Fanny (15 page)

I stood then frozen by a curious Admixture of Horror and Guilt, but presently, Lustre began to gallop, almost as if he had heard my Pray’r to survive, above all; and swift and true, he raced away from the Great Stones, o’er the Plain, towards Haradon Hill. As I clung like a Puppet to his Back, I pass’d another Parcel of Great Coxcombs, trotting towards the Upright Stones, as if they’d had Wind of a fine Fancy Dress Ball and could not bear to miss the Party.

“Come! join the Sport!” one of them holler’d, thinking me the Man I seem’d to be. But I clung to Lustre’s Back and gallop’d away, wond’ring what on Earth there was to live for, now that I knew what I knew of the Great World.

CHAPTER XIII

Containing sev’ral Dialogues concerning Fate, Poesy, and the Relations betwixt the Sexes, as well as other Intercourse of a more sensual Nature (because of which the Modest Reader is advis’d to pass o’er this Chapter unread), which our Heroine had with Miss Polly Mudge, Chambermaid, Mr. Ned Tunewell, Poetaster, and e’en with Herself, at that celebrated Coaching Inn call’d The Dumb Bell.

A
T LENGTH, I CAME
to an Inn. ’Twas call’d The Dumb Bell, and being numb from my horrid Adventure upon Stonehenge Down, and certain that my Stars held nothing more of Good to tempt me onward upon the Road of Life, I conceiv’d that the Name of the Inn was most fitting for my State of Mind; for truly, at that Moment, I wisht to be deaf, dumb, and blind, and to live out my Days in unthinking Muteness, like a poor dumb Beast at the very Bottom of the Great Chain of Being.

I rode into the Courtyard, enquir’d of the Landlord whether there was room or no, and being told that I might share a Room with another fine Fellow, I accepted in a trice, praying only to fall into Bed in my Breeches and collapse into the Sleep of the Dead. I almost wisht ne’er to awaken.

I ruffl’d Lustre’s Mane fondly ere he was led away to the Stable by a Groom. Then, asking that Supper be brought to my Chamber, I trudged up the Stair. The Room was inviting enough, with a Fire already laid in the Grate, and fresh Water in the Wash-Bowl awaiting my dirty Hands. A chearful Tent-Bed cover’d in flower’d Chints stood ’gainst the Wall opposite the Fire-Place.

I had scarce been in the Chamber for two Minutes when a pretty young Serving Maid flounced in holding her Apron and Petticoats above her Ankles flirtatiously, darting Looks at me as if I were the Man I seem’d to be.

“La, Sir! I’ll bring your Supper presently,” says she. “The Leg o’ Mutton’s gone, but what say you to a fine roasted Capon an’ a bit o’ Barley Soup?”

I said that would be fine, indeed; but before she left, would she enlighten me as to what Manner of Man would be sharing my Bedchamber?

She thought a Moment, flutter’d her pretty dark Lashes, heav’d a Sigh from her ample Bosom, and said:

“O Sir, that would be Mr. Ned Tunewell, Sir; a noted Poet is he, Sir, I mean Mr. Tunewell, Sir. O yes, Sir, last Time he pass’d thro’ here on his Way up to London, he composed a Poem for me, Sir, an’ a pretty Poem, too, Sir. I’faith, very pretty, I warrant.”

“Can you say it for me, Lass?”

“Well, Sir, I’ll try, Sir,” said she. And drawing herself up to what she deem’d the proper Attitude for receiving the Muse of Poesy, she recited in a sing-song Voice:

“‘Polly, why should we delay’—that’s me Name, Sir, Polly is—

“Polly, why should we delay

Pleasures shorter than the Day?

Could we (which we never can)

Stretch our Lives beyond their Span;

Beauty like a Shadow flies,

An’ our Youth before us dyes;

Or would Youth an’ Beauty stay,

Love hath Wings an’ will away….”

Here the Lass falter’d; Inspiration fail’d her, quite as swiftly as Love fled in the Poem.

“I’m sure I don’t remember the Rest proper, Sir….”

“Try, then,” says I. “Can it be anything like—

“Love hath swifter Wings than Time;

Change in Love to Heaven doth clime”?

“Why, that’s it, Sir. How did you know, Sir?” And without waiting for the Answer, she continues in the self-same Sing-Song:

“Gods that never change their State,

Vary oft’ their Love an’ Hate.

Polly, to this Truth we owe,

All the Love betwixt us two….

I’m sorry, Sir, but I fear I cannot say the Rest….”

“What,” says I, with Mock-Horror, “a Poet goes to the Trouble to indite Verses for thee and you cannot e’en trouble to remember ’em? What an ungrateful Lass!”

“I’m sure I’m very sorry, Sir,” says she, all humbly.

“Can they be anything like this?” And I recited:

“Let not you and I require

What hath been our past Desire;

On what Shepherds you have smil’d,

Or what Nymphs I have beguil’d.

Leave it to the Planets too,

What we shall hereafter do;

For the Joys we now may prove

Take Advice of present Love.”

“Why, Sir,” says she, “that’s it, that’s it exactly. Why, how did you know?”

“Your Ned Tunewell,” says I, “is, in truth, a very noted Poet.”

“I
expect
so, Sir,” says she huffily, “for so he told me himself, an’ I’m sure he’s too fine a Gentleman to fib about it.”

“Next Time he wants to make love to you,” says I, “ask him what he thinks of Edmund Waller, would you do that, Lass?”

“Why, Sir,” she said as she blusht hotly. “I’m sure I’m no Trollop, Sir.”

“No,” says I, “I’m sure you’re just a fine healthy Country Lass, but pray do me that one Favour, would you? Ask him what he thinks of Edmund Waller and then ask him if he thinks the Name of Phyllis suits you?”

The Lass was all in a Dither. “An’ why should I do that, Sir? What’s Mr. Wallow to me or me to Mr. Wallow?”

“Your Mr. Tunewell will know, and I promise you, ’twill be to your Advantage if you use it so….”

“Why, Sir, I’m sure I don’t understand you neither.”

“You will, Phyllis, you will,” said I. “Now, I’ll be having my roast Capon, if you please….”

“Certainly, Sir…. Right away, Sir, but me name’s Polly, Sir.” And she flounced out of the Room in Confusion, perhaps e’en thinking that I was a bit mad. She lookt at me queerly before she shut the Door.

Was I indeed mad? I wonder’d myself. How could I be unmarkt by the Horror I had witness’d? The most Melancholick Emotions of Sorrowful Indignation depress’d my Spirits, and ’neath my Jesting with Miss Polly, and Quoting Lines of Verse (which hath e’er been Second Nature to me) there was a Heaviness upon my Heart which would not lift.

What a Swine that Tunewell was! He quotes a Poem by Waller to an ignorant Country Maid and changes the Muse’s Name from Phyllis to Polly so she deems it writ for her own pretty Self (and doubtless takes him at once into her Bed). I had been betray’d e’en thus, and ’twas my Duty to help the Lass, but I wonder’d if I could preserve my Mind and Spirit without Bitterness after what I had seen of the Horrors of the World upon Stonehenge Down; and I wonder’d how i’faith I might spare myself from being wholly o’ercome by Melancholick Humours. ’Twas true that Aristotle had said, “
Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae
”; or, in plain English, “No great Wit without Madness intermixt.” But was this to be the Price of my Education as a Poet, that I should lose my Sanity and rail against the World? I wisht to be Horace, not Juvenal! I wisht to be Portia, not Lady MacBeth! Prince Hal, not Prince Hamlet! Rosalind, not Ophelia! Madness was not to my Taste or Liking. Harmony, Balance, Order—these were the Virtues I admir’d.

O my Mind was grievously confus’d! Were all Men Brutes and Deceivers? Was Goodness nowhere to be found ’neath Sun and Moon and Stars? Were the Witches right in worshipping the Great Goddess rather than Jesus Christ? But, if so, if the Goddess were i’faith so pow’r-ful, why did She allow Her Chosen Children to perish so horribly? Worse still, I had to reflect upon the Change wrought in my own Nature by wearing a Man’s Garb. I had spoken haughtily to Polly the Chambermaid, and watch’d her blush and bow and flutter, as I myself had flutter’d before Lord Bellars once. I had treated her like a poor ignorant Wretch and condescended to her Ignorance of Poetry all because I was wearing Breeches and a Wig, and she was wearing a Petticoat and Apron! What a Diff’rence mere Garments could make! ’Twas true, I had read Edmund Waller and knew that his Poem “To Phyllis” (which that Blackguard Tunewell claim’d for his own) was first publish’d perhaps four score and ten Years ago, but was that a Cause for Haughtiness? I had spent the tender Years of Childhood in a Great House with a fine Library; Polly had not. I had a great Memory for Lines of Verse; Polly had not. But was that Just Cause to scorn her when we were both Sisters, equally deceiv’d by the World of Men? Why was it that wearing Breeches and a Wig suddenly conferr’d upon me the Right to order Wenches about in unaccustom’d Fashion?

I askt myself the Question and lo! ’twas as if a blinding Flash of Light flew into my Brain to give me the Answer. ’Twas as if the Goddess Herself had answer’d my Questions to show me a Way out of the dark Tunnel of my Perplexity.

When, in the Development of Human Society (I thought), one Group, Sex, or Class is given Dominion o’er the other, all the Members of that Group become in some Way corrupted by that Unreasoning Pow’r. Most, to be sure, will not rape or murder; only the Brutes will do so. But e’en Good Men will be a little haughty upon Occasion, and e’en fine strong Women a little submissive and foolish in their Flirtations. Thus the Sexes will bear out each other’s Myths about each other, and e’en those who wish to escape the Pow’r of these Foolish Conventions will find themselves acting as their Breeches or their Petticoats dictate.

In a Corset, Stomacher, and Panniers, I am wont to flirt outrageously, tossing my Hair this Way and that, showing my Bosom to advantage, laughing secretly at the Way Men stare into the Cleft betwixt my fine white Breasts when they think I do not detect them doing so. But in Breeches, I am haughty and impudent; I walk the World with Authority—almost as if my Jack-Boots made up my Character rather than my Immortal Soul. Thus in a Society in which Women are gen’rally scorn’d, some few Men who love Rapine, Torture, and Murder will feel themselves free to bleed Witches, slaughter ’em in Cold Blood, and e’en slaughter their Babes (I shudder’d to remember this); but the only Cure for this Heinous Excess is greater Justice betwixt Men and Women upon the Hearth and in the Bedchamber; for if Men may rule Women in Daily Life, then ’tis not surprizing in the least that some few Brutes should blood them upon the Down. Neither Sex must have Dominion o’er the other! Instead, they must fit together, like Lock and Key, both indispensable, both precisely made and well-oil’d.

’Twas fit Matter for a Poem, I thought; my first great Philosophical Poem. I should call it The
Lockiad
, and in it I should expose the Folly of the Age, the Folly of Mankind, the Need for Great Change in Human Society, and I should call for Equality betwixt the Sexes. For, if I truly believ’d that Mankind was essentially good (tho’ corrupted by Ignorance, Folly, and false Dominion o’er his Sisters), then surely my Affection for the whole Human Race must make me strive to help that Race perfect itself. And what was Poetry but a rhyming Means of leading the Human Race towards Perfection? And what was the Poet but a Human Creature inspir’d to raise his Fellow Creatures closer towards the Divine Spirit?

Hot with the Fire of the Muse, I sat down to write—but alas, I had neither Quill nor Ink!

I ran to the Grate, found, lying ’neath the Flames, a damp little Twig which had flam’d but slightly before going out, and took it as my Writing Instrument. Paper had I none—but the linen Tablecloth would serve.

I sat down at once and began. “The Lockiad,” I wrote, scraping the Letters carefully into the Holland Linen. And then, in a tortur’d Hand, stopp’d ev’ry so often by the Coarseness of the Charcoal ’gainst the linen Threads, I wrote the first four stirring Lines:

What dire Distress from Women’s Bondage springs!

What Miseries arise from Trivial Things!

I sing—this Verse to Clio, Muse, is due,

For she hath all Eternity in View.

A Noble Beginning; but then the Twig snapp’d! ’Twas no Matter, for just at that Moment, there came a Knock upon the Door, and, like a Conjurer at a Fair, I flipp’d the Tablecloth o’er to its clean Side, secreted the charcoal Twig in my Boot Top, and call’d:

“Enter!”

’Twas Polly with my roast Capon.

“If you please, Sir,” said she.

“Thankee kindly, Polly,” said I.

“Thank
you,
Sir,” said she, flashing her Eyes at me. Whereupon she tuckt a linen Napkin into my Shirt Front, taking care to expose her fine, plump Bosom, just below my Nose, and I receiv’d a most Pow’rful Odour of Attar of Roses, and honest female Sweat, o’er and above the Odour of roast Capon; so much so that, ’twas fortunate I was not the Man I seem’d to be, for certainly the mingl’d Lusciousness of their entrancing Odours would have caus’d me to ravish Polly forthwith.

Instead, I made ready to ravish the Capon.

“Sit ye down, Lass,” said I, “and talk to me whilst I have my Supper.”

“Oh, Sir,” said Polly, flutt’ring her Lashes. “I’m sure I daren’t. The Landlord would surely turn me out o’ Doors for such.”

Now, our Polly was not one of those slender Wenches who put one in mind of an Anatomist’s Skeleton, and who would probably seem more like Broomstaffs than Women if one embraced ’em in Bed. No. She was, on the Contrary, so juicy and plump that she seem’d bursting thro’ her tight Stays, e’en as the Flesh of the delicious roast Capon was bursting thro’ its sewn Trussing. For a Moment, I almost fancied I
was
a Man and susceptible to her Charms. ’Twas all I could do to stop myself from thrusting an eager Hand into that luscious Cleavage.