Let me alone, you great dog, you!—let me alone!—have I heard a lesser boy, his coward arms held over his head and face, say to a bigger, who was pommeling him, for having run away with his apple, his orange, or his ginger-bread.
So say I to thee, on occasion of thy severity to thy poor friend, who, as thou ownest, has furnished thee (ungenerous as thou art!) with the weapons thou brandishest so fearfully against him.—And to what purpose, when the mischief is done? when, of consequence, the affair is irretrievable? and when a CLARISSA could not move me?
Well, but, after all, I must own, that there is something very singular in this lady’s case: and, at times, I cannot help regretting that ever I attempted her; since not one power either of body or soul could be moved in my favour; and since, to use the expression of the philosopher, on a much graver occasion, there is no difference to be found between the skull of King Philip and that of another man.
But people’s extravagant notions of things alter not facts, Belford: and, when all’s done, Miss Clarissa Harlowe has but run the fate of a thousand others of her sex—only that they did not set such a romantic value upon what they call their honour; that’s all.
And here is Lovelace after the rape–and the same questions: what do you make of his state of mind here, and what is revealed of his nature in general?
Lovelace seems to be a bit let down by the whole experience. He even refers to the whole ordeal as something no more than a schoolyard scuffle with a meaningless item being stolen. I think we see in this letter that he lacks real empathy. Look at how he refers to Clarissa, he just calls her “a CLARISSA” as if she is nothing more than an apple, orange, or ginger-bread that has been stolen. In previous letters he talks about feelings and so on, but it seems to be nothing more than an act. After all, we know how intelligent Lovelace is and his love of drama, so we know he is aware of how to “act” in the presence of others. As for his state mind, Lovelace just appears calm and dejected. This letter seems lacks his normal jovial taunts and word play. You can also see this disappointment he seems to have when he notes that Clarissa “has but run the fate of a thousand others of her sex” and that the results were essentially the same.
I agree with you Kendra, but I'm just glad that we're at least getting some regret for the actions he has taken. At least, he writes, “I own that I have done wrong, great wrong, to this admirable creature.” Not that acknowledging being in the wrong is even remotely enough to make up for all that he has put her through so far.
I thought the discussion of virtue was interesting here. Toward the beginning of the letter, Lovelace writes, “Miss Clarissa Harlowe has but run the fate of a thousand others of her sex–only that they did not set such a romantic value upon what they call their honour; that's all.” He's back to showing how little he actually cares for her here, implying that she would be fine if she hadn't placed so much regard on her “honour.” Of course, isn't that why he admired her in the first place?
And Lovelace ends the letter with “But what shall I do with this admirable creature the while?–Hange me, if I know!” I think Lovelace is mostly referring to Clarissa's overt grief about the situation as he goes on to discuss how she is “destitute of will” and “stupefied” by grief, but there is also a sense of his not knowing what to do with her now that he has raped her, taking away her virtue, what could be considered her best quality.
I noticed Lovelace's expression of regret as well–but note how he can't say this directly, needing first to say that “if a person sets a high value upon anything . . .the robbing of that person of it is not a trifle to him.” This allows him to frame his “regret” (which to me seems merely formulaic” with the killing introductory phrase “Take the matter in this light, I own I have done wrong . . .” Then of course he goes on to celebrate the fact that he is now on the high road to “cohabitation” (“ever my darling view”) and not marriage. And yet another “test” for Clarissa–“whether she cannot be brought to make the best of an irreparable evil.” He is relentless.
I really like this comment, Kendra. I also noted that he seems let-down and, as others below have noted, a little remorseful. I think part of his lack of enthusiasm stems from the fact that his game is over. I still can't quite convince myself that he is actually saddened by the results of his relationship with Clarissa, or that he even really cares about what this triumph says about “all of the sex.” For me to make sense of this letter, I have to think of his disappointment in terms of his master scheme having come to an end. He might also be disappointed by the way he chose to rape her. She obviously was not really in the position to resist his attempts, which I think certainly took away part of the challenge that Lovelace has mentioned (and obsessed over) several times in his letters to Belford.
Also, a brief side note: I find it interesting that he uses her actual name more often after the rape has occurred. As you noted here, he calls her “a CLARISSA,” which is certainly objectifying, as you said. At the end of this excerpt, though, he does call her “Miss Clarissa Harlowe.” He also called her by name in the letter to Belford when he informs of the rape, claiming that “Clarissa lives.” I'm not sure what to make of this shift, but I think it is interesting given the point in the novel that it occurs.
I think Lovelace has elsewhere (I can't find the place) compared his conscience to a dog. The image of being pummeled by his conscience or Belford (his surrogate for a conscience) or a dog is very different from the way Lovelace usually describes himself. So, for a moment, I think we get a sense of how overwhelmed he is with what he has done. But then, presto-chango, we are back to the horrific rake: “to use the expression of the philosopher, on a much graver occasion, there is no difference to be found between the skull of King Philip and that of another man.” I take this to mean there was nothing remarkable about Clarissa's bod, and she could have been replaced by anyone.
I think that it is difficult for us to construct a consistent psychological account of Lovelace because we have no real access to his interiority. He is never not performring.
I think Debra raises a question here that I haven't really thought about, but which is absolutely crucial to the novel: do we ever, really, meaningfully get access to Lovelace's interiority? If the answer is yes (and how do we justify that “yes” textually?), if the answer is no (and what makes us say “no”?)–what can we make of every letter he has written? And, of course, what can we make of the novel and of Richardson's creation of the novel?
It strikes me as really interesting that Turner argues historically and Eagleton argues psychoanalyticaly that Lovelace lacks a real self. That he is empty at the core. I guess this is why some of us in the seminar have described Lovelace as a psychopath.
I wonder if Richardson has created two versions of Lovelace. One is a novelistic character whose motives we can speculate on. The other is a weirdly prescient anticipation of the postmodern “decentered self.” That they come together in an epistolary novel blows my mind.
So many good points to respond to here!
First, to Megan's point/quote: “At least, he writes, 'I own that I have done wrong, great wrong, to this admirable creature.'” I agree that he seems to be–at last!–finally repentant. Yet I see what others are commenting on, too, that he distances himself so much from his seeming regret, and then backs away from it entirely, as Debra noted, “presto-chango.”
My question about his interiority is one I can't answer: how differently would he be telling this story if his plan had “succeeded,” at least on some level? Because his regret here seems dependent on two understandings: 1) he recognizes Clarissa is not going to concede to him physically (and we see her, in fact, making 4 times as many escape attempts in this first section of Volume 6 alone); and 2) he does not feel the triumph of conquest as expected.
He is, as Debra mentioned, never not performing–but I think his “real self,” if he has one, is simply here a petulant child who has done something unspeakably awful and is mourning not the act, but the failure to anticipate an accurate response in others that could have reinforced his own egotism and prescience (finally, ONE thing in the novel he didn't predict!).
In essence, he got what he said he wanted–but it didn't turn out to be what he wanted.
I agree, Rachel. He didn't seem to get what he wanted, and we can see this in his comment that, “[a] CLARISSA could not move [him]” (I agree with Kendra's thoughts on his objectifying Clarissa here–referring to a woman as “an” ___insert name here___is so gross and rakey).
What is it that he really wants, though? What would be his ideal outcome here? Nothing seems to make him happy or satisfy him. He rapes Clarissa, but that was a let down. He could marry Clarissa, but then the chase that he loves so much would be over (though I suppose he would most likely chase another girl on the side). He could keep her around without marrying her, but that doesn't seem to satisfy him either. I think Tony's question about interiority is interesting considering these difficulties–do we ever really know what Lovelace wants, or do we just never have access to this because he is always performing? I don't think we'll ever be able to answer that question as readers.