Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
you angry, said I; and so I shall fare worse, if possible. I won’t be
angry, said he. Why, then, sir, said I, you cannot be my late good
lady’s son; for she loved me, and taught me virtue. You cannot then be
my master; for no master demeans himself so to his poor servant.
He put his arm round me, and his other hand on my neck, which made me
more angry and bold: and he said, What then am I? Why, said I,
(struggling from him, and in a great passion,) to be sure you are
Lucifer himself, in the shape of my master, or you could not use me
thus. These are too great liberties, said he, in anger; and I desire
that you will not repeat them, for your own sake: For if you have no
decency towards me, I’ll have none towards you.
I was running from him, and he said, Come back, when I bid you.—So,
knowing every place was alike dangerous to me, and I had nobody to run
to, I came back, at his call; and seeing him look displeased, I held my
hands together, and wept, and said, Pray, sir, forgive me. No, said he,
rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me! And, now, since you take me for
the devil, how can you expect any good from me?—How, rather, can you
expect any thing but the worst treatment from me?—You have given me a
character, Pamela; and blame me not that I act up to it. Sir, said I,
let me beg you to forgive me: I am really sorry for my boldness; but
indeed you don’t use me like a gentleman: and how can I express my
resentment, if I mince the matter, while you are so indecent? Precise
fool! said he, what indecencies have I offered you?—I was bewitched I
had not gone through my purpose last Sunday night; and then your
licentious tongue had not given the worst name to little puny freedoms,
that shew my love and my folly at the same time. But, begone! said he,
taking my hand, and tossing it from him, and learn another conduct and
more wit; and I will lay aside my foolish regard for you, and assert
myself. Begone! said he, again, with a haughty air.
Indeed, sir, said I, I cannot go, till you pardon me, which I beg on my
bended knees. I am truly sorry for my boldness.—But I see how you go
on: you creep by little and little upon me; and now soothe me, and now
threaten me; and if I should forbear to shew my resentment, when you
offer incivilities to me, would not that be to be lost by degrees?
Would it not shew, that I could bear any thing from you, if I did not
express all the indignation I could express, at the first approaches
you make to what I dread? And have you not as good as avowed my
ruin?—And have you once made me hope you will quit your purposes
against me? How then, sir, can I act, but by shewing my abhorrence of
every step that makes towards my undoing? And what is left me but
words?—And can these words be other than such strong ones, as shall
shew the detestation which, from the bottom of my heart, I have for
every attempt upon my virtue? Judge for me, sir, and pardon me.
Pardon you! said he, What! when you don’t repent?—When you have the
boldness to justify yourself in your fault? Why don’t you say, you
never will again offend me? I will endeavour, sir, said I, always to
preserve that decency towards you which becomes me. But really, sir, I
must beg your excuse for saying, That when you forget what belongs to
decency in your actions, and when words are all that are left me, to
shew my resentment of such actions, I will not promise to forbear the
strongest expressions that my distressed mind shall suggest to me: nor
shall your angriest frowns deter me, when my honesty is in question.
What, then, said he, do you beg pardon for? Where is the promise of
amendment, for which I should forgive you? Indeed, sir, said I, I own
that must absolutely depend on your usage of me: for I will bear any
thing you can inflict upon me with patience, even to the laying down of
my life, to shew my obedience to you in other cases; but I cannot be
patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is at stake! It would be
criminal in me, if I was.
He said, he never saw such a fool in his life. And he walked by the
side of me some yards, without saying a word, and seemed vexed; and at
last walked in, bidding me attend him in the garden, after dinner. So
having a little time, I went up, and wrote thus far.
Wednesday night.
If, my dear parents, I am not destined more surely than ever for ruin,
I have now more comfort before me than ever I yet knew: and am either
nearer my happiness, or my misery, than ever I was. God protect me from
the latter, if it be his blessed will! I have now such a scene to open
to you, that, I know, will alarm both your hopes and your fears, as it
does mine. And this it is:
After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables, to look at
his stud of horses; and, when he came in, he opened the parlour-door,
where Mrs. Jewkes and I sat at dinner; and, at his entrance, we both
rose up; but he said, Sit still, sit still, and let me see how you eat
your victuals, Pamela. O, said Mrs. Jewkes, very poorly, indeed, sir!
No, said I, pretty well, sir, considering. None of your considerings,
said he, pretty face; and tapped me on the cheek. I blushed, but was
glad he was so good-humoured; but I could not tell how to sit before
him, nor to behave myself. So he said, I know, Pamela, you are a nice
carver: my mother used to say so. My lady, sir, said I, was very good
to me in every thing, and would always make me do the honours of her
table for her, when she was with her few select friends that she loved.
Cut up, said he, that chicken. I did so. Now, said he, and took a knife
and fork, and put a wing upon my plate, let me see you eat that. O sir,
said I, I have eaten a whole breast of a chicken already, and cannot
eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake, and he would
teach me to eat heartily: So I did eat it; but was much confused at his
so kind and unusual freedom and condescension. And, good lack! you
can’t imagine how Mrs. Jewkes looked and stared, and how respectful she
seemed to me, and called me good madam, I’ll assure you, urging me to
take a little bit of tart.
My master took two or three turns about the room, musing and
thoughtful, as I had never before seen him; and at last he went out,
saying, I am going into the garden: You know, Pamela, what I said to
you before dinner. I rose, and courtesied, saying, I would attend his
honour; and he said, Do, good girl!
Well, said Mrs. Jewkes, I see how things will go. O, madam, as she
called me again, I am sure you are to be our mistress! And then I know
what will become of me. Ah Mrs. Jewkes, said I, if I can but keep
myself virtuous, ’tis the most of my ambition; and I hope, no
temptation shall make me otherwise.
Notwithstanding I had no reason to be pleased with his treatment of me
before dinner, yet I made haste to attend him; and I found him walking
by the side of that pond, which, for want of grace, and through a
sinful despondence, had like to have been so fatal to me, and the sight
of which, ever since, has been a trouble and reproach to me. And it was
by the side of this pond, and not far from the place where I had that
dreaded conflict, that my present hopes, if I am not to be deceived
again, began to dawn: which I presume to flatter myself with being a
happy omen for me, as if God Almighty would shew your poor sinful
daughter, how well I did to put my affiance in his goodness, and not to
throw away myself, because my ruin seemed inevitable, to my
short-sighted apprehension.
So he was pleased to say, Well, Pamela, I am glad you are come of your
own accord, as I may say: give me your hand. I did so; and he looked at
me very steadily, and pressing my hand all the time, at last said, I
will now talk to you in a serious manner.
You have a good deal of wit, a great deal of penetration, much beyond
your years, and, as I thought, your opportunities. You are possessed of
an open, frank, and generous mind; and a person so lovely, that you
excel all your sex, in my eyes. All these accomplishments have engaged
my affection so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live
without you; and I would divide, with all my soul, my estate with you,
to make you mine upon my own terms. These you have absolutely rejected;
and that, though in saucy terms enough, yet in such a manner as makes
me admire you the more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs. Jewkes, the last
Sunday night, so innocent, and so full of beautiful simplicity, half
disarmed my resolution before I approached your bed: And I see you so
watchful over your virtue, that though I hoped to find it otherwise, I
cannot but confess my passion for you is increased by it. But now, what
shall I say farther, Pamela?—I will make you, though a party, my
adviser in this matter, though not, perhaps, my definitive judge.
You know I am not a very abandoned profligate; I have hitherto been
guilty of no very enormous or vile actions. This of seizing you, and
confining you thus, may perhaps be one of the worst, at least to
persons of real innocence. Had I been utterly given up to my passions,
I should before now have gratified them, and not have shewn that
remorse and compassion for you, which have reprieved you, more than
once, when absolutely in my power; and you are as inviolate a virgin as
you were when you came into my house.
But what can I do? Consider the pride of my condition. I cannot endure
the thought of marriage, even with a person of equal or superior degree
to myself; and have declined several proposals of that kind: How then,
with the distance between us in the world’s judgment, can I think of
making you my wife?—Yet I must have you; I cannot bear the thoughts of
any other man supplanting me in your affections: and the very
apprehension of that has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him
in a manner unworthy of my temper.
Now, Pamela, judge for me; and, since I have told you, thus candidly,
my mind, and I see yours is big with some important meaning, by your
eyes, your blushes, and that sweet confusion which I behold struggling
in your bosom, tell me, with like openness and candour, what you think
I ought to do, and what you would have me do.
It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my mind, on this
unexpected declaration, so contrary to his former behaviour. His manner
too had something so noble, and so sincere, as I thought, that, alas
for me! I found I had need of all my poor discretion, to ward off the
blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded thoughts. I threw
myself at his feet; for I trembled, and could hardly stand: O sir, said
I, spare your poor servant’s confusion! O spare the poor Pamela!—Speak
out, said he, and tell me, when I bid you, What you think I ought to
do? I cannot say what you ought to do, answered I: but I only beg you
will not ruin me; and, if you think me virtuous, if you think me
sincerely honest, let me go to my poor parents. I will vow to you, that
I will never suffer myself to be engaged without your approbation.
Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his question, of what
I thought he ought to do. And I did, As to my poor thoughts of what you
ought to do, I must needs say, that indeed I think you ought to regard
the world’s opinion, and avoid doing any thing disgraceful to your
birth and fortune; and, therefore, if you really honour the poor Pamela
with your respect, a little time, absence, and the conversation of
worthier persons of my sex, will effectually enable you to overcome a
regard so unworthy your condition: And this, good sir, is the best
advice I can offer.
Charming creature! lovely Pamela! said he, (with an ardour that was
never before so agreeable to me,) this generous manner is of a piece
with all the rest of your conduct. But tell me, still more explicitly,