarissa frequently admits that Lovelace is a much-experienced man of the world. Here, she might be giving him some credit, not holding it against him?“To be sure, my dear, there is a great deal in what the man said—I may be allowed to say this, without an imputed glow or throb.”(There’s the glow & throb!)I think this is the primary reason Clarissa, though she “doth protest too much,” seems open still to Lovelace’s advances: she finds him reasonable.And isn’t that one of the things we said she doesn’t find in Solmes? He seems unreasonable, stupidly persistent despite her obvious loathing of him, quite dull, illiterate, and non-sensical.I don’t think Clarissa is unconcerned about physical appearance, but I do think here (I would make the argument that) Clarissa is attracted to Lovelace’s mind.
I loved reading your comments, Jessica and Rachel! I, like you, was very drawn to this letter because, well, it was rather thrilling getting to see Clarissa have a face-to-face interaction with Lovelace. As Jessica noted, this scenario makes the reader nervous, and rightfully so. Lovelace, as you both noted, has a reasonable mind that attracts Clarissa and makes her more vulnerable to his advances.That said, I think that Clarissa is aware of her vulnerability to him. She tries to maintain an agency and approach Lovelace with authority, but she also shows concern that she has let her correspondence with him go on for too long. For instance, in reference to their letters, she writes, "I then assured him, that it was with *infinite concern*, that I had found myself drawn into an epistolary correspondence with him…" (emphasis mine). And of course, she mentions several times that she feels frightened ("The man's vehemence frightened me") or threatened, but Lovelace continues to convince her with his performance as her wounded suitor. All that to say, I think I am as confused as Clarissa is. I still can't quite get a handle on her agency here. She seems very aware of Lovelace's powerful mind and appreciates his ability to reason, and she also stands up to him at times letting him know that she wishes to marry no one. But she also submits to him because she feels a bit threatened and also sympathetic to him due to the hardships he has endured in trying to maintain correspondence with her.
Keri hits one of the real satisfactions of encountering this letter–the chance to see Clarissa and Lovelace face-to-face, and to see them "trade" language so vividly. She asserts herself against Lovelace as strongly as against her family, but with more of a belief that she has a receptive audience here–even to her criticisms. And of course, so early in the novel, we can still have some hopeful expectations about Lovelace, despite his reputation. (Though I think after the "Rosebud" letter, he reveals a good deal of the evils he has committed in the past, and may very well remain capable of.)
Clarissa obviously knows Lovelace is not all he seems, after all she points out his "very ready knees." If she knows his postulations of devotion and love are suspect why does she let herself be drawn to him? His "respectful behavior" dissipates her fears of being alone with him and as mentioned above, she is able to vividly trade language with him. What is curious is that Clarissa is suspicious of him but despite herself and her attraction to his mind asks Anna "do you really think Mr Lovelace can have a very bad heart?" She recognizes his intelligence but wonders if his heart is true? Then again Clarissa does not seem to have a choice in whether she really likes him or not. Solmes is not intellectually stimulating or physically attractive to Clarissa. Lovelace is the only one presenting her with a possible escape from what she is dealing with — plus he is intelligent and not so bad looking. I feel like this letter shows that there is no other course for Clarissa to take but to accept Lovelace's affection and help.