WeRead Powered by ReaderPub
Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 6 cover

Clarissa Harlowe; or the history of a young lady — Volume 6

Chapter 22: LETTER XVII
By Samuel Richardson
Open in WeRead

Explore more books like this:

British LiteratureNovels

About This Book

An extended epistolary narrative follows a young woman's determined resistance to unwanted advances and the family and social pressures around her, presenting letters that reveal manipulation, seduction, and moral debate. Correspondence charts the suitor’s schemes, the anguished responses of the woman and her defenders, and the escalating consequences of coercion that culminate in serious physical and emotional collapse. Themes probe virtue, consent, reputation, and gendered power, while the dense letter form alternates intimate confession, legal and ethical argument, and third-party reports to expose how private suffering becomes entangled with public judgment.

LETTER XVII

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. SUNDAY AFTERNOON, SIX O’CLOCK, (JUNE 18.)

I went out early this morning, and returned not till just now; when I was informed that my beloved, in my absence, had taken it into her head to attempt to get away.

She tripped down, with a parcel tied up in a handkerchief, her hood on; and was actually in the entry, when Mrs. Sinclair saw her.

Pray, Madam, whipping between her and the street-door, be pleased to let me know where you are going?

Who has a right to controul me? was the word.

I have, Madam, by order of your spouse: and, kemboing her arms, as she owned, I desire you will be pleased to walk up again.

She would have spoken; but could not: and, bursting into tears, turned back, and went up to her chamber: and Dorcas was taken to task for suffering her to be in the passage before she was seen.

This shows, as we hoped last night, that she is recovering her charming intellects.

Dorcas says, she was visible to her but once before the whole day; and then she seemed very solemn and sedate.

I will endeavour to see her. It must be in her own chamber, I suppose; for she will hardly meet me in the dining-room. What advantage will the confidence of our sex give me over the modesty of her’s, if she be recovered!—I, the most confident of men: she, the most delicate of women. Sweet soul! methinks I have her before me: her face averted: speech lost in sighs—abashed—conscious—what a triumphant aspect will this give me, when I gaze on her downcast countenance!

This moment Dorcas tells me she believes she is coming to find me out. She asked her after me: and Dorcas left her, drying her red-swoln eyes at her glass; [no design of moving me by tears!] sighing too sensibly for my courage. But to what purpose have I gone thus far, if I pursue not my principal end? Niceness must be a little abated. She knows the worst. That she cannot fly me; that she must see me; and that I can look her into a sweet confusion; are circumstances greatly in my favour. What can she do but rave and exclaim? I am used to raving and exclaiming—but, if recovered, I shall see how she behaves upon this our first sensible interview after what she has suffered.

Here she comes.