Fanny (27 page)

T
HUS DID I PASS
my first Day in Mother Coxtart’s notorious Brothel. I fear that the World hath altogether a diff’rent Notion of my History from reading Mr. John Cleland’s scandalous Book,
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
, for which he stole my History, e’en my Christian Name; but being a Man, and a Man of very Eccentrick Understanding and Questionable Parts at that, he could not but sentimentalize my History, giving me an humble, unlearnt Country Childhood (with Parents conveniently carried off by the Pox) and claiming that I met Mother Coxtart (whom he calls Brown—thus confusing her with another venerable Abbess of the Day) at a Registry Office where I had supposedly gone to seek a Place as a Chambermaid.

The dastardly Mr. Cleland, seeking nothing but to repay his num’rous Debts by writing an Inflaming Book, and understanding almost nothing of the Thoughts and Sensations of the Fair-Sex, fashion’d from my Life a nauseously sugar’d Tale (as studded with Inflaming Scenes as a Plum Pudding with brandied Fruits) about a poor Country Girl who comes to the City, quite inadvertently becomes a Whore, but nonetheless is faithful at Heart (if not at some lower Organ) to her beloved Charles, and becomes an Honest Woman at the Last, concluding her Days in “the Bosom of Virtue” (as Mr. Cleland quaintly styles it).

That the Book was written by a credulous Man, not a canny Woman, may easily be seen by the excessive Attention Mr. Cleland pays to the Description of the Masculine Organ, for which he hath more Terms than Lancelot Robinson hath Names for the corresponding female one! Only a Man (and an indiff’rently-endow’d one at that) would dwell so interminably upon the Size and Endurance of sundry Peewees, Pillicocks, and Pricks—for a Woman hath better Things to do with her Reason and her Wit.

Be that as it may, I will soon have Occasion to tell you how I met Mr. Cleland and how the Blackguard came to steal my History. Suffice it for the Present to say that not one Whit of his “Memoirs” is true, save the Christian Name of the Heroine, the bare Fact of her having been driven to a Life of Whoredom for a Time, and certain Features (tho’ scarcely all) of the physical Description of his “Fanny.”

Her Hair he describes as “glossy Auburn”—which, I suppose, is not too far off the Mark (tho’ my Hair was e’er more red than brown). But “black Eyes” I ne’er had, nor was my Chin either cleft or pitted as he alleges, nor was I e’er in love with any Person nam’d Charles!

All the most Curious and Compelling Facts of my Life—my Travels with the Merry Men, my Introduction to the Craft of the Witches, my Studious and Learned Childhood at Lymeworth, my Love of Latin and English Authors, my Perplexing Meditations on Philosophy—he saw fit to ignore (for a Man can ne’er understand that a Woman may be a sometime Whore and yet love Latin!), and he made me out instead a perfect Ninny.

By Jove! I resent his pallid Portrait by which the World
thinks
it knows me. Innocent of London’s Wicked Ways I may indeed have been when first he met me, but surely I was no simp’ring Idiot!

Alas, Belinda, most Men can only see us either as the Embodiment of Virtue or the Embodiment of Vice; either as Bluestockings or unlearnt Painted Whores; either as Trollops or as Spinsters; as Wives or Wantons; as Good Widows or Bad Witches. But try to tell ’em, as I have, that a Woman is made of Sweets and Bitters, that she is both Reason and Rump, both Wit and Wantonness—and you will butt your Head against a stone Wall! They’ll have it one Way or the other! Be clever, if you must, and forfeit Reputation for Beauty and Sensuality, as well as all Pleasures of the Flesh. Or have your Pleasures and your Loves—and in their Minds you’ll always be a Witless Whore!

(By the by, ’tis not quite so in France, where Women of Beauty and of Brains are not unknown, and oft’ the greatest Courtesans have been renown’d for Learning as well as Liquorishness. But here in Merry England, where the Men, I fear, are all a little queer, ’twill never wash!)

But on with my Tale.

I found myself, then, a Prisoner in Mother Coxtart’s West End Brothel, a Prisoner of my Poverty, her watchful Eye (and the Eyes of the Girls and the Butler as well). Of Druscilla, Kate, and the beauteous Evelina, you have already had a Taste; there were seven other Girls as well—altho’ four of ’em were off in Buckinghamshire at a Private Revel and I was not to make their Acquaintance until later. Three more I met the following Day: Molly, Roxana, and Nell. Molly was very plump and blond, with a turn’d-up Nose and red Cheaks like a Milkmaid. Roxana was pale and dark and seem’d fore’er coughing in her Handkerchief. Nell was scrawny and plain, but as she was reputed to know devilish Tricks in Bed, she was much sought after nonetheless.

The first Morning I awoke in Bed beside Evelina. She was languid and lovely, and with her Honey-colour’d Skin, she put one in mind, as I have said, of Tropick Isles; I made bold to strike up an Acquaintance by enquiring of her Birthplace.

“Martinique, Sweetheart,” she replies, rolling o’er sleepily in Bed, “an’ I near caught me Death in London many a Time. The Weather here is
fierce
.” She shiver’d as if to better make her Point. “What o’ yer own pretty Self, Sweetheart?”

“Wiltshire.”

“An’ where’s that?”

“’Tis a Country to the West of here, methinks, but this being the first Time I am in London, and my Way here having been so curious and indirect, I cannot rightly say….”

“Oh,” says Evelina, quite bor’d with my Geography, and plainly not wishing to hear more of my Travels.

“What brings you here across the Seas?” I ask.

“A Man,
bien sûr
,” says she. “A wretched Englishman that promis’d me a fine Career upon the Stage, a Coach an’ Six, an’ all me Heart’s Desires. He left me quick enough.”

“And what of your Career upon the Stage?”

“Poo,” says she, “the Managers hire their Mistresses first, an’ the Roles fer Colour’d Wenches is few enough. A Touch o’ the Tar Brush makes a Merry Mistress, but a starvin’ Player. Most Girls play once or twice, hopin’ to snare some Duke fer their Keeper an’ leave the Stage. ’Tis no Life fer a Lady.”

“And what of this Life?”

“’Tis not so bad once ye learn to outwit the old Bitch. She’s a sly one. She’ll try to take yer Money fer yer Clothes an’ Food before she’ll let ye see a Penny. Ye must watch her like a Hawk. She keeps a little Book wherein she
says
she balances yer Keep ’gainst yer Take. Hah! Wait fer her to pay ye and ye’ll starve in Hell! The Trick is to get paid
direct
—or have yer Swains put Clothin’ on yer Back and Jewels ’round yer Neck. Then ye can fence ’em fer some Cash. Some Girls got Swains who give ’em South Sea Stock, or Bank o’ England Notes, or East India Bonds. That’s good, but fer me own Part I have a Swain who says he’ll set me up. I’ll soon be out o’ here an’ into Keepin’, God help me.”

I listen’d intently to all this good Advice, wond’ring if Evelina truly had a loyal Swain or if she was merely dreaming.

“An’ one more Thing, Sweetheart, be mindful not to get with Child, fer the old Bitch will surely throw ye out an’ on the Mercy o’ the Parish. She’ll no doubt try to sell yer Maidenhead—whether ye have one or not—because, bein’ as yer a new Lass, she can claim ye fer a Virgin. She’ll give ye Sea Sponge an’ Pigeon Blood an’ show ye how to stuff it in yer Privy Hole. It makes the Swains think yer a Virgin when ye bleed an’ Mother Coxtart gets a double Fee. ’Tis droll. The Men who comes here is a learned Lot—Playwrights, Poets, Scribblers o’ all Sorts—yet they ne’er suspect Mother Coxtart’s false Virgins! She’ll have ye play the Virgin half a dozen Times fer half a dozen Swains!

“Mark ye well, keep the Sponge (or buy another at the Apothecary) an’ soak it in Vinegar an’ put it in yer Privity before ye lay abed with any Man—’twill keep ye out o’ the Family Way. By the by, Sweetheart, what’s yer Name?”

“Fanny,” said I, still marvelling at all she’d related.

“Mark me well, Fanny, Sweetheart, ’twill save yer Life someday.”

Just then we heard a Key turn in the Lock, and who should appear but Mother Coxtart, dress’d in her Morning Finery, follow’d by a Chambermaid. The Chambermaid carried a Pitcher of Water and a Wash-Bowl, which she now placed upon the Washstand. Then she knelt at the side of the Bed, extracted the Chamber-Pott, took it to the Window, merrily toss’d its odiferous Contents out into the Street (with a Cry of “Gardy-loo!”), replaced it ’neath the Bed, and presently began to lay a Fire in the Grate. Mother Coxtart also seem’d very hearty and hale after last Night’s Debauch. ’Twas nothing short of astonishing how she’d corseted herself to make it appear she had a Shape! The Woman was a Sempstress’ Triumph!

“And how be my Beauties?” she askt, coming to the Bedstead and peering down at us with her Hawk Eyes. “Now then, out of Bed with ye, ye lazy Tartlets! There’s Breakfast in the Parlour and I’ll be wantin’ the new Girl—what’s yer Name, Lass?”

“Fanny, Ma’am.”

“I’ll be wantin’ Fanny for a visit to the Draper’s and the Sempstress. Now, out of Bed with ye!”

Whilst Evelina had her Turn at the Chamber-Pott and the Wash-Bowl, I was made to stand naked as the Day of my Nativity in the Centre of the Bedchamber (shiv’ring, you may be sure) so as to enable Mother Coxtart to examine my Body carefully and to take my Measure with a Tape which she extracted from her Apron. ’Twas so cold in the Chamber (despite the Fire just starting) that my Nipples stood up, and my Skin seem’d as pucker’d and bump’d as a pluckt Chicken’s; and indeed, it seem’d that Mother Coxtart was examining me as much for her own lustful Delectation (and for my continu’d Submission) as to truly take my Measure (for could not the Sempstress measure me as well?). She tweakt my Nipples, pok’d a Finger in my Navel, e’en thrust two Fingers into my Privity (she
said
to test my Virginity—but after last Night’s Am’rous Play—what Resistance might she hope to find?). I had not disburden’d my Bladder since the previous Night and when she so rudely thrust her Fingers in my Privy Place, I fear’d I might piss upon the Floor, and then my Degradation would be compleat! With much Travail, I held back, biting my lower Lip until it fairly bled.

“I trust the Lass is not with Child,” said Mother Coxtart coldly.

“O no,” says I, in fear now to be thrown out in the Streets, but her Cold Question set my Mind racing wildly—for ’twas just possible, tho’ not likely, that I might have conceiv’d a Child by Lord Bellars. “Goddess preserve me,” I whisper’d ’neath my Breath.

“What’s that?” says Mother Coxtart.

“I am a Virgin but for thee,” I ly’d (with such Readiness, I astonish’d e’en myself).

Mother Coxtart lookt at me quizzically.

“I saw no Blood upon the Sheet last Night,” says she. “Come now, Fanny, ’twill do no good to lye, for I can find you out quite soon enough.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, thinking quickly, “but from earliest Youth, I have been a Horsewoman, riding astride like any Man. I’faith, my beloved Stallion, Lustre, was stolen from me at a Country Inn as I was riding up to London….”

“A likely Story!” Mother Coxtart said, snappishly. “Come, Girls, I’ll expect you in the Parlour before long.” And she swept out of the Room like the Queen of France, with the Chambermaid following her.

The Chambermaid had gather’d up my fallen Clothes from the Night before, and pil’d ’em upon a Chair. Suddenly missing my lucky red Garter, I search’d for it in the Pile, but ’twas nowhere to be found! Panickt and distraught, I ran to the Bedstead and felt ’neath the Coverlet. My Fingers grop’d for it desperately. Sure enough, ’twas there, at the Foot of the Bed, where I had doubtless kickt it off during the Night that follow’d our Debauch. I breath’d a deep Sigh of Relief as I slipp’d it on my Leg again.

Meanwhile, Evelina had compleated her Toilette, dress’d herself in a Morning Gown of sumptuous yellow Silk, woven to mimick Lace, with pink Ribbands fastening the Boddice. She wore pink Ribbands in her Hair as well, and, i’faith, she lookt so innocent ’twas hard to believe she had partaken of the Transports of the Flesh that I had witness’d here last Night!

“What shall I wear?” I askt Evelina, wrapping my naked, shiv’ring Self in the Coverlet both for Warmth and to hide my red Garter.

“Here ye go, Sweetheart!” cries she, tossing me a Boddice and Petticoat of green Silk. “An’ hurry, or the old Bitch will be vext!” Whereupon she, too, departed the Chamber and started down the Stair.

Left alone for the first Time, I ran straight to the Chamber-Pott (where Evelina had already left a steaming Reminder of her Charms) and reliev’d my Bladder of its Load. Then I quickly washt my Face and Hands in the dirty Water in the Wash-Bowl and began to dress myself in the green Silk, (which, you may be sure, was neither the best Fit, nor wholly clean).

As I dress’d, my Mind raced. I tried to recall when I had last been visited by the Monthly Flow’rs, but my Brain was all in Confusion. How long had it been since I left Lymeworth? The Profusion of Events had been so num’rous and perplexing that ’twas very hard to recall the Dates. How many Days had I been with the Witches? How many Weeks with Lancelot? Had I my Monthly Visitation just a Week before Lord Bellars’ return Home, or was it earlier? I seem’d to recall ’twas a Week in advance of his Arrival, for I remember’d my Step-Sister Mary asking me “if the Captain was at Home” and Lady Bellars rebuking her with the Rejoinder that ’twas a scurvy Way to speak of Woman’s Domestick Afflictions, and show’d a Want of Breeding. I tried to count the Weeks upon my Fingers, but was defeated by the Fact that I did not know the Date. O I resolv’d to find out forthwith! The Fear of being with Child sent Shivers thro’ my Legs as I dress’d. I felt myself weaken, my Brow sweated, my Fingers grew cold as Death (and I near affrighted myself out of my Wits with my icy Digits as I laced my Boddice). I could scarce provide for myself—let alone a Babe!

It cannot be, I said to myself. It cannot be. But e’en as I said these Words, I knew they might be wrong.

Attir’d in the green Silk, with green Shoes (which were indeed too big) and my red Hair flowing down my Back, I ran down the Stair to join Mother Coxtart and the Girls for Breakfast.

Evelina and Druscilla, Kate, Molly, and Nell were there, as was the coughing Roxana—and old Coxtart herself, presiding like a Mother Hen. They were eating Bits of toasted Bread with Cheese, and drinking Chocolate as their Beverage. I wonder’d, as I sat down to Table, whether Coxtart kept Count of each Bit of Bread and Cup of Chocolate and charged it ’gainst one’s Earnings at the End of the Month. ’Twas likely, for the sly old Abbess did not seem a charitable Soul. I wonder’d how a Woman became as harden’d as she. Was it the Harshness of her Life, or was it Poverty, Want, Excess of Gin, as well as Lack of Education and Breeding? For in my Heart I still believ’d, e’en after all I had witness’d, that Human Souls were essentially good, but were corrupted by the Evil World.