Narrative | Kairos 19.2 ClarissaBlogs: Narrative, Writing, and the Self

In this section, we summarize our responses to blogs posts that deal specifically with narrative or the acts of narrating. In particular her, we look at instances in Clarissa where the idea of “stories” or “narrative writing” or related terms appear and where the issue of narrative is itself foregrounded.

Narrative

Volume I. Letter 1 set much in motion. As Tony said, “It’s interesting how much Anna enables Richardson to frame in just a two-page letter: Clarissa’s nature and reputation, the immediate plunge into family disturbances, the violence between her brother and Lovelace, her brother’s unpleasant nature, the threats possible from Lovelace’s own temper, an excuse for Clarissa to write in as full detail as possible–and finally, a reminder of what the whole novel will be: ‘your account of all things . . . will be your justification.’” Jessica noted Anna’s need to reassure Clarissa that her public character is unaffected by the recent events. Steve pointed to “the circulation of Clarissa’s reputation. . . . More details make a better story. A better story makes for more repetitions, and more repetitions reinforce Clarissa’s good reputation,” and also suggested that this is a place “where the novel reminds us that identity can be as much about the stories people tell about you as it is about the stories you tell about yourself.” This became an important issue for us as we began our reading.

Letter 2 offers Clarissa as a narrator, here one who promises to “recite facts only.” Keri thought her failing to adhere to this promise was consistent with “the changing of her identity and the evolution of her thoughts,” and that these kinds of shifts, in turn, “reinforce the work’s epistolary nature that is episodic and constantly changing. “ Megan, however, wondered “can we really trust Clarissa as a factual writer? While Clarissa’s claims are not necessarily false, Clarissa is, as Megan emphasized “clearly writing from a specific point of view. She only knows her side of the story and what she has witnessed and noticed.” This inevitable consequence of the epistolary novel is something we returned to many times.

Towards the end of the volume, in our response to the Letter 42, we returned to the kinds of narratives Clarissa constructs. Steve introduced Letter 42 with the observation that “kitty can scratch,“ referring to Clarissa’s angry and cutting portrayal of her sister Arabella. Rachel agreed that this letter “shows Clarissa’s acts of supposed transparency in her letters, where they meet with her skewed perceptions of others,” and speculates that here she might “describe a past dislike of her sister to integrate better into her present dislike—in which case, Clarissa is bordering on what Kathleen Fitzpatrick (2007) saw as one of the distinguishing features of memoir (not of blogs): a kind of narrative unity or neatness, which presents the present in as much harmony with the past as possible.”

Volume II

Citing an article by John A. Dussinger, Rachel noted that “there are, in practice, three different Clarissas: the proud feminist, the religious martyr, and the ‘sentimental heroine.’ This forces the reader to constantly renegotiate who Clarissa is in one particular letter vs. another—and forces us to think about, too, how this makes Clarissa human, how we too contain multiple, shifting selves, and how we are all always perceiving ourselves.” But, as Rachel also observed, Clarissa sees herself, and wants others to see her, as “sincere.” We discussed at length in class how/whether Clarissa could form a coherent self-narrative in the face of all the forces in the novel that ask her to be not only feminist/martyr, but also dutiful/disobedient.

In discussion of Volume II, Debra noted that “Clarissa is always engaged in a rhetorical action: writing TO someone else, to describe what has already or is about to happen. She is necessarily selecting what to include (and exclude). The narrative is circumscribed by the fact that she MUST choose what to say, not only to keep her reputation but also to keep her sense of what is her own self.” Others noticed the level of “anxiety about language” in Letter 64. Megan in particular thought it ironic that a large part of Lovelace’s argument was to point out the “transience of words” as compared to action, ironic in that “Lovelace, of all the characters we have heard from so far, is the one who most understands the power of words.” Keri thought it was important that we take into account the context of Lovelace’s writing here. Its “erratic punctuation…demonstrates the urgency with which Lovelace was writing.” Though the class noticed previously that “Lovelace is able to use language and rhetoric very successfully even with short notice, Keri wondered “given Clarissa’s obvious disgust with Lovelace here… was his letter really all that successful after all?”

Meanwhile, Lovelace is still constructing his own narrative. We can see the ways that he is constructing his story in letter 346 where he presents a very particular version of events to Mr. Hickman and letter 370 where he compares his tragedy to those of Queen Dido and Mary Queen of Scots. In his encounter with Hickman, Rachel notes the re-construction of Clarissa’s rape by explaining to Hickman that she was asleep, and Kendra focuses on Lovelace’s love for himself and for “avenging slights on his character (real or imagined)” by constructing a different narrative of events. Additionally, he rewrites his own story in letter 370 by placing himself in the position of tragic hero. Kendra writes that he “sees himself as some sort of hero, who through no fault of his own has abducted Clarissa for some greater good and he merely seeks her forgiveness for things outside of his control.” He is, again, changing the story to benefit himself. Lovelace is continuing to construct the narrative that he wishes his story reflected rather than the truth of recent events.

In Volume III we see Clarissa struggling to hold onto her virtue in the new narrative she has found herself in after she leaves her family’s home with Lovelace. Stephen commented that Clarissa keeps trying to come back to what Kenneth Gergen and Mary Gergen would call her “stability narrative,” or “a narrative that links incidents, images, or concepts in such a way that the individual remains essentially unchanged” (258). This narrative, for Clarissa, would be one where she is still living at her parent’s house, the issues with those she loves resolved. Anthony furthered Stephen’s thoughts to state that though she clings to this narrative, it has been lost, though she still remains hopeful. Keri added to this by using Gergen and Gergen’s terms for “progressive” and “regressive” narratives—Clarissa has moments where she wishes she would die because of the social position she now finds herself in, but she also has moments where she has hope.

In our blog posts, we also discussed both the actual construction of the narrative through the role the fictional editor plays in the novel, as well as the different perceptions some of the major characters have of certain narratives. In the discussion of Letter 93, Megan mentioned how Anna frequently “has a better view of the world at large than Clarissa does.” Keri further Megan’s comments, adding that instead of “analyzing each individual episode that Clarissa describes in isolation, Anna often references others and tries to track the trajectory of Lovelace’s actions and overall character.” Anna evaluates Lovelace’s character carefully, using all the examples of his recent conduct she can think of to do so.

We also discussed the role of the fictional editor in the novel, the presence of which we really start to notice in Letter 103, and Meghan starts the discussion off with some concerns regarding what the editor is leaving out of the text. Debra informed us that there are three levels of mediation in the novel because of the role of editing: Richardson, fictional editor, and letter-writer. Stephen adds that he is skeptical of the fictional editor’s interests, as several accounts of events are taken out of the text seemingly for brevity.

In Volume IV, we see Clarissa and Anna constructing competing narratives – one “regressive” (Clarissa’s) and the other “progressive” (Anna’s), to use Gergen and Gergen’s terms. In her response to “ADVERSITY is your SHINING-TIME (L177),” Rachel comments, “…Clarissa seems to perceive herself as part of a regressive narrative–a fall from the previous grace she once inhabited that, though she holds out small hope for escape now, cannot ultimately be regained. I think Clarissa seems to have positioned herself like Eve, cast out from paradise, never to reenter… But it’s Anna’s job as a good friend to try to ‘write’ Clarissa in a more progressive narrative–even for this micro-narrative moment.” Similarly, Debra adds, “I think Anna too understands how Clarissa’s life has become circumscribed. But she offers a version, one might say, of the ‘fortunate fall.’ Though Clarissa may suffer, her story will be an excellent example for others, and will have the capacity to relieve further suffering.” It seems from both Rachel and Debra’s responses to this letter that Anna’s narrative attempts to repair Clarissa’s in a way that allows her “ADVERSITY [to be her] SHINING-TIME” – the narratives just offer competing views of the “fall” from grace Clarissa has experienced.

Also in Volume IV, Lovelace’s narrative becomes tightly tied into Clarissa and Anna’s because of his successful retrieval of the letters between the two women which then propels his “revenge narrative” forward. As Rachel notes in her response to “Lovelace Gains Access to Clarissa’s Letters (L198),” “Lovelace seems to need the ‘very words’ from Clarissa–which we have established are often her only sense of individual agency or expression in the novel–in order to fuel his own revenge. In essence, he wants the ‘actual’ evidence of her seeming agency in order to heighten his own agency in taking hers away.” This response is very relevant to Lovelace’s revenge narrative as a whole that becomes fueled when he gains access to the “very words” interchanged between Clarissa and Anna.Volume V continues the trend of Lovelace’s narrative tying into Clarissa and Anna’s narratives. He begins to make copies of letters and even puts in marginalia to remind him of “the places which call for vengeance upon the vixen writer, or which require animadversion” (L229). Of Letter 229, Tony notes that this particular forgery “allows him just to control the narrative of his situation with Clarissa (pure writerly power) and create new, imagined schemes through which to exercise his ‘real-world’ power over her and others.” Lovelace begins to not only control Anna and Clarissa’s narratives but he also begins to exert a real-world control over them as well. Debra also comments in Letter 211, in regard to Lovelace’s love of plotting and narrating his tricks and plans, that the “tragedy is that the joy in the narrative is done at the expense of another person’s life (and the story she would tell of herself).” Most of Volume V is dominated by Lovelace’s voice and his plans. In Letter 214, Lovelace narrates his interactions with Capt. Tomlinson as a play and Debra notes that “embedded [in Lovelace’s love of writing] is the pleasure of plotting (a narrative term as well as a word about contriving scenes) as well as the pleasure of of describing it to his best reader, Belford.” Lovelace writes numerous letters and Keri notes that “because of the frequency with which he writes the letters while receiving very few responses from the addressee, I don’t think Lovelace actually needs/wants a response from Belford. He just needs to write.”

*****

In volume VII, we see Clarissa unable to tell her own story, and Belford must construct the narrative of Clarissa’s recent life in letter 333. Rachel was particularly interested in the way “Richardson seems to push us even farther from the direct experience of Clarissa telling her own story in her letters” by putting the narrative in Belford’s hands and how “a narrative web” is created in this section where “everyone is implicated in some way.” This new narrator of Clarissa’s story is important in that for the previous volume or so we had only been hearing about Clarissa’s life through Lovelace.

In Volume VIII, Clarissa is making necessary arrangements for her death. Our discussions focused on Clarissa’s narrative as it draws to a close. Rachel reminded us of Terry Eagleton’s comment in The Rape of Clarissa: letters are fetishes, and “now that one of our primary authors is unable to put pen to paper, we realize how much we rely on the letters as narrative artifacts.”

Part of this change involves Clarissa handing the power of narration over to Belford and Anna. In response to Letter 405, Keri remarked that this might be liberating for Clarissa, given that she trusts Belford and Anna to ensure that her story will be the authoritative one. Rachel pointed out that Clarissa does not have to be writing in order to narrate her story: orchestrating what happens after her death also constitutes narrative power. Clarissa is aware of her impending death (what Debra reminds us is Frank Kermode’s [2000] notion of a “sense of an ending”). Debra suggests that this knowledge is a force for her to carry out the remainder of her narrative.

In response to Letter 413 where Belford narrates Clarissa’s story as a tragedy, our discussions broached whether our idea of Clarissa’s narrative aligned with Belford’s. At this point in the novel, characters are reflecting back over the past year and constructing their own narratives about what happened and what it means. Some of us agreed with the narrative representation of Clarissa’s story as a tragedy. Keri pointed out that the narrative Belford writes is intended to persuade Lovelace away from hurting Clarissa, so we cannot know if this is Belford’s actual understanding of events. Others of us had varying interpretations of the letter. Tony shared some of his early reading notes: “Because they encounter each other, Clarissa and Lovelace must struggle against – and to assert – their natures. Both lose. The source of the deepest tragedy.” Debra and Meghan pointed out that we have to understand Clarissa as more than a victim. Regardless of Belford’s intentions in the letter, there are implications for representing Clarissa as only a victim of Lovelace’s actions: we are prevented from recognizing that Clarissa was initially uncertain about Lovelace and at least entertained the idea that he could be changed.

There were some interesting and vital juxtapositions of the narrative construction—and closure—of characters in Volume 9. Clarissa’s “narrative life” may have ended with Belford’s words in Letter 481, “And thus died Miss CLARISSA HARLOWE, in the blossom of her youth and beauty….” As Tony noted, Belford’s “sudden elegiac tone” acts “almost like the end of an obituary”—and yet it is, in another very important sense for us as readers, not an end but the beginning of narrative closure in the novel. At this important moment, in the same letter, we also discussed why Belford would have asked Lovelace to tell Clarissa’s story as only he can: “A better pen than mine may do her fuller justice. Thine, I mean, O Lovelace! For well dost thou know how much she excelled in the graces of both mind and person…. And thou also can best account for the causes of her immature death….” Keri directed us to an important quote from Morden from a few letters later, where as she writes, “Colonel Morden describes Lovelace as the ‘sole author of woe’… Lovelace ‘authored’ Clarissa’s fall from grace, so he should finish the tragic narrative because only his narrative will do justice to the horrific acts he has inflicted upon her.”

And yet this is not exactly what we find in the remaining letters of Volume 9. When Anna sees Clarissa’s body, in Letter 502, she laments that her dear friend’s death is “the end” of her “story”: “I am not myself!—I never shall be!” Anna cries, “Repeating, This cannot, surely, be all of my CLARISSA’S story!” Jessica summed it up best in her post: “there’s probably nothing more appropriate at that moment than to call Clarissa’s life a story. It reminds us of the narrative (the story of Clarissa, Lovelace, and the bad things that happen in this novel), but also of the exhaustive exercise that Clarissa joyfully undertook in composing her own narrative (and identity). That’s over with her death.” Yet we discussed the ways in which Clarissa’s story was not over, that much more does occur than mere “wrap-up” in the last 35 letters. As Jessica further suggested, “I wonder if Richardson really wanted to see what happens to the family and acquaintances in the aftermath of a woman’s death…from the standpoint of a storyteller who explores relationships, identity, and letter writing.”

It was precisely this “aftermath” that we see in the final letters of the novel—several of them authored by Clarissa herself, albeit posthumously. Keri also noted within those letters, 488-492, that Clarissa does, in fact, act as the author to her story even after death, from the paratextual features of the black wax (indicating her death to her family even before the letter is opened) to her choice of addressee and language within. Keri also directed us to the fact that this is in contrast with Lovelace’s request later in Letter 497 to have her letters so that he can write her story. Thus, in the end, though both Belford and Lovelace suggest that Lovelace, as the “author” of her woe, should be the author of Clarissa’s story—it is Clarissa herself who continues her own narrative on her terms.

This stands in particular juxtaposition with Lovelace—who we see losing control over his own narrative construction. This is clearest in Letter 497, as Debra argued, where “Lovelace has literally lost the narrative line of his life: he has nothing to move towards and is unable to move back. That he writes a hysterical letter (and is described as mad by his family and friends for the next week) seems inevitable.” Tony closed out the remarks on this letter by reminding us that Lovelace, like Clarissa, revealed much in his moments of “madness” that we had not seen previously—and which we did not see again, once he had gained some distance and was somewhat “recovered” to his previous “self.”

In the end, then, what kinds of narrative closure does Richardson offer us? Although many of the letters in Volume 9 addressed the issue of narrative—and we debated about the end of the novel both on the blog and in class discussions—it is interesting to see that much of what we concluded drew our attention to the act of judgment in the narrative closure that Richardson did offer us. In Letter 508, Tony noted that we see some of Richardson’s judgment—and ours—of the Harlowes in Colonel Morden’s responses to them: “The will and Morden’s reflections offer the same thing: the will both bequeaths and judges, and Morden–as Clarissa did in her letter to Lovelace–adds further judgment on her family’s real responsibilities.” In Letter 502, Megan also suggested that Anna was acting as a proxy for us as readers, so that perhaps we could most closely identify with Anna in her grief for Clarissa—and her judgment of Lovelace and the Harlowes, which was consistent from the very first letter. And finally, in Letter 514, Tony wrote that Richardson would’ve been heartened to know that the instructive value of his letters—that his judgment as an author—was still shining through, too, even centuries later.

Ultimately, we can see part of the narrative closure of the novel in Clarissa’s legacy: namely, our judgment of Belford as a truly reformed rake, whom Tony suggested was offered to us as a better balance between good and evil, angel and devil, Clarissa and Lovelace. This kind of balance is perhaps not what we were expecting—but neither was Clarissa’s strength and reclamation of her narrative after her rape, and neither was Lovelace’s loss of his own narrative power after her death. Yet these juxtapositions—of our audience expectations and the complexity of what Richardson really offered us—made our reading of Clarissa most robust and fascinating in the end.