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Файл:Clarissa V. The history of a young lady
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CLARISSA • V
the parlour-door, after the inconsolable mother: but neither of
them were able to enter it. The mother said she must once
more see the child of her heart, or she should never enjoy herself. But they both agreed to refer their melancholy curiosity
till the next day; and had in hand retired inconsolable, speechless both, their faces overspread with woe, and turned from
each other, as unable each to behold the distress of the other.
When all were withdrawn, I retired, and sent for my cousin James, and acquainted him with his sister’s request in relation to the discourse to be pronounced at her interment; telling him how necessary it was that the minister, whoever he
were, should have the earliest notice given him that the case
would admit. He lamented the death of the reverend Dr. Lewen, who, as he said, was a great admirer of his sister, as she
was of him, and would have been the fi ttest of all men for that
offi ce. He spoke with great asperity of Mr. Brand, upon whose
light inquiry after his sister’s character in town he was willing to lay some of the blame due to himself. Mr. Melvill, Dr.
Lewen’s assistant, must, he said, be the man; and he praised
him for his abilities; his elocution, and unexceptionable manners; and promised to engage him early in the morning.
He called out his sister, and he was of his opinion. So I let
this upon them.
They both, with no little warmth, hinted their disapprobation of you, Sir, for their sister’s executor, on the score of your
intimate friendship with the author of her ruin.
You must not resent any thing I shall communicate to
you of what they say on this occasion: depending that you will
not, I shall write with the greater freedom.
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SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I told them how much my dear cousin was obliged to your
friendship and humanity: the injunctions she had laid you under, and your own inclination to observe them. I said, That
you were a man of honour: that you were desirous of consulting me, because you would not willingly give offence to any of
them: and that I was very fond of cultivating your favour and
correspondence.
They said there was no need of an executor out of their
family; and they hoped that you would relinquish so unnecessary a trust, as they called it. My cousin James declared that he
would write to you, as soon as the funeral was over, to desire
that you would do so, upon proper assurances that all the will
prescribed should be performed.
I said you were a man of resolution: that I thought he would
hardly succeed; for that you made a point of honour of it.
I then showed them their sister’s posthumous letter to
you; in which she confesses her obligations to you, and regard
for you, and for your future welfare.
were extremely affected with the perusal of it.
They were surprised that I had given up to you the produce of her grandfather’s estate since his death. I told them
plainly that they must thank themselves if any thing disagreeable to them occurred from their sister’s devise; deserted, and
thrown into the hands of strangers, as she had been.
They said they would report all I had said to their father
and mother; adding, that great as their trouble was, they found
they had still more to come. But if Mr. Belford were to be
the executor of her will, contrary to their hopes, they besought
7
You may believe, Sir, they
7
See Letter XII. of this volume.
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CLARISSA • V
me to take the trouble of transacting every thing with you;
that a friend of the man to whom they owed all their calamity
might not appear to them.
They were extremely moved at the text their sister had chosen for the subject of their funeral discourse. I had extracted
from the will that article, supposing it probable that I might
not so soon have an opportunity to show them the will itself,
as would otherwise have been necessary, on account of the interment, which cannot be delayed.
MONDAY MORNING, BETWEEN EIGHT AND NINE.
The unhappy family are preparing for a mournful meeting at breakfast. Mr. James Harlowe, who has had as little rest
as I, has written to Mr. Melvill, who has promised to draw up
a brief eulogium on the deceased. Miss Howe is expected here
by-and-by, to see, for the last time, her beloved friend.
Miss Howe, by her messenger, desires she may not be taken
any notice of. She shall not tarry six minutes, was the word.
Her desire will be easily granted her.
Her servant, who brought the request, if it were denied,
was to return, and meet her; for she was ready to set out in her
chariot, when he got on horseback.
If he met her not with the refusal, he was to say here till
she came. I am, Sir,
Your faithful, humble servant, WILLIAM MORDEN.
LETTER XXVIII
Colonel Morden
[In Continuation.] Monday Afternoon, Sept. 11.
SIR,
We are such bad company here to one another, that it is
some relief to retire and write.
I was summoned to breakfast about half an hour after nine.
Slowly did the mournful congress meet. Each, lifelessly and
spiritless, took our places, with swoln eyes, inquiring, without
expecting any tolerable account, how each had rested.
The sorrowing mother gave for answer, that she should
never more know what rest was.
By the time we were well seated, the bell ringing, the outward gate opening, a chariot rattling over the pavement of
the court-yard, put them into emotion.
I left them; and was just time enough to give Miss Howe
my hand as she alighted: her maid in tears remaining in
the chariot.
I think you told me, Sir, you never saw Miss Howe. She is
a fi ne, graceful young lady. A fi xed melancholy on her whole
aspect, overclouded a vivacity and fi re, which, nevertheless,
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CLARISSA • V
darted now-and-then through the awful gloom. I shall ever
respect her for her love to my dear cousin.
Never did I think, said she, as she gave me her hand, to
enter more these doors: but, living or dead, Clarissa brings me
after her any where!
She entered with me the little parlour; and seeing the coffi n, withdrew her hand from mine, and with impatience
pushed aside the lid. As impatiently she removed the facecloth. In a wild air, she clasped her uplifted hands together;
and now looked upon the corpse, now up to Heaven, as if appealing to that. Her bosom heaved and fl uttered discernible
through her handkerchief, and at last she broke silence: – O
Sir! – See you not here! – the glory of her sex? – Thus by
the most villanous of yours – thus – laid low!
O my blessed Friend! – said she – My sweet Companion! – My lovely Monitress! – kissing her lips at every tender
appellation. And is this all! – Is it all of my CLARISSA’S story!
Then, after a short pause, and a profound sigh, she turned to
me, and then to her breathless friend. But is she, can she be,
really dead! – O no! – She only sleeps. – Awake, my beloved
Friend! My sweet clay-cold Friend, awake: let thy Anna Howe
revive thee; by her warm breath revive thee, my dear creature!
And, kissing her again, Let my warm lips animate thy cold ones!
Then, sighing again, as from the bottom of her heart, and
with an air, as if disappointed that she answered not, And can
such perfection end thus! – And art thou really and indeed
fl own from thine Anna Howe! – O my unkind CLARISSA!
She was silent a few moments, and then, seeming to recover herself, she turned to me – Forgive, forgive, Mr. Morden,
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SAMUEL RICHARDSON
this wild phrensy! – I am myself! – I never shall be! – You
knew not the excellence, no, not half the excellence, that is
thus laid low! – Repeating, This cannot, surely, be all of my
CLARISSA’S story!
Again pausing, One tear, my beloved friend, didst thou allow me! – But this dumb sorrow! – O for a tear to ease my
full-swoln heart that is just bursting! –
But why, Sir, why, Mr. Morden, was she sent hither? Why
not to me? – She has no father, no mother, no relation; no,
not one! – They had all renounced her. I was her sympathizing friend – And had not I the best right to my dear creature’s
remains? – And must names, without nature, be preferred to
such a love as mine?
Again she kissed her lips, each cheek, her forehead; – and
sighed as if her heart would break –
But why, why, said she, was I withheld from seeing my dearest, dear friend, and too easily persuaded to delay, the friendly
visit that my heart panted after; what pain will this refl ection
give me! – O my blessed Friend! Who knows, who knows, had
I come in time, what my cordial comfortings might have done
for thee! – But – looking round her, as if she apprehended seeing some of the family – One more kiss, my Angel, my Friend,
my ever-to-be-regretted, lost Companion! And let me fl y this
hated house, which I never loved but for thy sake! – Adieu
then, my dearest CLARISSA! – Thou art happy, I doubt not, as
thou assuredst me in thy last letter! – O may we meet, and rejoice together, where no villanous Lovelaces, no hard-hearted
relations, will ever shock our innocence, or ruffl e our felicity!
126
CLARISSA • V
Again she was silent, unable to go, though seeming to
intend it: struggling, as it were, with her grief, and heaving
with anguish. At last, happily, a fl ood of tears gushed from her
eyes – Now! – Now! – said she, shall I – shall I – be easier.
But for this kindly relief, my heart would have burst asunder – more, many more tears than these are due to my CLARISSA, whose counsel has done for me what mine could not
do for her! – But why, looking earnestly upon her, her hands
clasped and lifted up – But why do I thus lament the HAPPY?
And that thou art so, is my comfort. It is, it is, my dear creature!
kissing her again.
Excuse me, Sir, [turning to me, who was as much moved
as herself,] I loved the dear creature, as never woman loved
another. Excuse my frantic grief. How has the glory of her sex
fallen a victim to villany and to hard-heartedness!
Madam, said I, they all have it! – Now indeed they have it –
And let them have it; – I should belie my love for
the friend of my heart, were I to pity them! – But how unhappy
am I [looking upon her] that I saw her not before these eyes
were shut, before these lips were for ever closed! – O Sir, you
know not the wisdom that continually fl owed from these lips
when she spoke! – Nor what a friend I have lost!
Then surveying the lid, she seemed to take in at once
the meaning of the emblems; and this gave her so much fresh
grief, that though she several times wipes her eyes, she was
unable to read the inscription and texts; turning, therefore, to
me, Favour me, Sir, I pray you, by a line, with the description of
these emblems, and with these texts; and if I might be allowed
a lock of the dear creature’s hair –
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SAMUEL RICHARDSON
I told her that her executor would order both; and would
also send her a copy of her last will; in which she would fi nd
the most grateful remembrances of her love for her, whom she
calls The sister of her heart.
Justly, said she, does she call me so; for we had but one
heart, but one soul, between us; and now my better half is torn
from me – What shall I do?
But looking round her, on a servant’s stepping by the door,
as if again she had apprehended it was some of the family – Once more, said she, a solemn, an everlasting adieu! – Alas
for me! a solemn, an everlasting adieu!
Then again embracing her face with both her hands, and
kissing it, and afterwards the hands of the dear deceased,
fi rst one, then the other, she gave me her hand, and quitting
the room with precipitation, rushed into her chariot; and,
when there, with profound sight, and a fresh burst of tears, unable to speak, she bowed her head to me, and was driven away.
The inconsolable company saw how much I had been
moved on my return to them. Mr. James Harlowe had been
telling them what had passed between him and me. And, fi nding myself unfi t for company, and observing, that they broke
off talk at my coming in, I thought it proper to leave them to
their consultations.
And here I will put an end to this letter, for indeed, Sir,
the very recollection of this affecting scene has left me nearly
as unable to proceed, as I was, just after it, to converse with my
cousins. I am, Sir, with great truth,
Your most obedient humble servant, WILLIAM MORDEN.
LETTER XXIX
Colonel Morden
[In Continuation.] Tuesday Morning, Sept. 12.
The good Mrs. Norton is arrived, a little amended in her
spirits; owing to the very posthumous letters, as I may call
them, which you, Mr. Belford, as well as I, apprehended would
have had fatal effects upon her.
I cannot but attribute this to the right turn of her mind.
It seems she has been inured to affl ictions; and has lived in
a constant hope of a better life; and, having no acts of unkindness to the dear deceased to reproach herself with, is most considerately resolved to exert her utmost fortitude in order to
comfort the sorrowing mother.
O Mr. Belford, how does the character of my dear departed
cousin rise upon me from every mouth! – Had she been my
own child, or my sister! – But do you think that the man who
occasioned this great, this extended ruin – But I forbear.
The will is not to be looked into, till the funeral rites
are performed. Preparations are making for the solemnity;
129
SAMUEL RICHARDSON
and the servants, as well as principals of all the branches of
the family, are put into close mourning.
I have seen Mr. Melvill. He is a serious and sensible man.
I have given him particulars to go upon in the discourse he is to
pronounce at the funeral; but had the less need to do this, as
I fi nd he is extremely well acquainted with the whole unhappy
story; and was a personal admirer of my dear cousin, and a sincere lamenter of her misfortunes and death. The reverend Dr.
Lewen, who is but very lately dead, was his particular friend, and
had once intended to recommend him to her favour and notice.
* * *
I am just returned from attending the affl icted parents, in
an effort they made to see the corpse of their beloved child.
They had requested my company, and that of the good Mrs.
Norton. A last leave, the mother said, she must take.
An effort, however, it was, and no more. The moment they
came in sight of the coffi n, before the lid could be put aside, O
my dear, said the father, retreating, I cannot, I fi nd I cannot bear
it! – Had I – had I – had I never been hard-hearted! – Then,
turning round to his lady, he had but just time to catch her in
his arms, and prevent her sinking on the fl oor. – O, my dearest
Life, said he, this is too much! – too much, indeed! – Let us – let
us retire. Mrs. Norton, who (attracted by the awful receptacle)
had but just left the good lady, hastened to her – Dear, dear
woman, cried the unhappy parent, fl inging her arms about her
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