I have another letter from Mr. Lovelace. I opened it with the expectation of its being filled with bold and free complaints, on my not writing to prevent his two nights watching, in weather not extremely agreeable. But, instead of complaints, he is ‘full of tender concern lest I may have been prevented by indisposition, or by the closer confinement which he has frequently cautioned me that I may expect.’
He says, ‘He had been in different disguises loitering about our garden and park wall, all the day on Sunday last; and all Sunday night was wandering about the coppice, and near the back door. It rained; and he has got a great cold, attended with feverishness, and so hoarse, that he has almost lost his voice.’
Why did he not flame out in his letter?—Treated as I am treated by my friends, it is dangerous to be laid under the sense of an obligation to an addresser’s patience; especially when such a one suffers in health for my sake.
‘He had no shelter, he says, but under the great overgrown ivy, which spreads wildly round the heads of two or three oaklings; and that was soon wet through.’
You remember the spot. You and I, my dear, once thought ourselves obliged to the natural shade which those ivy-covered oaklings afforded us, in a sultry day.
I can’t help saying, I am sorry he has suffered for my sake; but ’tis his own seeking.
His letter is dated last night at eight: ‘And, indisposed as he is, he tells me that he will watch till ten, in hopes of my giving him the meeting he so earnestly request. And after that, he has a mile to walk to his horse and servant; and four miles then to ride to his inn.’
He owns, ‘That he has an intelligencer in our family; who has failed him for a day or two past: and not knowing how I do, or how I may be treated, his anxiety is increased.’
This circumstance gives me to guess who this intelligencer is: Joseph Leman: the very creature employed and confided in, more than any other, by my brother.
This is not an honourable way of proceeding in Mr. Lovelace. Did he learn this infamous practice of corrupting the servants of other families at the French court, where he resided a good while?
I have been often jealous of this Leman in my little airings and poultry-visits. Doubly obsequious as he was always to me, I have thought him my brother’s spy upon me; and although he obliged me by his hastening out of the garden and poultry-yard, whenever I came into either, have wondered, that from his reports my liberties of those kinds have not been abridged.* So, possibly, this man may be bribed by both, yet betray both. Worthy views want not such obliquities as these on either side. An honest mind must rise into indignation both at the traitor-maker and the traitor.
Letter 62, in which I continue to track the idea that reputation and the way people "represent" themselves are suspect and the intense anxiety that's causing everywhere in the novel. I'm interested in how "intelligence" is used and what we're supposed to think about how anyone (not just Clarissa) can make informed judgments about anyone else.
This letter contains some interesting content because it shows Lovelace’s attempts to evoke Clarissa’s pity, but instead, she reacts with little sympathy and questions Lovelace’s honorableness even more: “This is not an honourable way of proceeding in Mr. Lovelace. Did he learn this infamous practice of corrupting the servants of other families at the French court, where he resided a good while?” Clarissa’s use of terms such as “infamous” and “corrupting” are very telling in her lack of sympathy for Lovelace’s attempts to gain “intelligence” of her well-being. Clarissa is more concerned with his artfulness here than interrogating his reasons for his disguise and “traitor-making.”
Clarissa sees through his feeble attempt to mitigate: I employed a traitor to make sure no harm was coming to you. Not only has Lovelace "invaded her space" (the dripping ivy was where Anna and Clarissa retreated when it was hot), he has basically bugged her home. This is among the first of the many ways in which Lovelace invades Clarissa's prvacy.
Like Keri, I see how Clarissa is showing little sympathy for Lovelace: "I can't help saying, I am sorry he has suffered for my sake; but 'tis his own seeking." As a cheerleader for Clarissa, for her relentless insistence on exercising agency over her life, I enjoy these comments so much. But then I'm reminded of what happens further down the line, which has become common knowledge in our class community. Does it matter now to cheer when Clarissa asserts herself, when our understanding of the novel is that Clarissa is doomed from the first letter? Perhaps this is a question about perspective: I know what happens to Clarissa, but Clarissa doesn't yet know what happens to Clarissa. I cheer when she calmly and assertively says, "No. I refuse to accept the reality you construct for me." But I'm also incredibly saddened that she is unaware of how ineffectual her efforts are.
In addition to invading her privacy, she feels like she has to act in particular ways because of how Lovelace might react. “But I think, my dear, there can be no harm in meeting him: if I do not, he may take some violent measures: what he knows of the treatment I meet with in malice to him, and with a view to frustrate all his hopes, may make him desperate” (63). He is guiding her actions simply through his continued presence in her life. She certainly doesn’t ever claim she needs to act in a certain way because of how Solmes might react. Clarissa only considers Lovelace’s possible reactions as a reason to act in a particular way (ie – meeting him, continuing to write). However, I wonder if she focuses on Lovelace’s possible actions because they seem innocuous. While connected to the Solmes marriage plot, the Lovelace ordeal seems harmless outside of the way that her family is against it. She certainly trusts that Lovelace believes he is acting in her benefit (even if going against her wishes). What harm does writing one more letter or seeing him one more time do? It’s possible that Clarissa only thinks it will annoy her family.