My mother will not breakfast without me. A quarrel has its conveniencies sometimes. Yet too much love, I think, is as bad as too little.
We have just now had another pull. Upon my word, she is excessively—what shall I say?—unpersuadable—I must let her off with that soft word.
Who was the old Greek, that said, he governed Athens; his wife, him; and his son, her?
It was not my mother’s fault (I am writing to you, you know) that she did not govern my father. But I am but a daughter!—Yet I thought I was not quite so powerless when I was set upon carrying a point, as I find myself to be.
Adieu, my dear!—Happier times must come—and that quickly too.—The strings cannot long continue to be thus overstrained. They must break or be relaxed. In either way, the certainty must be preferable to the suspense.
One word more:
I think in my conscience you must take one of these two alternatives; either to consent to let us go to London together privately; (in which case, I will procure a vehicle, and meet you at your appointment at the stile to which Lovelace proposes to bring his uncle’s chariot); or, to put yourself into the protection of Lord M. and the ladies of his family.
You have another, indeed; and that is, if you are absolutely resolved against Solmes, to meet and marry Lovelace directly.
Whichsoever of these you make choice of, you will have this plea, both to yourself, and to the world, that you are concluded by the same uniform principle that has governed your whole conduct, ever since the contention between Lovelace and your brother has been on foot: that is to say, that you have chosen a lesser evil, in hopes to prevent a greater.
Adieu! and Heaven direct for the best my beloved creature, prays
Letter 82
Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to Miss Howe
Thursday,
I thank you, my dearest friend, for the pains you have taken in accounting so affectionately for my papers not being taken away yesterday; and for the kind protection you would have procured for me, if you could.
This kind protection was what I wished for: but my wishes, raised at first by your love, were rather governed by my despair of other refuge (having before cast about, and not being able to determine, what I ought to do, and what I could do, in a situation so unhappy) than by a reasonable hope: For why indeed should anybody embroil themselves for others, when they can avoid it?
All my consolation is, as I have frequently said, that I have not, by my own inadvertence or folly, brought myself into this sad situation. If I had, I should not have dared to look up to anybody with the expectation of protection or assistance, nor to you for excuse of the trouble I give you. But nevertheless we should not be angry at a person’s not doing that for ourselves, or for our friend, which she thinks she ought not to do; and which she has it in her option either to do, or to let it alone. Much less have you a right to be displeased with so prudent a mother, for not engaging herself so warmly in my favour, as you wished she would. If my own aunt can give me up, and that against her judgment, as I may presume to say; and if my father and mother, and uncles, who once loved me so well, can join so strenuously against me; can I expect, or ought you, the protection of your mother, in opposition to them?
Indeed, my dear love, (permit me to be very serious), I am afraid I am singled out (either for my own faults, or for the faults of my family, or perhaps for the faults of both) to be a very unhappy creature!—signally unhappy! For see you not how irresistible the waves of affliction come tumbling down upon me?
We have been till within these few weeks, every one of us, too happy. No crosses, no vexations, but what we gave ourselves from the pamperedness, as I may call it, of our own wills. Surrounded by our heaps and stores, hoarded up as fast as acquired, we have seemed to think ourselves out of the reach of the bolts of adverse fate. I was the pride of all my friends, proud myself of their pride, and glorying in my standing. Who knows what the justice of Heaven may inflict, in order to convince us, that we are not out of the reach of misfortune; and to reduce us to a better reliance, than what we have hitherto presumptuously made?
I should have been very little the better for the conversation-visits with the good Dr. Lewen used to honour me with, and for the principles wrought (as I may say) into my earliest mind by my pious Mrs. Norton, founded on her reverend father’s experience, as well as on her own, if I could not thus retrospect and argue, in such a strange situation as we are in. Strange, I may well call it; for don’t you see, my dear, that we seem all to be impelled, as it were, by a perverse fate, which none of us are able to resist?—and yet all arising (with a strong appearance of self-punishment) from ourselves? Do not my parents see the hopeful children, from whom they expected a perpetuity of worldly happiness to their branching family, now grown up to answer the till now distant hope, setting their angry faces against each other, pulling up by the roots, as I may say, that hope which was ready to be carried into a probable certainty?
Your partial love will be ready to acquit me of capital and intentional faults:—but oh, my dear! my calamities have humbled me enough to make me turn my gaudy eye inward; to make me look into myself.—And what
