Clarissa Harlowe Samuel Richardson (most important books to read TXT) 📖

for her company to the play of Venice Preserved, given out for Sunday night as a benefit-play; the prime actors to be in it; and this, to see if I were to be denied every favour.⁠—Yet, for my own part, I loved not tragedies; though she did, for the sake of the instruction, the warning, and the example generally given in them.

“I had too much feeling, I said. There was enough in the world to make our hearts sad, without carrying grief in our diversions, and making the distresses of others our own.”

True enough, Belford; and I believe, generally speaking, that all the men of our cast are of my mind⁠—They love not any tragedies but those in which they themselves act the parts of tyrants and executioners; and, afraid to trust themselves with serious and solemn reflections, run to comedies, in order to laugh away compunction on the distresses they have occasioned, and to find examples of men as immoral as themselves. For very few of our comic performances, as thou knowest, give us good ones.⁠—I answer, however, for myself⁠—yet thou, I think, on recollection, lovest to deal in the lamentable.

Sally answered for Polly, who was absent; Mrs. Sinclair for herself, and for all her acquaintance, even for Miss Partington, in preferring the comic to the tragic scenes.⁠—And I believe they are right; for the devil’s in it, if a confided-in rake does not give a girl enough of tragedy in his comedy.

“I asked Sally to oblige my fair-one with her company. She was engaged, (that was right, thou’lt suppose). I asked Mrs. Sinclair’s leave for Polly. To be sure, she answered, Polly would think it an honour to attend Mrs. Lovelace: but the poor thing was tenderhearted; and as the tragedy was deep, would weep herself blind.

“Sally, meantime, objected Singleton, that I might answer the objection, and save my beloved the trouble of making it, or debating the point with me; and on this occasion I regretted that her brother’s projects were not laid aside; since, if they had been given up, I would have gone in person to bring up the ladies of my family to attend my spouse.

“I then, from a letter just before received from one in her father’s family, warned them of a person who had undertaken to find us out, and whom I thus in writing (having called for pen and ink) described, that they might arm all the family against him⁠—‘A sunburnt, pock-fretten sailor, ill-looking, big-boned; his stature about six foot; an heavy eye, an overhanging brow, a deck-treading stride in his walk; a couteau generally by his side; lips parched from his gums, as if by staring at the sun in hot climates; a brown coat; a coloured handkerchief about his neck; an oaken plant in his hand near as long as himself, and proportionately thick.’

“No questions asked by this fellow must be answered. They should call me to him. But not let my beloved know a tittle of this, so long as it could be helped. And I added, that if her brother or Singleton came, and if they behaved civilly, I would, for her sake, be civil to them: and in this case, she had nothing to do but to own her marriage, and there could be no pretence for violence on either side. But most fervently I swore, that if she was conveyed away, either by persuasion or force, I would directly, on missing her but one day, go to demand her at Harlowe-place, whether she were there or not; and if I recovered not a sister, I would have a brother; and should find out a captain of a ship as well as he.”

And now, Jack, dost thou think she’ll attempt to get from me, do what I will?

“Mrs. Sinclair began to be afraid of mischief in her house⁠—I was apprehensive that she would overdo the matter, and be out of character. I therefore winked at her. She primed; nodded, to show she took me; twanged out a high-ho through her nose, lapped one horse-lip over the other, and was silent.”

Here’s preparation, Belford!⁠—Dost think I will throw it all away for anything thou canst say, or Lord M. write?⁠—No, indeed⁠—as my charmer says, when she bridles.

And what must necessarily be the consequence of all this with regard to my beloved’s behaviour to me? Canst thou doubt, that it was all complaisance next time she admitted me into her presence?

Thursday we were very happy. All the morning extremely happy. I kissed her charming hand.⁠—I need not describe to thee her hand and arm. When thou sawest her, I took notice that thy eyes dwelt upon them whenever thou couldst spare them from that beauty spot of wonders, her face⁠—fifty times kissed her hand, I believe⁠—once her cheek, intending her lip, but so rapturously, that she could not help seeming angry.

Had she not thus kept me at arms-length; had she not denied me those innocent liberties which our sex, from step to step, aspire to; could I but have gained access to her in her hours of heedlessness and deshabille, (for full dress creates dignity, augments consciousness, and compels distance); we had familiarized to each other long ago. But keep her up ever so late, meet her ever so early, by breakfast-time she is dressed for the day, and at her earliest hour, as nice as others dressed. All her forms thus kept up, wonder not that I have made so little progress in the proposed trial.⁠—But how must all this distance stimulate!

Thursday morning, as I said, we were extremely happy⁠—about noon, she numbered the hours she had been with me; all of them to be but as one minute; and desired to be left to herself. I was loth to comply: but observing the sunshine began to shut in, I yielded.

I dined out. Returning, I talked of the house, and of Mrs. Fretchville⁠—had seen Mennell⁠—had pressed him to get the widow to quit: she pitied Mrs. Fretchville (another good effect