I know my duty, said I; and hope I shall not find impossible condition annexed to it.
A pert young creature, vain and conceited, she called me. I was the only judge, in my own wise opinion, of what was right and fit. She, for her part, had long seen into my specious ways: and now I should show everybody what I was at bottom.
Dear Bella! said I, hands and eyes lifted up—why all this?—Dear, dear Bella, why—
None of your dear, dear Bella’s to me.—I tell you, I see through your witchcrafts (that was her strange word). And away she flung; adding, as she went, and so will everybody else very quickly, I dare say.
Bless me, said I to myself, what a sister have I!—How have I deserved this?
Then I again regretted my grandfather’s too distinguishing goodness to me.
Feb. 25, in the Evening.
What my brother and sister have said against me I cannot tell:—but I am in heavy disgrace with my father.
I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very cheerful aspect: but had occasion soon to change it.
Such a solemnity in everybody’s countenance!—My mother’s eyes were fixed upon the teacups; and when she looked up, it was heavily, as if her eyelids had weights upon them; and then not to me. My father sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his head might be turned from me: his hands clasped, and waving, as it were, up and down; his fingers, poor dear gentleman! in motion, as if angry to the very ends of them. My sister was swelling. My brother looked at me with scorn, having measured me, as I may say, with his eyes as I entered, from head to foot. My aunt was there, and looked upon me as if with kindness restrained, bending coldly to my compliment to her as she sat; and then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if to give the reason (so I am willing to construe it) of her unusual stiffness.—Bless me, my dear! that they should choose to intimidate rather than invite a mind, till now, not thought either unpersuadable or ungenerous!
I took my seat. Shall I make tea, Madam, to my mother?—I always used, you know, my dear, to make tea.
No! a very short sentence, in one very short word, was the expressive answer. And she was pleased to take the canister in her own hand.
My brother bid the footman, who attended, leave the room—I, he said, will pour out the water.
My heart was up in my mouth. I did not know what to do with myself. What is to follow? thought I.
Just after the second dish, out stepped my mother—A word with you, sister Hervey! taking her in her hand. Presently my sister dropped away. Then my brother. So I was left alone with my father.
He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me as twice or thrice I would have addressed myself to him: nothing but solemn silence on all hands having passed before.
At last, I asked, if it were his pleasure that I should pour him out another dish?
He answered me with the same angry monosyllable, which I had received from my mother before; and then arose, and walked about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at his feet; but was too much overawed by his sternness, even to make such an expression of my duty to him as my heart overflowed with.
At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the back of a chair, I took a little more courage; and approaching him, besought him to acquaint me in what I had offended him?
He turned from me, and in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, said he, know that I will be obeyed.
God forbid, Sir, that you should not!—I have never yet opposed your will—
Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he.—Don’t let me run the fate of all who show indulgence to your sex; to be the more contradicted for mine to you.
My father, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my brother) a kind opinion of our sex; although there is not a more condescending wife in the world than my mother.
I was going to make protestations of duty—No protestations, girl! No words! I will not be prated to! I will be obeyed! I have no child, I will have no child, but an obedient one.
Sir, you never had reason, I hope—
Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I shall have.
Good Sir, be pleased to hear me—My brother and sister, I fear—
Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl!—They have a just concern for the honour of my family.
And I hope, Sir—
Hope nothing.—Tell me not of hopes, but of facts. I ask nothing of you but what is in your power to comply with, and what it is your duty to comply with.
Then, Sir, I will comply with it—But yet I hope from your goodness—
No expostulations! No but’s, girl! No qualifyings! I will be obeyed, I tell you; and cheerfully too!—or you are no child of mine!
I wept.
Let me beseech you, my dear and ever-honoured Papa, (and I dropped down on my knees), that I may have only yours and my mamma’s will, and not my brother’s, to obey.
I was going on; but he was pleased to withdraw, leaving me on the floor; saying, That he would not hear me thus by subtlety and cunning aiming to distinguish away my duty: repeating, that he would be obeyed.
My heart is too full;—so full, that it may endanger my duty, were I to try to unburden it to you on this occasion: so I will lay down my pen.—But can—Yet positively, I will lay down my pen—!
Letter 9
Miss Clarissa Harlowe, to Miss Howe
, in the Morning
My aunt, who stayed here last night, made me a visit this morning
