Clarissa Harlowe, Samuel Richardson [black authors fiction .txt] 📗

affrights me, when I see her!⁠—Ever since⁠—when was it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, as far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour⁠—very likely⁠—though forced to let lodgings for a livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know I pity her: but don’t let her come near me again⁠—pray don’t!

Yet she may be a very good woman⁠—

What would I say!⁠—I forget what I was going to say.

O Lovelace, you are Satan himself; or he helps you out in everything; and that’s as bad!

But have you really and truly sold yourself to him? And for how long? What duration is your reign to have?

Poor man! The contract will be out: and then what will be your fate!

O Lovelace! if you could be sorry for yourself, I would be sorry too⁠—but when all my doors are fast, and nothing but the keyhole open, and the key of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner without opening any of them⁠—O wretched, wretched Clarissa Harlowe!

For I never will be Lovelace⁠—let my uncle take it as he pleases.

Well, but now I remember what I was going to say⁠—it is for your good⁠—not mine⁠—for nothing can do me good now!⁠—O thou villanous man! thou hated Lovelace!

But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman⁠—if you love me⁠—but that you don’t⁠—but don’t let her bluster up with her worse than mannish airs to me again! O she is a frightful woman! If she be a woman! She needed not to put on that fearful mask to scare me out of my poor wits. But don’t tell her what I say⁠—I have no hatred to her⁠—it is only fright, and foolish fear, that’s all.⁠—She may not be a bad woman⁠—but neither are all men, any more than all women alike⁠—God forbid they should be like you!

Alas! you have killed my head among you⁠—I don’t say who did it!⁠—God forgive you all!⁠—But had it not been better to have put me out of all your ways at once? You might safely have done it! For nobody would require me at your hands⁠—no, not a soul⁠—except, indeed, Miss Howe would have said, when she should see you, What, Lovelace, have you done with Clarissa Harlowe?⁠—And then you could have given any slight, gay answer⁠—sent her beyond sea; or, she has run away from me, as she did from her parents. And this would have been easily credited; for you know, Lovelace, she that could run away from them, might very well run away from you.

But this is nothing to what I wanted to say. Now I have it.

I have lost it again⁠—This foolish wench comes teasing me⁠—for what purpose should I eat? For what end should I wish to live?⁠—I tell thee, Dorcas, I will neither eat nor drink. I cannot be worse than I am.

I will do as you’d have me⁠—good Dorcas, look not upon me so fiercely⁠—but thou canst not look so bad as I have seen somebody look.

Mr. Lovelace, now that I remember what I took pen in hand to say, let me hurry off my thoughts, lest I lose them again⁠—here I am sensible⁠—and yet I am hardly sensible neither⁠—but I know my head is not as it should be, for all that⁠—therefore let me propose one thing to you: it is for your good⁠—not mine; and this is it:

I must needs be both a trouble and an expense to you. And here my uncle Harlowe, when he knows how I am, will never wish any man to have me: no, not even you, who have been the occasion of it⁠—barbarous and ungrateful!⁠—A less complicated villany cost a Tarquin⁠—but I forget what I would say again⁠—

Then this is it⁠—I never shall be myself again: I have been a very wicked creature⁠—a vain, proud, poor creature, full of secret pride⁠—which I carried off under an humble guise, and deceived everybody⁠—my sister says so⁠—and now I am punished⁠—so let me be carried out of this house, and out of your sight; and let me be put into that Bedlam privately, which once I saw: but it was a sad sight to me then! Little as I thought what I should come to myself!⁠—That is all I would say: this is all I have to wish for⁠—then I shall be out of all your ways; and I shall be taken care of; and bread and water without your tormentings, will be dainties: and my straw-bed the easiest I have lain in⁠—for⁠—I cannot tell how long!

My clothes will sell for what will keep me there, perhaps as long as I shall live. But, Lovelace, dear Lovelace, I will call you; for you have cost me enough, I’m sure!⁠—don’t let me be made a show of, for my family’s sake; nay, for your own sake, don’t do that⁠—for when I know all I have suffered, which yet I do not, and no matter if I never do⁠—I may be apt to rave against you by name, and tell of all your baseness to a poor humbled creature, that once was as proud as anybody⁠—but of what I can’t tell⁠—except of my own folly and vanity⁠—but let that pass⁠—since I am punished enough for it⁠—

So, suppose, instead of Bedlam, it were a private madhouse, where nobody comes!⁠—That will be better a great deal.

But, another thing, Lovelace: don’t let them use me cruelly when I am there⁠—you have used me cruelly enough, you know!⁠—Don’t let them use me cruelly; for I will be very tractable; and do as anybody would have me to do⁠—except what you would have me do⁠—for that I never will.⁠—Another thing, Lovelace: don’t let this good woman, I was going to say vile woman; but don’t tell her that⁠—because she won’t let you send me to this happy refuge, perhaps, if she were to know it⁠—

Another thing, Lovelace: and let me have pen, and ink, and paper, allowed me⁠—it will be all my amusement⁠—but they need