Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
abilities I have, serve only to make me more miserable!—I have no
pleasure in my memory, which impresses things upon me, that I could be
glad never were, or everlastingly to forget.
Well, said he, so much for that—But where are the accounts (since you
have kept so exact a journal of all that has befallen you) previous to
these here in my hand? My father has them, sir, said I.—By whose means?
said he—By Mr. Williams’s, said I. Well answered, said he. But cannot
you contrive to get me a sight of them? That would be pretty! said I. I
wish I could have contrived to have kept those you have from your
sight. Said he, I must see them, Pamela, or I shall never be easy; for
I must know how this correspondence between you and Williams began: and
if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they answer what
these give me hope they will.
I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the beginning was;
for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That won’t do, said he; for
though this may appear a punctilio to you, to me it is of high
importance. Sir, said I, if you please to let me go to my father, I
will send them to you by any messenger you shall send for them. Will
you so? But I dare say, if you will write for them, they will send them
to you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself: and I beg
you will.
I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all my former letters through
John’s baseness, and now these, through your faithful housekeeper’s
officious watchfulness, you might see all the rest: But I hope you will
not desire it, till I can see how much my pleasing you in this
particular will be of use to myself.
You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, Pamela, said the sly
gentleman, since I have seen these, would you have voluntarily shewn me
those, had they been in your possession?
I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, I think I
should, if you commanded it. Well then, Pamela, said he, as I am sure
you have found means to continue your journal, I desire, till the
former part can come, that you will shew me the succeeding.—O sir, sir,
said I, have you caught me so?—But indeed you must excuse me there.
Why, said he, tell me truly, have you not continued your account till
now? Don’t ask me, sir, said I. But I insist upon your answer, replied
he. Why then, sir, I will not tell an untruth; I have.—That’s my good
girl! said he, I love sincerity at my heart.—In another, sir, said I, I
presume you mean!—Well, said he, I’ll allow you to be a little witty
upon me; because it is in you, and you cannot help it: but you will
greatly oblige me, to shew me voluntarily what you have written. I long
to see the particulars of your plot, and your disappointment, where
your papers leave off: for you have so beautiful a manner, that it is
partly that, and partly my love for you, that has made me desirous of
reading all you write; though a great deal of it is against myself; for
which you must expect to suffer a little: and as I have furnished you
with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits of your
pen.—Besides, said he, there is such a pretty air of romance, as you
relate them, in your plots, and my plots, that I shall be better
directed in what manner to wind up the catastrophe of the pretty novel.
If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very provoking
way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought upon me.
O, said he, the liberties you have taken with my character in your
letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that respect. Sir, I could not
have taken those liberties, if you had not given me the cause: and the
cause, sir, you know, is before the effect.
True, Pamela, said he; you chop logic very prettily. What the deuse do
we men go to school for? If our wits were equal to women’s, we might
spare much time and pains in our education: for nature teaches your
sex, what, in a long course of labour and study, ours can hardly attain
to.—But, indeed, every lady is not a Pamela.
You delight to banter your poor servant, said I.
Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half the merit of
your wit, too; for the innocent exercises you have had for it, from me,
have certainly sharpened your invention.
Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent exercises, as you
are pleased to call them, I should have been glad to have been as dull
as a beetle. But then, Pamela, said he, I should not have loved you so
well. But then, sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.—Ay, may
be so, and may be not; and the wife, too, of some clouterly plough-boy.
But then, sir, I should have been content and innocent; and that’s
better than being a princess, and not so. And may be not, said he; for
if you had had that pretty face, some of us keen fox-hunters should
have found you out; and, in spite of your romantic notions, (which
then, too, perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind,)
might have been more happy with the ploughman’s wife, than I have been
with my mother’s Pamela. I hope, sir, said I, God would have given me
more grace.
Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that follow your
fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must not, if I can help
it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better, than that, in all your arts,
shifts, and stratagems, you have had a great regard to truth; and have,
in all your little pieces of deceit, told very few wilful fibs. Now I
expect you’ll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with
me.—Let me know then, where you have found supplies of pen, ink, and
paper, when Mrs. Jewkes was so vigilant, and gave you but two sheets at
a time?—Tell me truth.
Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion for them; but,
when I went away from your house, I begged some of each of good Mr.
Longman, who gave me plenty. Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr.
Longman! All your confederates are good, every one of them: but such of
my servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are painted
out by you as black as devils! nay, so am I too, for that matter.
Sir, said I, I hope you won’t be angry, but, saving yourself, do you
think they are painted worse than they deserve? or worse than the parts
they acted require?
You say, saving myself, Pamela; but is not that saying a mere
compliment to me, because I am present, and you are in my hands? Tell
me truly.—Good sir, excuse me; but I fancy I might ask you, Why you
should think so, if there was not a little bit of conscience that told
you, there was but too much reason for it?
He kissed me, and said, I must either do thus, or be angry with you;
for you are very saucy, Pamela.—But, with your bewitching chit-chat,
and pretty impertinence, I will not lose my question. Where did you
hide your paper, pens, and ink?
Some, sir, in one place, some in another; that I might have some left,
if others should be found.—That’s a good girl! said he; I love you for
your sweet veracity. Now tell me where it is you hide your written
papers, your saucy journal?—I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said
I. But indeed, answered he, you will not have it: for I will know, and
I will see them.—This is very hard, sir, said I; but I must say, you
shall not, if I can help it.
We were standing most of this time; but he then sat down, and took me
by both my hands, and said, Well said, my pretty Pamela, if you can
help it! But I will not let you help it. Tell me, are they in your
pocket? No, sir, said I; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you
won’t tell a downright fib for the world: but for equivocation! no
jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, Are they in neither of
your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are they not, said he, about your stays?
No, sir, replied I: But pray no more questions: for ask me ever so
much, I will not tell you.
O, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do abroad, when the
criminals won’t confess; torture them till they do.—But pray, sir, said
I, is this fair, just, or honest? I am no criminal; and I won’t
confess.
O, my girl! said he, many an innocent person has been put to the
torture. But let me know where they are, and you shall escape the
question, as they call it abroad.
Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope you won’t
bring it up. Admirably said! said the naughty gentleman.—But I can tell
you of as good a punishment. If a criminal won’t plead with us, here in
England, we press him to death, or till he does plead. And so now,
Pamela, that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won’t
tell without.
Tears stood in my eyes, and I said, This, sir, is very cruel and
barbarous.—No matter, said he; it is but like your Lucifer, you know,
in my shape! And, after I have done so many heinous things by you as
you think, you have no great reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at
least, it is but of a piece with the rest.
But, sir, said I, (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they were about
me,) if you will be obeyed in this unreasonable manner, though it is
sad tyranny, to be sure!—let me go up to them, and read them over
again, and you shall see so far as to the end of the sad story that
follows those you have.
I’ll see them all, said he, down to this time, if you have written so
far:—Or, at least, till within this week.—Then let me go up to them,
said I, and see what I have written, and to what day, to shew them to
you; for you won’t desire to see every thing. But I will, replied
he.—But say, Pamela, tell me truth: Are they above? I was much
affrighted. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. Why, sir,
answered I, I have sometimes hid them under the dry mould in the
garden; sometimes in one place, sometimes in another; and those you
have in your hand, were several days under a rose-bush, in the garden.
Artful slut! said he, What’s this to my question?—Are they not about
you?—If, said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding-place behind the
wainscot, won’t you see me?—Still more and more artful! said he—Is this
an answer to my question?—I have searched every place above, and in
your closet, for them, and cannot find them; so I will know where they
are. Now, said he, it is my opinion they are about you; and I never
undressed a girl in my life; but I will now begin to strip my pretty
Pamela; and I hope I shall not go far before I find them.
I fell a crying, and said, I will not be used in this manner. Pray,
sir, said I, (for he began to unpin my handkerchief,) consider! Pray
sir, do!—And pray, said he, do you consider. For I will see these
papers. But may be, said he, they are tied about your knees, with your
garters, and stooped. Was ever any thing so vile and so wicked?—I fell
on my knees, and said, What can I do? What can I do? If you’ll let me
go up I’ll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on your honour, let me
see them uncurtailed, and not offer to make them away; no not a single
paper?—I will, sir.—On your honour? Yes, sir. And so he let me go up
stairs, crying sadly for vexation to be so used. Sure nobody was ever
so served as I am!
I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could not bear the
thoughts of giving up my papers. Besides, I must all undress me, in a
manner, to untack them. So I writ thus:
‘SIR,
‘To expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman, I know will signify
nothing; and most hardly do you use the power you so wickedly have got
over me. I have heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you
regret using me thus; and I can hardly bear it, and what I am further
to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds me; thank God, it
does!—I will, however, keep my word, if you insist upon it when you
have read this; but, sir, let me beg of you to give me time till