What odd heads some people have!—Miss Clarissa Harlowe to be sacrificed in marriage to Mr. Roger Solmes!—Astonishing!I must not, you say, give my advice in favour of this man!—You now convince me, my dear, that you are nearer of kin than I thought you, to the family that could think of so preposterous a match, or you would never have had the least notion of my advising in his favour.
Ask for his picture. You know I have a good hand at drawing an ugly likeness. But I’ll see a little further first: for who knows what may happen, since matters are in such a train; and since you have not the courage to oppose so overwhelming a torrent?
You ask me to help you to a little of my spirit. Are you in earnest? But it will not now, I doubt, do you service.—It will not sit naturally upon you. You are your mother’s girl, think what you will; and have violent spirits to contend with. Alas! my dear, you should have borrowed some of mine a little sooner;—that is to say, before you had given the management of your estate into the hands of those who think they have a prior claim to it. What though a father’s!—Has not the father two elder children?—And do they not both bear more of his stamp and image than you do?—Pray, my dear, call me not to account for this free question; lest your application of my meaning, on examination, prove to be as severe as that.
Now I have launched out a little, indulge me one word more in the same strain—I will be decent, I promise you. I think you might have know, that Avarice and Envy are two passions that are not to be satisfied, the one by giving, the other by the envied person’s continuing to deserve and excel.—Fuel, fuel both, all the world over, to flames insatiate and devouring.
But since you ask for my opinion, you must tell me all you know or surmise of their inducements. And if you will not forbid me to make extracts from your letters for the entertainment of my aunt and cousin in the little island, who long to hear more of your affairs, it will be very obliging.But you are so tender of some people who have no tenderness for any body but themselves, that I must conjure you to speak out. Remember, that a friendship like ours admits of no reserves. You may trust my impartiality. It would be an affront to your own judgment, if you did not: For do you not ask my advice? . . . .
You are all too rich to be happy, child. For must not each of you, by the constitutions of your family, marry to be still richer? People who know in what their main excellence consists, are not to be blamed (are they) for cultivating and improving what they think most valuable?—Is true happiness any part of your family view?—So far from it, that none of your family but yourself could be happy were they not rich. So let them fret on, grumble and grudge, and accumulate; and wondering what ails them that they have not happiness when they have riches, think the cause is want of more; and so go on heaping up, till Death, as greedy an accumulator as themselves, gathers them into his garner.
Well then once more I say, do you, my dear, tell me what you know of their avowed and general motives; and I will tell you more than you will tell me of their failings! . . .
The result is this, that I am fitter for this world than you; you for the next than me:—that is the difference.—But long, long, for my sake, and for hundreds of sakes, may it be before you quit us for company more congenial to you and more worthy of you!
Now, my dear, I know you will be upon me with your grave airs: so in for the lamb, as the saying is, in for the sheep; and do you yourself look about you; for I’ll have a pull with you by way of being aforehand. Hannibal, we read, always advised to attack the Romans upon their own territories.
You are pleased to say, and upon your word too! that your regards (a mighty quaint word for affections) are not so much engaged, as some of your friends suppose, to another person. What need you give one to imagine, my dear, that the last month or two has been a period extremely favourable to that other person, whom it has made an obliger of the niece for his patience with the uncles.
But, to pass that by—so much engaged!—How much, my dear?—Shall I infer? Some of your friends suppose a great deal. You seem to own a little.
But, to pass that by—so much engaged!—How much, my dear?—Shall I infer? Some of your friends suppose a great deal. You seem to own a little.
Don’t be angry. It is all fair: because you have not acknowledged to me that little. People I have heard you say, who affect secrets, always excite curiosity.
But you proceed with a kind of drawback upon your averment, as if recollection had given you a doubt—you know not yourself, if they be [so much engaged]. Was it necessary to say this to me?—and to say it upon your word too?—But you know best.—Yet you don’t neither, I believe. For a beginning love is acted by a subtle spirit; and oftentimes discovers itself to a by-stander, when the person possessed (why should I not call it possessed?) knows not it has such a demon.
But further you say, what preferable favour you may have for him to any other person, is owing more to the usage he has received, and for your sake borne, than to any personal consideration.
This is generously said. It is in character. But, O my friend, depend upon it, you are in danger.
Depend upon it, whether you know it or not, you are a little in for’t. Your native generosity and greatness of mind endanger you: all your friends, by fighting against him with impolitic violence, fight for him. And Lovelace, my life for yours, notwithstanding all his veneration and assiduities, has seen further than that veneration and those assiduities (so well calculated to your meridian) will let him own he has seen—has seen, in short, that his work is doing for him more effectually than he could do it for himself. And have you not before now said, that nothing is so penetrating as the eye of a lover who has vanity? And who says Lovelace wants vanity?
In short, my dear, it is my opinion, and that from the easiness of his heart and behaviour, that he has seen more than I have seen; more than you think could be seen—more than I believe you yourself know, or else you would let me know it.
Already, in order to restrain him from resenting the indignities he has received, and which are daily offered him, he has prevailed upon you to correspond with him privately. . . . I
It is my humble opinion, I tell you frankly, that on inquiry it will come out to be LOVE—don’t start, my dear!—Has not your man himself had natural philosophy enough to observe already to your aunt Hervey, that love takes the deepest root in the steadiest minds? The deuce take his sly penetration, I was going to say; for this was six or seven weeks ago.
I have been tinctured, you know. Nor on the coolest reflection, could I account how and when the jaundice began: but had been over head and ears, as the saying is, but for some of that advice from you, which I now return you. Yet my man was not half so—so what, my dear—to be sure Lovelace is a charming fellow. And were he only—but I will not make you glow, as you read—upon my word I will not.—Yet, my dear, don’t you find at your heart somewhat unusual make it go throb, throb, throb, as you read just here?—If you do, don’t be ashamed to own it—it is your generosity, my love, that’s all.—But as the Roman augur said, Caesar, beware of the Ides of March!
In this letter, the reader realizes that Anna is indeed sharing these letters with others. She specifically asks if she can extract portions of the letters to share with a cousin who “longs to hear more of [Clarissa’s] affairs” (67). Anna has clearly already shared at least some of this correspondence with her cousin. Now, why is it that Anna believes it is okay to share Clarissa’s words with others? It seems reasonable that the act of sharing letters with others would be acceptable in this time period, but Clarissa’s situation is quickly devolving into something that should not be used for entertainment purposes. She is dealing with a very frustrating family situation and being forced into a marriage that she does not want. Why would it be appropriate for Clarissa’s closest confidante to share this situation with another simply to entertain the other reader?
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In this three-letter correspondence between Clarissa and Anna (letters 10-12), there appears to be a blurring between Solmes and Lovelace. In response to Clarissa’s letter to Anna where she explains that she refuses Solmes and wants Anna’s advice, Anna at first replies in defense of Clarissa for not wanting to be with Solmes. She also implies that Clarissa might be hiding something. Clarissa is so “tender” that Anna needs to cajole her to “speak out,” and she reminds Clarissa that they should not be reserved in their friendship. On top of that all their friends suspect that Clarissa is keeping secrets, which makes her more intriguing. Anna writes, “What need you give one to imagine, my dear, that the last month or two has been a period extremely favourable to that other person, whom it has made an obliger of the niece for his patience with the uncles.” At first I interpreted Anna’s comment as a reference to Solmes. Later, however, Anna refers to Lovelace and says “it is my opinion, and that from the easiness of his heart and behaviour, that he has seen more than I have seen; more than you think could be seen—more than I believe you yourself know, or else you would let me know it.” Those earlier “secrets” that Anna implies Clarissa is hiding are now about Lovelace. Is this Anna’s way of suggesting that Clarissa rejects Solmes because she is actually in love with Lovelace, or was “that other person” always in reference to Lovelace?
I noticed that too when I was reading, Megan. It sounds like Anna thinks that she's just asking Clarissa for her permission, but her tone is kind of forceful and insistent. This goes back to my feelings of fishyness that I got when Anna's aunt asked to see Clarissa's grandfather's will. Why are Anna and her family being so nosy? What should we make of this? Is it just because people enjoyed gossip a lot back then, or is something else going on?
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One other thing I noticed in this section is when Anna pauses to address Clarissa directly and writes, "It is my humble opinion, I tell you frankly, that on inquiry it will come out to be LOVE—don't start, my dear…" (71). I really like how Anna anticipates or imagines what Clarissa might do by saying "don't start, my dear"(in this instance, it sounds like Anna thought Clarissa might protest to Anna's comment that Clarissa loves Lovelace). This creates a kind of hypothetical dialogue between Anna and Clarissa. Though they aren't talking to each other in the same room, Anna and Clarissa can still take into account the other person's hypothetical reaction and can then plan their writerly moves accordingly.
I found the hypothetical dialogue between these two characters interesting too, Meghan. There are several moments in these letters where the writer, after introducing a specific topic, then tells the reader how to respond to it. It seems that these characters, like Richardson, constantly try to exercise control over the content of their writing. I don't really know what to think about this notion of depriving reader agency yet, but I do think that it is interesting.