What pain, my dearest friend, does your kind solicitude for my welfare give me! How much more binding and tender are the ties of pure friendship, and the union of like minds, than the ties of nature! Well might the sweet-singer of Israel, when he was carrying to the utmost extent the praises of the friendship between him and his beloved friend, say, that the love of Jonathan to him was wonderful; that it surpassed the love of women! What an exalted idea does it give of the soul of Jonathan, sweetly attempered for the sacred band, if we may suppose it but equal to that of my Anna Howe for her fallen Clarissa?—But, although I can glory in your kind love for me, think, my dear, what concern must fill a mind, not ungenerous, when the obligation lies all on one side. And when, at the same time that your light is the brighter for my darkness, I must give pain to a dear friend, to whom I delighted to give pleasure; and not pain only, but discredit, for supporting my blighted fame against the busy tongues of uncharitable censures!
This is that makes me, in the words of my admired exclaimer, very little altered, often repeat: ‘Oh! that I were as in months past! as in the days when God preserved me! when his candle shined upon my head, and when by his light I walked through darkness! As I was in the days of my childhood—when the Almighty was yet with me: when I was in my father’s house: when I washed my steps with butter, and the rock poured me out rivers of oil.’
You set before me your reasons, enforced by the opinion of your honoured mother, why I should think of Mr. Lovelace for a husband.
I must abide by what I have already declared—and that is, [don’t be angry at me, my best friend,] that I have much more pleasure in thinking of death, than of such a husband. In short, as I declared in my last, that I cannot [forgive me, if I say, I will not] ever be his.
‘But you will expect my reasons; I know you will: and if I give them not, will conclude me either obstinate, or implacable, or both: and those would be sad imputations, if just, to be laid to the charge of a person who thinks and talks of dying. And yet, to say that resentment and disappointment have no part in my determination, would be saying a thing hardly to be credited. For I own I have resentment, strong resentment, but not unreasonable ones, as you will be convinced, if already you are not so, when you know all my story—if ever you do know it—for I begin to fear (so many things more necessary to be thought of than either this man, or my own vindication, have I to do) that I shall not have time to compass what I have intended, and, in a manner, promised you. . . .
‘I once indeed hoped, little thinking him so premeditatedly vile a man, that I might have the happiness to reclaim him: I vainly believed that he loved me well enough to suffer my advice for his good, and the example I humbly presumed I should be enabled to set him, to have weight with him; and the rather, as he had no mean opinion of my morals and understanding: But now what hope is there left for this my prime hope?—Were I to marry him, what a figure should I make, preaching virtue and morality to a man whom I had trusted with opportunities to seduce me from all my own duties!—And then, supposing I were to have children by such a husband, must it not, think you, cut a thoughtful person to the heart; to look round upon her little family, and think she had given them a father destined, without a miracle, to perdition; and whose immoralities, propagated among them by his vile example, might, too probably, bring down a curse upon them? And, after all, who knows but that my own sinful compliances with a man, who might think himself entitled to my obedience, might taint my own morals, and make me, instead of a reformer, an imitator of him?—For who can touch pitch, and not be defiled?
‘The single life, at such times, has offered to me, as the life, the only life, to be chosen. But in that, must I not now sit brooding over my past afflictions, and mourning my faults till the hour of my release? And would not every one be able to assign the reason why Clarissa Harlowe chose solitude, and to sequester herself from the world? Would not the look of every creature, who beheld me, appear as a reproach to me? And would not my conscious eye confess my fault, whether the eyes of others accused me or not? One of my delights was, to enter the cots of my poor neighbours, to leave lessons to the boys, and cautions to the elder girls: and how should I be able, unconscious, and without pain, to say to the latter, fly the delusions of men, who had been supposed to have run away with one?
Clarissa is still resisting Anna's advice to marry Lovelace, but her reasoning here is different even than when she discussed marriage previously in this volume. What do you see in this letter that points to Clarissa's changing identity? And her current feelings for Lovelace?
I think Clarissa is using as many arguments as she can think of that might be more effective or successful in convincing her 18th century audience–her immediate audience of Anna and Richardson's wider audience of readers, too.
She writes: “to look round upon her little family, and think she had given them a father destined, without a miracle, to perdition.” A strong case for a family's moral center/values. But I still doubt that Clarissa has ever thought of actually being a mother, of having her inviolate body wrenched in multiple ways (sex and childbirth).
Then she adds, “after all, who knows but that my own sinful compliances with a man, who might think himself entitled to my obedience, might taint my own morals, and make me, instead of a reformer, an imitator of him?” This is not an ineffective argument, but it brings to the forefront the hypocrisy at work in this 18th century patriarchal society that also wants to claim high moral ground. The wife would be expected to be moral, to try to reform her husband, but even his immense and deeply-rooted immorality–which might endanger the souls of his wife and children–is no reason to disobey him because he is the male head of the family.
This goes back to the body-soul split/debate. Clarissa is attempting to make arguments for the soul–hers and any potential children (which she doesn't want to begin with)–but her society clearly values the body more, the body of the male who is born into the privilege of power that overrides the Christian concern for the souls involved. Because a man's wife and children are his property, body and soul.
I'm not sure if Clarissa is changing her identity here–but she is pulling at different strings of argument to try to get her point across. And this is why her family didn't want to read her letters–she's a strong rhetor who can adapt her words while still staying true to her view of herself and her soul as whole, true, and inviolate.
I think Rachel raises a really interesting point. Had Clarissa married, she would certainly have expected to have children. I think the novel presses us to see how much of a violation this would have been–even within marriage. This is Clarissa the bodiless angel; the disembodied spirit. But Clarissa as a realistic character does have a body. And even though it is difficult to imagine the physical reality of this (as it is to imagine all sorts of physical dimensions of Clarissa), it would have been her duty.
I am struck by Rachel's comment that “her society clearly values the body more, the body of the male who is born into the privilege of power that overrides the Christian concern for the souls involved. Because a man's wife and children are his property, body and soul.” I'm not sure what to make of this, but I think I would like to talk more about it in class.
“The single life, at such times, has offered to me, as the life, the only life, to be chosen. But in that, must I not now sit brooding over my past afflictions, and mourning my faults till the hour of my release? And would not every one be able to assign the reason why Clarissa Harlowe chose solitude, and to sequester herself from the world?”
In an attempt to answer Megan’s question regarding Clarissa’s changing identity, I have emphasized this quote that once again addresses the “single life” that Clarissa longed for in the beginning of the novel. What is striking about this statement and the questions that Clarissa poses afterward is that they show a distinct change in Clarissa’s motivation for wanting the single life. In the beginning of the novel, when Clarissa was still innocent and safe from Lovelace in her father’s house, she yearned to remain single because it offered her independence and hopefulness for a happier life that she could not achieve under the Harlowes’ roof. Here, though, while we may see a desire to achieve the same end—a single life—the motivation has changed. Clarissa implies in her last question here that everyone would know now why she chose not to marry; her reason for avoiding marriage now is solely due to her loss of innocence. Before, the single life for Clarissa was full of hope and promise; however, now, the single life has lost its allure and glamour, as it has been tainted by Lovelace’s violation of her trust.
Rachel's discussion of body/soul and the 18th century patriarchy's take on both is indeed worth some in-class attention. As it values the privileged male body, it undervalues the female except in one case: that the female body can produce heirs (especially the male ones necessary to staff the patriarchy!). As to Clarissa's identity, I think it's deepening in ways consistent with her earlier self, rather than changing dramatically. For me, this is partly what makes her such a fascinating character. And I find her depth carrying me along with much of what she has to say about morality and death.
Perhaps changing identity was the wrong phrase to use previously. It seems that Keri and Tony are both discussing smaller shifts within Clarissa's existing identity. She doesn't really change at her core, but her experiences do change her and the way she discusses this identity.
Rachel – excellent points about the body/soul division, especially as seen in society. Clarissa seems to still believe in her central identity, her soul, but after the rape, she believes herself to be unworthy of marriage and finds her body weakening rapidly. Is this due to that societal importance placed on the body? Because her body has been violated, she is seen as worthless by society no matter what she believes about her true self? I'm not quite articulating this as I want to, but I'm interested to discuss this idea more during class. Perhaps we can come back to this letter and post some more comments following that discussion.