When I first read my cousin’s letter, I was half inclined to resume my former intention; especially as my countermanding letter was not taken away; and as my heart ached at the thoughts of the conflict I must expect to have with him on my refusal. For see him for a few moments I doubt I must, lest he should take some rash resolutions; especially as he has reason to expect I will see him. But here your words, that all punctilio is at an end the moment I am out of my father’s house, added to the still more cogent considerations of duty and reputation, determined me once more against the rash step. And it will be very hard (although no seasonable fainting, or wished-for fit, should stand my friend) if I cannot gain one month, or fortnight, or week. And I have still more hopes that I shall prevail for some delay, from my cousin’s intimation that the good Dr. Lewen refuses to give his assistance to their projects, if they have not my consent, and thinks me cruelly used: since, without taking notice that I am apprized of this, I can plead a scruple of conscience, and insist upon having that worthy divine’s opinion upon it: in which, enforced as I shall enforce it, my mother will surely second me: my aunt Hervey, and Mrs. Norton, will support her: the suspension must follow: and I can but get away afterwards.
But, if they will compel me: if they will give me no time: if nobody will be moved: if it be resolved that the ceremony should be read over my constrained hand—why then—Alas! What then!—I can but—But what? O my dear! this Solmes shall never have my vows I am resolved! and I will say nothing but no, as long as I shall be able to speak. And who will presume to look upon such an act of violence as a marriage?—It is impossible, surely, that a father and mother can see such a dreadful compulsion offered to their child—but if mine should withdraw, and leave the task to my brother and sister, they will have no mercy.
I am grieved to be driven to have recourse to the following artifices.
I have given them a clue, by the feather of a pen sticking out, where they will find such of my hidden stories, as I intend they shall find.
Two or three little essays I have left easy to be seen, of my own writing.
About a dozen lines also of a letter begun to you, in which I express my hopes, (although I say that appearances are against me,) and that my friends will relent. They know from your mother, by my uncle Antony, that, some how or other, I now and then get a letter to you. In this piece of a letter I declare renewedly my firm resolution to give up the man so obnoxious to my family, on their releasing me from the address of the other.
Near the essays, I have left the copy of my letter to Lady Drayton;* which affording arguments suitable to my case, may chance (thus accidentally to be fallen upon) to incline them to favour me.
I have reserves of pens and ink, you may believe; and one or two in the ivy summer-house; with which I shall amuse myself, in order to lighten, if possible, those apprehensions which more and more affect me, as Wednesday, the day of trial, approaches.
I've been sort of tracking "truth" and "artifice" through this volume. Clarissa seems really sly here, creating "clues" that lead to a reading of her that is more favorable. I get that this is kind of a last resort, but it raises a couple of questions for me. Clearly Clarissa is able to exercise the kind of "cunning" she so deplores in her brother. But, given her facility with this kind of thing, why, oh why doesn't she see through Lovelace's similar tactics?Given that she's willing to dissemble (I know she's pushed pretty far here), can she still argue for some kind of moral superiority to him?
Lots of important issues here. Clarissa indeed is often "cunning"–but of course, unlike her brother, the necessity of it has been forced upon her by her family's actions (so it's a good thing she can muster it). What strikes me even more in the portions Steve has quoted is her completely unreasonable wavering–the silly idea that her family will surely relent in the case of her final refusals, or grant her more time, or and or and or. But then when she imagines forced wedlock with Solmes, she expresses her genuine dilemma–"what then!–I can but–but what?" This kind of real confusion (she is after all young, inexperienced, and in a terrible situation) continues up to the moment of her escape (and–spoiler alert–even after). And, of course, humanizes her more for us.
I think this letter contrasts Clarissa to Lovelace. He is cunning and clever by default, and while Clarissa has been pushed to become so, she is able to do it naturally. Could you really argue moral superiority though? I mean Clarissa has become cunning and clever like Lovelace but in a manner of self-preservation and to maintain some agency and control in her life. Lovelace is using his sly and cunning to eventually hurt people while Clarissa is doing it as a form of self-defense. One could also point out the fact that Clarissa also cleverly wrote those Lady Drayton letters under the guise of an older and wiser woman. So do white lies, such as the Lady Drayton letters, constitute less of a moral superiority in Clarissa or do they show her as a genuinely moral person who is trying to help others be moral? I still think that Clarissa can claim to be at least a bit more morally superior to Lovelace.
I agree that Clarissa's wavering is "unreasonable" in the sense that she's grasping at straws hoping her family will put it off a few more days. (Though one could argue that she is still waiting for her cousin Mordren to arrive). But people are "unreasonable" when faced with life or death decisions (and surely that's what this is to Clarissa). How does one decide between two terrible alternatives? It is not unusual for people to choose the known or familiar abuse rather than the unknown, potentially better (or potentially worse) choice.
I would like to add a quick comment here that it does seem that this excerpt demonstrates Clarissa attempting to gain control of her life, as Kendra notes. Like Debra mentioned, Clarissa must make a difficult decision, and the “wavering” while seemingly unreasonable, makes Clarissa seem more **human**, I think. So often throughout the novel, Clarissa is placed in a high pedestal position where she and what she represents seem virtually unattainable, but here, she is **relatable** – I think it is important to recognize that.
Keri, that seems like such an important point. In my reading of the book, Clarissa is constructed as “unnatural,” “unreal,” angelic, etc. This is how others describe her, and how, at times, she comes across to us as readers in her own letters – she is at least unusually virtuous. I had not taken up the idea of how *relatable* she is though. How do we reconcile this – Clarissa as angelic and unreal, Clarissa as relatable, like “us”?
I also think this speaks to the role of writing here. It steadily documents a perspective that shatters this sense of Clarissa as unreal. We have an “inside look” at her, can reflect on her justifications for not wanting to marry Solmes or Lovelace, and ultimately to feel that we “understand” her on some level. Such an interesting push-and-pull.