Fanny (49 page)

“You must understand, my Girl,” Isobel went on, “that we are all rising from a buried Past. They speak of Reason and Enlightenment, of Nature’s Mighty Plan in this Best of all Possible Worlds, but for Women this Age of supposed Enlightenment is dark as Darkest Night—quite unlike the Ancient Days when Woman was worshipp’d as the Sun, not obscur’d as a pale and misty Moon. We are only beginning now to rise, to throw back the Dust from our Graves, to unearth our own Faces. My Face, like ev’ry Woman’s Face, is an Image of the Face of the Goddess. They have cut their Cross into it as a Symbol of Masculine Pow’r. They think that thus they may subdue the Goddess—but she is not to be subdu’d with Knives alone.”

I lookt at Isobel in stark amazement, but her Eyes shone with other-worldly Fire and as she spoke, she sway’d and rockt as I had seen poor slaughter’d Joan do, so many Months ago.

“We are the Bringers and Givers of Life,” she said. “That they cannot take from us. Tho’ they may try to degrade these Mysteries, to make them our Downfall and not our Glory, they still remain the Source of all our Pow’r. The Joy you felt the Moment you beheld the Babe is a Glimpse of your Divinity within. ’Tis also the vast Pow’r of the Goddess. The
Accoucheurs
and all their Kind may wish to make you think Travail and Birth are Agonies, not Blessings, but e’en within their Pains, you have glimps’d their Joys.

“The Cross, the Hanging Tree, the Bars of Prisons—all these are Symbols of the Madnesses of Men. They would e’er put Pow’r before Life itself. But the Symbol of the Woman is a Circle—the Infant’s Head emerging betwixt the Legs of the Goddess, the Circles of the Nipples, the Navel, the Gravid Belly. ’Tis the Sun, all Radiance, Circles that have no Beginnings, and no Endings, whilst Uprights, Crossbeams, Crucifixes, and Hanging Trees are nought but Testaments to Man’s Worship of Death.”

I held my Child, lookt up at Isobel, and struggl’d to understand her Meaning. My Head swam with Images of Life and Death. I knew myself to be upon the Brink of a Great Revelation, and yet I could not grasp it.

“Ah, Fanny, you are tired,” said Isobel. “I’ll fetch your Sleeping Potion and your Cures. All this Talk can wait until another Time.”

She took the Babe and brought my Sleeping Draught, which I drank thirstily, knowing now that I would live to wake again, and strangely sooth’d by all she’d said. Then I drifted into a curious Visionary Sleep in which the Things she’d said and what I had perceiv’d in these last Hours were strangely intermixt.

I dreamt I had a silken Gown given me by my own Natural Mother. ’Twas beauteous, a Thing of rosy Silk, and yet I cut a gaping Hole in it to accommodate my swollen Belly. Then I was fill’d with the bitterest Remorse, for the silk Threads unravell’d and I knew I could not sew ’em back together. I wept most inconsolably for my unravell’d Gown. “All the Silk Worms in China toil fer ye,” Susannah said, her Skin transform’d to white, her Hair to red. O in this Dream,
Susannah
was my Daughter, and as I watch’d, I saw her Body shrink back, back, back to Infant’s Size!

I rockt her in my Arms, she suckt my Breasts, and all my Being o’er-flow’d with Passion such as no mere Man had e’er rais’d in me. In making love to her, I made love also to myself, for our two Essences were so intermingl’d that ’twas impossible to say where one began and the other ended.

O what strange Dreams the Laudanum sent! Did Isobel still live or did I dream that, too? And was there a Newborn Babe? Indeed, on this first Day after your Birth, I knew no Distinction betwixt Dreams and Waking, betwixt Life and Death.

One Candle burnt in the darken’d Chamber. A Door creakt open on its Hinges and Footsteps approach’d my Bed.

“Isobel?” I askt. But no Reply was given.

“Isobel?” I askt again.

The Footsteps drew nearer. I struggl’d to raise myself upon the Pillows, and as I did so, I saw in the Gloom the astonish’d Face of Lord Bellars.

“Fanny!” he cried, seeing my Face unmaskt for the first Time since Lymeworth; whereupon he fell to his Knees at my Bedside, pleading Forgiveness.

“Had I but known,” he sobb’d, “had I but known.”

“What would you have done?” came another Voice in the Darkness. ’Twas Isobel, her Voice suffus’d with Bitterness such as I had ne’er heard—e’en from her.

Lord Bellars lookt up suddenly. “Isobel?” he askt uncertainly.

“’Tis I,” she said.

“O no—not you, too!” he cried. “O God! What have I done to deserve such a Fate!”

“What have you
not
done?” said Isobel bitterly. “Satan himself shall deal with you in Hell, Laurence Bellars!”

“Then you two
know
each other?” I askt.

“Fanny—you should know—” Lord Bellars began, but Isobel swiftly interrupted him.

“Not now,” said she, “the Lass hath been thro’ enough Hardship these past Days.” Whereupon she seiz’d Lord Bellars by the Arm and dragg’d him to the Corner of the Chamber.

I could neither see nor properly hear what transpir’d betwixt ’em, but from the Gasps and Moans Lord Bellars made as Isobel whisper’d in his Ear, I deduced that the Matter was not pleasant. At length, after many Exclamations of Grief on his part, I heard him again fall upon bended Knee and exclaim: “What have I done to win the Love of such good Women when I am so base myself!” Then again I heard Footsteps, fleeing the Chamber and clatt’ring down the Stair, and presently Isobel came to me.

“What have you told him,” I askt, “to make him so exclaim?”

“That you shall know in all good Time,” said Isobel, “when you are quite recover’d of your Pains. Now you must sleep again and we shall talk together when you are better.”

“But where doth he go?” I askt.

“He goes to atone for his Sins,” said Isobel. “We need no Men here. This is Women’s Work. Sleep, my Fanny, sleep.”

All these most strange Events occurr’d betwixt Sleep and Waking under the puissant Influence of Laudanum, in that curious Twilight State that follows upon Childbirth. E’en had I no Opiate to cloud my Brain, I should have been half mad, at least, after my Ordeal. O Angels and Demons attend Women in Childbed! E’en without Isobel to prompt my Rage, the Severity of the Pain I had known should have stirr’d my Anger ’gainst the Whole Race of Mankind who but employ Women as Brood Mares and steal not only Life from ’em, but e’en the Joys of Bearing. For who can glory in bearing a Daughter in a World where Women have so few Prospects and are us’d so ill?

I remember how I wept o’er your tiny Form, my own pink Belinda, vowing that your Fate should be better than mine, that you should ne’er be seduced as your Mother had been before you, that you should have as much Education as any Lad, that you should learn to ride and fence and shoot, so that howe’er many cruel Hands Fate should deal you, you should prove able to defend yourself against ’em all.

I remember how I sat and rockt you (both of us still in the Drowse that follows Birth) and marvell’d at your Face, your Cherub’s Hands, the Impenetrable Blue of your Infant’s Eyes, and the Dawn Pink of your newborn Skin.

How did we, who were so recently one Being, become two? I marvell’d most at this, for still I felt you ’neath my Heart and I wept for the Separation which presages all the Separations of Life, ending with Death.

’Twas great Good Fortune to have Isobel there, for I felt almost like a Babe myself. When I curl’d up in Sleep I imagin’d myself a pink Infant, with a Mouth drooling Slime—as if a tiny Snail had cross’d the Bed—and small Hands clutching and unclutching at the Air.

“What shall we name her?” Isobel askt, sitting by my Bedside, looking down with Eyes of sweetest Love upon the Babe.

“Belinda,” said I, all unthinking, for I still lov’d “The Rape of the Lock” tho’ I could not love its Author anymore. O might my Belinda know no greater Rapes than to be shorn of one small Lock of Hair whilst playing Cards!

“The Goddess guides your Words,” Isobel said, “for Belinda means ‘Serpent-like’ and the Serpent is the Ancient Symbol of Wisdom and also of the Goddess.”

“Are you quite sure?” I askt. “I would not name her thus if ’twere Satan’s Name, for doth not the Snake signify the Devil?”

Isobel lookt at me most patiently, but her Eyes flasht with Anger.

“If I had rear’d you, you would know,” said she. “The Serpent was the Symbol of the Goddess, and when her Holy Temples were o’erthrown and Priests replaced the Priestesses of Old, the Serpent was made to seem the Devil. ’Tis always thus: the new Cult names the Gods of Old as Devils. But that whole Eden Story is nought but Lyes! Name her Belinda then, ’twill please the Goddess.”

Just then, the Door open’d and Susannah rusht in, her Face full of Fear.

“Quick! Run an’ hide yerself, Mistress Isobel! ’Tis the
Accoucheur
Dr. Smellie an’ his Cohorts. They murmur o’ Witchcraft an’ press to see the Midwife. O I beg ye, run an’ hide!”

Isobel pull’d her Wimple down on her Brow to cover the awful Cross. She threw herself upon her Knees, begg’d Mercy of the Goddess, and murmur’d other Pray’rs I did not hear.

“Isobel,” I said, “there are so many Questions I would ask of you concerning Lord Bellars, the Goddess, all your Lore….”

She ran to me and kiss’d me tenderly, then kiss’d the rosy Babe. “This Meeting was more than I dar’d hope. O if I must dye now, I have done my part in saving you and also blest Belinda. Keep her safe. Our Paths will cross again if the Goddess desires it. Blessings on you both and all your Daughters! O blessed, blessed, blessed be!” Whereupon she ran from the Room by the Back-Stairs Door.

“Isobel,” I cried, distraught to lose her again after having so recently found her. “Isobel!”

Dr. Smellie then burst in, accompanied by two younger-looking Cronies. Their Perukes were askew, their Faces flusht with Hurry and Anger.

“Where is that Witch,” says Smellie, “who dares call herself a Midwife?”

“There is no Witch,” said I, “unless ’tis I myself. For I deliver’d the Babe myself.” I said this as brazenly as you please, but my Hands trembl’d as I held my Child.

“You lye!” Smellie accus’d. “’Twas impossible to deliver that Child alive thro’ Nature’s Gate. By Rights you should be dead. I swear upon the Ghost of Dead Hippocrates that Witchcraft hath been us’d. By Jove—I would see the Wound, for I am sure there is one!”

“Modesty forbid!” said I. “At your Peril, Sirrah, you undrape my Body!”

Smellie stopp’d in his Tracks. He dar’d not undrape me for fear of being condemn’d in his Profession: for if an
Accoucheur
could not undrape a Woman in Travail without transgressing the Bounds of Modesty, then how would he presume to do so, after she had been so happily deliver’d—albeit by another?

“Cease an’ desist, Sirrah,” said Susannah. “Begone, ye Murderer!”

Smellie stood and gap’d, consider’d the Penalties, then, looking around the Room hastily, askt for Lord Bellars.

“Lord who?” said Susannah before I could make any Reply.

“Lord Bellars of Lymeworth,” said Smellie. “For my Fee is still not paid.”

“There is no Bellars here,” said Susannah, “nor hath there been. I’faith, I know not who this Man might be.”

I lookt at Susannah in amazement. What a wily Wench!

“I’ll have my Fee!” said Smellie.

“Fer what?” Susannah said. “Fer near murderin’ me Mistress? She hath deliver’d the Child unattended—an’ fer that ye would be paid? Begone!”

Smellie fum’d and sputter’d; his Cohorts mutter’d dire Warnings.

“Where is that Witch?” Smellie said again (as if indeed unable to think what else to say).

“O ye are daft!” said Susannah. “Begone to Bedlam where ye belong an’ leave this poor Woman to nurse her Babe in Peace.”

“’Tis Witchcraft!” Smellie said.

“Aye, ’tis Witchcraft,” echo’d his Crony.

“Witchcraft, indeed,” said the other Crony.

Whereupon Susannah snatch’d the Broom from the Corner of the Fire-Place, and brandishing it like a Weapon, went after Smellie and his Brethren.

“Witchcraft?” askt she. “If ye believe so in Witchcraft, then fly away upon this Broomstaff! Ye Fools! Ye Butchers! Begone!” And she drove them off with the sheer Fury of her Words whilst she whipp’d the Air with the Broom Handle.

Smellie and his Cohorts ran so fast that I had indeed to laugh despite the Fact that Laughing made my Belly ache and my Stitches pull.

When they were gone, I askt Susannah if Isobel had enlighten’d her about the Cause of Lord Bellars’ hasty Departure.

“She said not one Word about it, Mistress Fanny, but occupied herself with showin’ me how to brew yer Medicaments—almost as if she knew she might not stay here long. But as fer his Departure, I know not why he fled—tho’ he press’d Guineas in my Hand as he did—enough at least to keep us for a while.”

“O Susannah!” I said. “Come hold me—for I am so afraid.”

I’faith, my Body trembl’d and my Teeth chatter’d. I held the pink and sleeping Belinda—all oblivious of the Woes of the World—but who would hold and comfort me?

“I’ll be yer Mother, Mistress Fanny,” said Susannah, “fer I know what ’tis to be an Orphan.” And, i’faith, ’twas true that she had mother’d me and spar’d my Life—both by calling in the Midwife, unbeknownst to me, and by chasing out the odious
Accoucheur.
Now she sat upon the Bed and rockt me in her slender Arms.

“O Susannah, you have sav’d my Life!” I cried.

“Hush, Fanny, I did nothin’. ’Twas Mistress Isobel who did it all.”

Whereupon we rockt: Mother, Babe, and Sweet Susannah, wond’ring what more the Fates could send to test us after the astounding Events of the last few Days.

Susannah kiss’d my fever’d Brow and kiss’d Belinda’s Brow as well.

“I’ll be yer Mother, Mistress Fanny,” said she, “an’ Belinda’s, too.” Whereupon I fell asleep again, with my own pink Belinda in my Arms.

CHAPTER IV

We are introduced to Prudence Feral, Wet-Nurse extraordinaire, and your humble Author summarizes the current Controversy concerning Wet-Nursing versus maternal Breast Feeding, to which she appends some Views of her own, drawn from Experience (that greatest of all Teachers).

I
N THE DAYS THAT
follow’d, I liv’d betwixt Sleep and Wakefulness, trying to nurse my Babe whene’er her Infant Cries pierced the Darkness of my Dreams and she would feed. I’ll ne’er forget, if I live to be a Hundred, how your little Mouth latch’d on to my Nipple as if there were nothing upon this whole Earth but Mouth and Breast, and all the Dance of Life were simply the Motion of an Infant’s Lips, sucking, sucking, sucking!