Pamela by Samuel Richardson (the false prince series TXT) 📖

study, ours can hardly attain to.— But, indeed, every lady is not a Pamela.

You delight to banter your poor servant, said I.

Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half the merit of your wit, too; for the innocent exercises you have had for it, from me, have certainly sharpened your invention.

Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent exercises, as you are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull as a beetle. But then, Pamela, said he, I should not have loved you so well. But then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.—Ay, may be so, and may be not; and the wife, too, of some clouterly plough-boy.

But then, sir, I should have been content and innocent; and that’s better than being a princess, and not so. And may be not, said he; for if you had had that pretty face, some of us keen fox-hunters should have found you out; and, in spite of your romantic notions, (which then, too, perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind,) might have been more happy with the ploughman’s wife, than I have been with my mother’s Pamela. I hope, sir, said I, God would have given me more grace.

Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that follow your fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better, than that, in all your arts, shifts, and stratagems, you have had a great regard to truth; and have, in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few wilful fibs. Now I expect you’ll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with me.—Let me know then, where you have found supplies of pen, ink, and paper, when Mrs. Jewkes was so vigilant, and gave you but two sheets at a time?—Tell me truth.

Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them; but, when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr. Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr. Longman! All your confederates are good, every one of them: but such of my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted out by you as black as devils! nay, so am I too, for that matter.

Sir, said I, I hope you won’t be angry, but, saving yourself, do you think they are painted worse than they deserve? or worse than the parts they acted require?

You say, saving myself, Pamela; but is not that saying a mere compliment to me, because I am present, and you are in my hands? Tell me truly.— Good sir, excuse me; but I fancy I might ask you, Why you should think so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told you, there was but too much reason for it?

He kissed me, and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you; for you are very saucy, Pamela.—But, with your bewitching chit-chat, and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you hide your paper, pens, and ink?

Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left, if others should be found.—That’s a good girl! said he; I love you for your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written papers, your saucy journal?—I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said I. But indeed, answered he, you will not have it: for I will know, and I will see them.—This is very hard, sir, said I; but I must say, you shall not, if I can help it.

We were standing most of this time; but he then sat down, and took me by both my hands, and said, Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your pocket? No, sir, said I; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you won’t tell a downright fib for the world: but for equivocation! no jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, Are they in neither of your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays? No, sir, replied I: But pray no more questions: for ask me ever so much, I will not tell you.

O, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad, when the criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.—But pray, sir, said I, is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal; and I won’t confess.

O, my girl! said he, many an innocent person has been put to the torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the question, as they call it abroad.

Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t bring it up. Admirably said! said the naughty gentleman.—But I can tell you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won’t plead with us, here in England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now, Pamela, that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t tell without.

Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, This, sir, is very cruel and barbarous.—No matter, said he; it is but like your Lucifer, you know, in my shape! And, after I have done so many heinous things by you as you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at least, it is but of a piece with the rest.

But, sir, said I, (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about me,) if you will be obeyed in this unreasonable manner, though it is sad tyranny, to be sure!—let me go up to them, and read them over again, and you shall see so far as to the end of the sad story that follows those you have.

I’ll see them all, said he, down to this time, if you have written so far:—Or, at least, till within this week.—Then let me go up to them, said I, and see what I have written, and to what day, to shew them to you; for you won’t desire to see every thing. But I will, replied he.— But say, Pamela, tell me truth: Are they above? I was much affrighted. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. Why, sir, answered I, I have sometimes hid them under the dry mould in the garden; sometimes in one place, sometimes in another; and those you have in your hand, were several days under a rose-bush, in the garden. Artful slut! said he, What’s this to my question?—Are they not about you?—If, said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding-place behind the wainscot, won’t you see me? —Still more and more artful! said he—Is this an answer to my question? —I have searched every place above, and in your closet, for them, and cannot find them; so I will know where they are. Now, said he, it is my opinion they are about you; and I never undressed a girl in my life; but I will now begin to strip my pretty Pamela; and I hope I shall not go far before I find them.

I fell a crying, and said, I will not be used in this manner. Pray, sir, said I, (for he began to unpin my handkerchief,) consider! Pray sir, do!—And pray, said he, do you consider. For I will see these papers. But may be, said he, they are tied about your knees, with your garters, and stooped. Was ever any thing so vile and so wicked?—I fell on my knees, and said, What can I do? What can I do? If you’ll let me go up I’ll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on your honour, let me see them uncurtailed, and not offer to make them away; no not a single paper?—I will, sir.—On your honour? Yes, sir. And so he let me go up stairs, crying sadly for vexation to be so used. Sure nobody was ever so served as I am!

I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could not bear the thoughts of giving up my papers. Besides, I must all undress me, in a manner, to untack them. So I writ thus:

 

‘SIR,

‘To expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman, I know will signify nothing; and most hardly do you use the power you so wickedly have got over me. I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you regret using me thus; and I can hardly bear it, and what I am further to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds me; thank God, it does! —I will, however, keep my word, if you insist upon it when you have read this; but, sir, let me beg of you to give me time till tomorrow morning, that I may just run them over, and see what I put into your hands against me: and I will then give my papers to you, without the least alteration, or adding or diminishing: But I should beg still to be excused, if you please: But if not, spare them to me but till tomorrow morning: and this, so hardly am I used, shall be thought a favour, which I shall be very thankful for.’

I guessed it would not be long before I heard from him and he accordingly sent up Mrs. Jewkes for what I had promised. So I gave her this note to carry to him. And he sent word, that I must keep my promise, and he would give me till morning; but that I must bring them to him, without his asking again.

So I took off my undercoat, and with great trouble of mind, unsewed them from it. And there is a vast quantity of it. I will just slightly touch upon the subjects; because I may not, perhaps, get them again for you to see.

They begin with an account of ‘my attempting to get away out of the window first, and then throwing my petticoat and handkerchief into the pond. How sadly I was disappointed, the lock of the back-door being changed. How, in trying to climb over the door, I tumbled down, and was piteously bruised; the bricks giving way, and tumbling upon me. How, finding I could not get off, and dreading the hard usage I should receive, I was so wicked as to think of throwing myself into the water. My sad reflections upon this matter. How Mrs. Jewkes used me upon this occasion, when she found me. How my master had like to have been drowned in hunting; and my concern for his danger, notwithstanding his usage of me. Mrs. Jewkes’s wicked reports, to frighten me, that I was to be married to the ugly Swiss; who was to sell me on the wedding-day to my master. Her vile way of talking to me, like a London prostitute. My apprehensions of seeing preparations made for my master’s coming. Her causeless fears that I was trying to get away again, when I had no thoughts of it; and my bad usage upon it. My master’s dreadful arrival; and his hard, very hard treatment of me; and Mrs. Jewkes’s insulting of me. His jealousy of Mr. Williams and me. How Mrs. Jewkes vilely instigated him to wickedness.’ And down to here, I put into one parcel, hoping that would content him. But for fear it should not, I put into another parcel the following; viz.

‘A copy of his proposals to me, of a great