Fanny (44 page)

Sure, I had felt Stabs of Envy (as any other Mortal Soul hath done), but always I seem’d to know that all the divers Destinies of Humankind have their own Pains as well as their own Pleasures, and e’en the Greatest Lord who suffers no pecuniary Want, may be tormented with the Gout, or Devastation at the Loss of Love, and feel his Suff’rings as keenly as the poor Gin-soakt Beggar. O Lancelot was right: there was too little Equality betwixt the Debtor and the Lord, the Woman and the Man, the Black and the White. But truly ’twas God’s Blessing to me, that, tho’ I saw these Inequities quite clearly, still I knew that ev’ry Station in Life had its own peculiar Miseries, and so I did not fancy that by changing Places with another Soul, I would be free of Pain. I had oft’ wisht to be born a Man; ’twas clear as Crystal that a Man’s Lot was easier than a Woman’s. Yet I felt a certain grand Defiance, too, in having been born in Woman’s Form, and making my Way despite all the Impediments that Man had placed for me to stumble o’er!

But Kate was sour and scheming, evil and envious, hungry and heartsick. She fancied that by taking Things from me, she would improve her own Lot. Perhaps her Tradesman Lover had disappointed her after all, and she essay’d to assuage her own Pain, by preventing me from going to my Love. For how was she to know that ’twas the Outlaw Lancelot whom I long’d to see, whilst Bellars’ Jewels were quite as little to me as glass Beads!

And yet, with a Babe to care for, and no Lancelot nor Merry Men, I could not now afford to spurn Lord Bellars’ tawdry Jewels. Instead, I must study Ways to compel Lord Bellars to pay his Debt to his own Child, and yet without revealing my true Face. ’Twas a Dilemma, a Dilemma indeed.

When the Day of the Costume Ball came ’round, I sent Coxtart to White’s Chocolate House to purchase my Ticket, and I directed her as well to procure me the most fetching Spanish Nun’s Attire that could be found in all of London. Truth to tell, the Brothel had as fine a Collection of Masquerade Costumes as any Dressmaker or Milliner in the Town. For, oft’ ’twas a Swain’s Desire to enjoy his Trollop in some curious Disguise which conjur’d voluptuous Fancies in his Brain. Consequently, the Costume I sought was to be found right in Coxtart’s Emporium—and a fetching one ’twas. Ah, Belinda, ’tis a Paradox of Lust that the deliberate Modesty of Nuns’ Attire may conjure more lascivious Visions in the Brain than the sheerest Nakedness!

Coxtart assisted me in my Preparations, sent for a fine gilt Coach and Four, with liveried Attendants, for she dreamt that my Good Fortune thro’ Lord Bellars would also be hers, and she meant to prepare me well for these Revels. No mere Chair and Link Boy would convey me, but a golden Coach. What a Contrast ’twas with that first Day when she had insisted that we share one Chair!

And so the golden Coach bore me to the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket, where I, a Nun, sought Satan! But O I had scarce anticipated that there would be so many Satans! For well-nigh ev’ry other Swain I saw fancied himself the very King of Hell! Some wore Breeches of Flame-colour’d Velvet, with Flame-colour’d Tails; and some were Black Devils, and some were radiant in white Satten as Milton’s Lucifer before he fell. Ne’er would I have believ’d the Tribe of Satan to be so num’rous, had not I seen this Masquerade!

I mingl’d in the Crowd amidst the Faery Queens and Quakers, the Dominoes and Dandies, the Harlequins and Columbines, the Chimney Sweeps and Scotsmen. There were curious Double-Masks, as well as single ones. A Lady who lookt Elizabethan from the Front, turn’d around, and lo! was quite the current Mode from the back. There was yet another Lady who seem’d a Venetian Courtesan from the rear, and a Turkish Pasha from the front. The Courtesan had Hair of Titian red, which hung in long Ringlets, whilst the Pasha wore a Ruby Velvet Turban, encrusted with Jewels; and indeed the whole Headdress was so cleverly arranged that the Folds of the Pasha’s Turban serv’d also as the Venetian Lady’s Coronet! As this Mask turn’d from front to back, from back to front, it changed its Sex, its Nationality, its Rank, its all! What a Lesson ’twas in Fortune’s Fickleness! How we are all Pashas, then Courtesans; Elizabethan Ladies, then Modern Belles; Angels, then Devils; Nuns, then Rakes! The Wheel of Fortune spins, the Dice of Destiny are cast, and we do not choose our Costumes as for a Masquerade, but they are fitted for us by the Fates. No wonder those Ladies are seen as Sempstresses. They sew the Clothing of our Lives; they outfit us as for a Grand Ridotto and then they set us whirling on the Floor to find our proper Partners—or our improper ones!

I wander’d in the Crowd in search of that Satan who of all Satans was my Special One. I pass’d divers Parties of Friends, bedeckt for the Masquerade in specially-dress’d Groups. There was an Indian Chief surrounded by his Squaws, another Turkish Pasha with his Harem, a Captain of the Guards with all his Men.

Sev’ral Masks approach’d me, bow’d, and begg’d a Dance with me; but I demurr’d, looking only for Lord Bellars, my Mind set upon my Task with him, my Heart harden’d against mere Frivolous Intrigue and determin’d upon Practicality for my Child’s Sake above all.

At first, I thought I should ne’er find Lord Bellars again; whereupon, in a trice, I felt a Tap upon my Shoulder, and a low Voice said:

“Sister? Sister Hackabout? I seek nothing less than thy Body and thy Soul.”

To which I replied, Voice low with Irony, and speaking quite as Quakerishly as he had spoken to me:

“And didst thou not, thou wouldst not be my Satan.”

“Capital!” says he, taking my Hand. O this Biblical Speech piqued his Lust—especially as he was Satan and I a Nun!

Behind our Masks, we danced the Age-old Dance of Lovers ere they go to Bed. Whether we trod the Minuet or Rigadoon, or let fly our Feet in Jigs or Country Dances, each Step brought us closer to the inevitable Encounter betwixt the Bed-Clothes; each sweet Note of Musick carried us closer to the Ev’ning’s End abed.

“Truly, thou hast made me pine for thee,” Lord Bellars said, leading me in a stately Minuet.

“Milord, I am no Man’s Plaything,” said I.

“That much is clear, Sister.”

We danced some Minutes longer; then he said:

“Alas, if neither Jewels nor Love Letters can move thee, what shall melt thy frigid Heart?”

“Sir, ’tis perfect Fealty I seek.”

“And how, pray, shall that Fealty be prov’d? I have already forsworn an old Love for thee, Sister, and wouldst fain e’en marry thee, were I not so pledged already—what more of Love can I prove?”

I shudder’d slightly at the Mention of Marriage, for at that Moment there danced into my melancholy Brain a Vision of Lady Bellars, my dear Step-Mother, amidst her Animals at Lymeworth; but I made haste to banish it most sternly. How dare I talk of Fealty when I had betray’d my own sweet Foster-Mother? And yet I must endure—for my Child’s Sake, if not my own. Alas, is it e’er the Fate of Woman to excuse all human Betrayals for the Sake of that next Generation which we carry ’neath our Hearts? Charged as we are with the awesome Task of keeping the Race alive, we Women give nothing less than the Gift of Life itself. Without us, no Coronations of German Kings, nor Whig Ministers doing their Briberies and Spyings. Without us, no Comedies, Tragedies, Epicks, nor Histories. Without us, no stern, bewigg’d Physicians debating Diseases, no starry-eyed Astronomers debating Stars, no greedy Astrologers predicting Fates for Gold, no Soldiers marching, no Dancers dancing, no Singers singing out their Lungs, no Painters painting out their Hearts, no Actors and Actresses making the Footmen howl in the Pit. We are at the Root of all Society’s Triumphs and Disasters, at the Root of all Knowledge and all Ignorance, all Health and all Disease, all Art and all Nature—for without us, the Dance of Life itself stops short, and the Dancers, whether maskt or unmaskt, fall dead in their Places ne’er to stir again!

How, therefore, could I not excuse my own Treachery ’gainst Lady Bellars now that I bore this Child ’neath my Breast? The Call of Life is stronger than the Call of Custom; the Howl of an Infant drowns out the husht Voice of Piety and the low Murmur of filial Duty. Henceforth my Care must be for Belinda, above all (tho’, in truth, I neither knew her as Belinda yet, nor felt her as a Personage at all. She was only a Sense of Vulnerability about the Heart, a Desire to protect, at all costs, someone I scarce knew).

“Sir,” said I to Lord Bellars, “thou mayst prove thy Love in a most curious Way—and yet I fear to tell thee how, for perchance thou wilt but laugh at me.”

“Sister, that wouldst I ne’er do. For I am so far gone with Love of thee that I wouldst keep thee under any Terms thou mayst propose.”

“Very well, then, listen to my Plan.”

“I am all Ears,” says he, dancing quite as perfectly as any Dancing Master despite my Words.

“I would be kept in a fine House with one loyal Servant to attend me….”

“Sister—that is simple, nothing could be simpler—”

“Pray, Lord Bellars, hear me out….”

“I tremble on each Word, my sweetest Love….”

“Thou shalt come to me but once a Week and only on the Night I say….”

“But certainly, my Love—”

“Hear me, Milord…. And always I shall be maskt from thee—until I say thou mayst unmask me, which, I warn you, I may ne’er say.”

“O that is hard, my Love, yet can I swear to do thy Bidding e’en so.”

“And thou shalt ne’er question me about my Past, nor seek to know whence I come nor why, nor seek to spy on me in any Way…. But on that one Night each Week I shall do all for Love of thee and pleasure thee in ev’ry Way—save that I shall not unmask, howe’er thou begst. And if thou seekst to force me, or seekst to unmask me whilst I sleep, I swear I shall ne’er see thee again.”

“My Love, I think I can submit myself to these hard Rules…for I have pin’d for thee so during these Days past, that I would rather see thee once each Week than risque thy Wrath again.”

“Art thou sure thou canst comply with these hard Rules? For if I e’er discover that thou spyst on me in any Way, or tell any Member of thy Family or e’en of thine Acquaintance of mine Existence, I will surely banish thee again.”

O what rough Words for such a soft-hearted Wench! Ah, Fanny, thought I, you astonish e’en yourself!

“I swear by God and all the Angels, by the Divine Light of Reason, and the Pow’r of the Supreme Being; by Jove and Cupid, by Venus and Apollo; by all that I hold dear and sacred!”

“Very well, then,” said I, “we have struck our Bargain. Now, shall we seal it with a Kiss?”

Lord Bellars took me in his Arms amidst the whirling Masks and kiss’d my Lips and murmur’d in my Ear. “I promise thee, I promise thee, I promise thee. And may the Great God above strike me quite dead if e’er I break my Word or Bond to thee.”

Our Lips melted together in a Sweetness which banish’d Visions of Lady Bellars, the Merry Men, e’en Lancelot. And as we kiss’d, I had to ask myself if I was truly doing this for my unborn Child, or for my own wretched Longing and Lust which held me in their Thrall quite as surely as my Womb held the Stirrings of a Babe for whose Sake I made this Pact with the Devil and offer’d up my Body and my Soul.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

How our Heroine spent her Confinement; a short Description of her Loyal Servant, Susannah; some philosophical Meditations upon the Phases of Childbirth, after which your Author enters into the Controversy (which raged thro’out the Age) betwixt Midwives and
ACCOUCHEURS,
and thereafter gratefully ends the Chapter.

L
ORD BELLARS KEPT HIS
Word as faithfully as e’er he had sworn it. He found me a fine House in Hanover Square, plentifully brib’d Coxtart for my Freedom, furnish’d me with all the most splendid Plate, Porcelain, and Linens; had my Walls decorated (ere I could protest) by some Monkey of an Italian Painter my good Friend Hogarth would have mockt; had my Pier-Glasses carv’d with gilt Eagles’ Heads and Garlands by James Moore and John Gumley; my Bureaux and Tables veneer’d in Walnut; my walnut Chairs beautifully can’d and gorgeously gilt; and the Seats of my walnut Settees plushly upholster’d in Emerald Green cut Genoa Velvet.

My Cellar he kept fill’d with Sack and Claret; my Larder with all Manner of elegant Provisions. My Neck he hung with Jewels, my Pockets stuff’d with Guineas. He paid my Dressmaker’s Bills, my Tea Merchant’s and Vintner’s Accountings almost ere they came due—and in return for all this Plenty, he askt only that I entertain him but one Night a Week, maskt from his prying Eyes both by Darkness and by the curious silken Masks I had design’d expressly for the Purpose. They were finely workt in divers Colours to match my divers Clothes; and some were embroider’d with Silver, and some with Gold, and some were shap’d like Butterflies and some like the Wings of Birds. O they gave my open, trusting Face a sinister Look (which perhaps increas’d its Allure—at least for a Rake like Lord Bellars).

My Face could I disguise, yet I could not disguise my Belly from my Patient Lover (for since he could not feast upon my Face, he must, at least, be allow’d to feast upon my Form); and my Belly was plainly growing. My Breasts were growing, too, and my pink Nipples had turn’d the Colour of sweet Chocolate. A pale, thin Ribband of amber Flesh ascended from my Mount of Venus to just below my Navel; in short, ’twas plain I was with Child.

But Lord Bellars, like most Men, was no canny Mathematician regarding the Natural Cycles of the Fair Sex (and howe’er many Babes he may have begotten—both as Rake and Husband—the very Process still seem’d as obscure to him as those curious Heavens of the Mahometans and Hebrews). Thus, when I swore upon a Pile of Bibles that the Babe was his, both his Ignorance of Female Things, and his native Masculine Vanity led him to grant me Credence (with only the smallest Amount of Jesting about his Fears that perhaps some other Swain had got me with Child afore him).

And yet, Belinda, as you know, the Child
was
indeed his! (And the Child was you!) Yet the Conception had occurr’d at Lymeworth, not London; at the Eden of my Childhood Home, not the Hades of the Hell-Fire Caves! Nor would I have ly’d to any Man concerning such a weighty Matter as his Paternity. O I might fiddle with the Months a bit; all’s fair in Love and War. But the plain Fact remain’d that he and he alone was “the only Begetter,” as our great Bard Shakespeare hath term’d it.