Fanny (5 page)

And so I wip’d the Spittle from my Cheaks and the Tears from my Eyes, and swore an Oath to God that, above all, I would endure.

CHAPTER IV

Of Gardening, Great Houses, the Curse of Fashion, Paradise Lost, a Family Supper with a Famous Visitor in Attendance, and the Foolish Curiosity of Virgins of Seventeen.

A
S HATH BEEN SAID,
our weary Travellers were not to be feasted that first Night, but rather upon the Morrow, when all our local Gentry would be invited to Dinner to meet our Great Man, Favourite of both Fortune and the Muses, tho’ not Nature—the Divine Dwarf, Mr. Pope. But upon the Night of the Poet’s Arrival, we were to have a small Family Supper, after which Mary would divert us with a Concert upon the Harpsichord (hoping, no doubt, to disguise with the Beauteousness of Mr. Handel’s Musick the Ugliness of her Form). Whereupon Mr. Pope would discourse to us concerning his fam’d Hobby, namely the Design of Gardens and Parks according to Nature’s own Rule; for Mr. Pope was one of the most loyal Sons of Flora that e’er liv’d and ’twas his Delight to help his Friends and Noble Patrons to plan their Gardens in such a Manner that the Works of Nature and Art should mutually compleat each other.

Lord Bellars had written Lady Bellars of all this and she had communicated it to me. Now that he had prosper’d so greatly and amass’d still another Fortune thro’ investing his Profits from the treacherous South Sea Bubble, Lord Bellars was eager to pull down the Family’s ancestral Mansion, a fine Gothick Pile, dating from the Time of Elizabeth, standing upon a Site bestow’d upon one of Lord Bellars’ Ancestors by Gloriana herself, and to replace it with a new House in the modern Palladian Style. So, too, with the Gardens—those geometrick Mazes and Hedgerows laid out in the Time of Charles the Second. They were to be mercilessly uprooted to make way for a Park in the very latest Fashion, design’d at great Expence to mimick Nature, with grazing Sheep, little Temples, diminutive Mosques and Pagodas, a tiny Village, with real Peasants dress’d in rustick Shepherds’ Garb, and e’en a Grotto, modell’d after Mr. Pope’s at Twickenham. The beloved Evergreens of my Childhood, (cut to resemble Peacocks with spread Tails, Bears dancing, heraldick Beasts, great Globes, Pyramids, and Cones), were to be consign’d to the Rubbish Heap in the Name of Fashion, and i’faith, Mr. Pope had come for no other Purpose than to help us plan our Garden, such a Devoté was he of the fine Art of making cultivated Parks resemble the very Wilderness from which they had sprung.

Alas, it made me very melancholick indeed—this Deference to the fickle Name of Fashion! Lymeworth (for that was the Bellarses’ Country Seat) had been my Home since Childhood, and to say the Truth, the Gothick Style of Building could produce no nobler Edifice. Lord Bellars might call it “a nasty old Gothick Ruin,” but to me it had the Smell of History and Grandeur. Elizabeth herself had once been a Guest at Lymeworth and heard Sweet Musick in the Long Gallery under the fram’d Portraits of the earliest Ancestors of Lord Bellars’. ’Twas rumour’d that Shakespeare had been a Visitor, perhaps coming as part of a travelling Troupe of Players. And ’twas further rumour’d that the High Great Chamber (with its Flemish Tapestries depicting the Court of Diana the Huntress, embower’d in a green Wood) was the Room in which he perform’d. But this was the very Room Lord Bellars had grown most to detest as “barbarously old-fashion’d and lacking in Elegance, Proportion, and
Ton
.” So ’twas all to be pull’d down, the Bricks and Beams of my Childhood, the long Halls in which I had run and play’d with Daniel and Mary before Age, Envy, and Lust separated us; the vast stone Stair and the carv’d Chimney Pieces, the dancing Stags above the Fire-Place in the Great Hall, that very Fire-Place where we Children us’d to hide from each other (and from our Nurse) in our childish Games, and where once we had e’en burnt a great Full-bottom’d Wig of Lord Bellars’ for Sport (and had been severely punish’d for the Prank).

And the Gardens, what Villain could find fault with the Gardens? Lymeworth stood just below the Summit of a pleasing Hillock, shap’d like a plump Thigh, looking down upon a peaceful Valley below, shelter’d from the Wind by a Stand of Ancient Oaks, above a gently rolling Meadow embellish’d with Beeches, Elms, and Chestnut Trees. Besides the evergreen Mazes and topiary Trees of which I have previously spoken, there was a delightful enclos’d Garden, whose Wall was studded with Obelisks at regular Intervals, as well as great carv’d Balls and white heraldick Beasts, all fashion’d of Stone. Within the wall’d Garden was a Bow’r, smelling more sweetly of Flow’rs than anything in Mr. Milton’s Paradise. To pull this down was truly like pulling down Eden, and Lord Bellars must needs be our Lucifer, luring us out of this Garden in the Name of Fashion.

“Milord,” said the Poet to Lord Bellars, o’er our light country Supper of Broth, Bread, and fresh-churn’d Butter, Pudding with Suet and Raisins, and finally Cheese for Dessert, follow’d by Lisbon Oranges, Muscadine Grapes, Prunes of Tours, and Pears of Rousselet—“Milord, there is nothing more repugnant to the Eye than the Mathematical Exactness and crimping Stiffness of the Gardens of our Ancestors. We must venture, rather, to paint a Landscape out of living Material, as Salvator Rosa, Gaspard Poussin, and Claude Lorrain painted the most romantick Prospects upon willing Canvas.”

“Romantick, Sir? Do you use that Term which means ‘all that is wild, unrestrain’d, and absurd in Nature’?”

“Nay, Milord,” says the Poet, “I mean the Passion for Things of a Natural Kind, where neither Art nor the Caprice of Man hath spoil’d their genuine Order but rather reform’d ’em closer to the Heart’s Desire. I speak of the Beauties of rude Rocks, mossy Caverns, flowing Rivulets, and rolling Waters…. I speak of enchanted Bow’rs, silver Streams, opening Avenues, rising Mounts, and glitt’ring Grottoes alive with the Sounds of running Water, like the classical Nymphaeum of Old, the very Haunt of the Muses.”

I must confess I was impress’d by this beauteous Flow of Words and in my Mind’s Eye began to see an enchanted Garden, despite my previous Reluctance to suffer any Change at Lymeworth.

“Pray, Sir,” I askt the Poet (who was sitting on my Right, and had i’faith often allow’d his Eyes to wander downward towards my Bosom, which, notwithstanding the Modesty Piece Lady Bellars had caus’d me to wear, was still quite visible), “describe your Grotto for us, for Lord Bellars hath told us ’tis one of the Wonders of the World, and if I am not mistaken, he means to build one here at Lymeworth, when the new House hath been erected according to the Plans of Mr. Kent and Mr. Campbell.”

“It gives me great Joy,” says the Bard, “to describe my Grotto to a Young Lady of your surpassing Beauty; for Harmony is all in Nature, and what greater Harmony could there be than to describe one beauteous Marvel of Nature for the Ears of another.”

I blusht crimson at this gallant Compliment whilst Mary glower’d at me across the Table and Lord Bellars glow’d with Pride (or perhaps ’twas Lust), and Lady Bellars toy’d idly with a Muscadine Grape.

“My Dear,” he continu’d, “’tis the very Maze of Fancy, a subterranean Chamber, craggy and mysterious as if Nature herself had made it, finish’d with Shells interspers’d with Pieces of Looking Glass in angular Forms, and in the Ceiling is a Star of the same Material, from which, when a Lamp of an orbicular Figure of thin Alabaster is hung in the Middle, a thousand pointed Rays glitter, and are reflected o’er the Place. Connected to this Grotto by a narrower Passage are two Porches with Niches and Seats—one facing towards the Thames, made ingeniously of smooth Stones, and the other rough with Shells, Flints, and Iron Ore, like the Cave of the Muses itself. The Bottom is pav’d with simple Pebbles so as not to distract the Eye from the little open Temple it leads to, which is wholly compos’d of Cockle Shells in the rustick Manner, and agrees not ill with the constant dripping Murmur, which lends the whole aquatick Idea to the Place. It wants nothing to compleat it, my dear Fanny, but a Statue of you, in the Garb of a Nymph—or perhaps, if my Eyes do not deceive me about your Natural Beauty, in no Garb at all!”

At this, I blusht still more furiously crimson, and Lord Bellars laugh’d uproariously.

“Sir, you mock me,” I protested.

“Marry come up, Fanny, I have ne’er been more serious in my Life.”

“But tell me more of the Grotto,” I said, wishing desp’rately to move on to less indiscreet Subjects (for little did I suspect in my Innocence that Mr. Pope’s Grotto was perhaps a sort of warm Womb to him, who had such Difficulty persuading Ladies to share his lonely Bed).

“There is little more to say,” said the Poet. “You must see it with your own Eyes, as Lord Bellars hath done. You will think my Description is poetical, but ’tis nearer the Truth than you would suppose. Moreo’er, I plan to expand the Grotto into no less than five Caverns, each with its own Design of Crystals, Amethysts, Shells, and Ores. I hope to secure rare Corals and petrified Moss, and e’en large Clumps of Cornish Diamonds. Eventually, there shall be a Bagnio and num’rous conceal’d Fountains whence Cataracts of Water shall precipitate above your Head, from impending Stones and Rocks, whilst salient Spouts rise in rapid Streams at your Feet. Water shall break amongst Heaps of Flints and Spar. Thus Nature and Art will join to the mutual Advantage of both.”

I was silenced once again by the Beauty of his Description, for when Mr. Pope spoke, one forgot his twisted Form, his thinning Hair, the gen’ral Fustiness of his Person (for he was too twisted to bathe or dress without Assistance), and one saw, in place of his Form, the Beauties of the Things he describ’d. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a Poet—to compensate with Words for what Nature had denied one’s Frame; and sure he had a more than natural Passion for this Grotto of his, which seem’d to be a kind of pleasing Substitution for the Unpleasingness of his Person. ’Twas the Cave in which he summon’d the Muses and polish’d his Verses, but was it not also a Re-forming of himself? (Thus would I ruminate about Human Nature in my Melancholick Youth.)

I wonder’d then if I could be a Poet, since there was no Beauty lacking in my Person; but certainly the Circumstances of being born an Orphan had given me Knowledge of Sorrow, which perhaps, together with much Practice and the Muses’ Blessing, would be enough. I resolv’d to find Mr. Pope privily after Supper and discourse of this with him.

The Ladies (Lady Bellars, Mary, and myself) then withdrew, leaving the Gentlemen to piss and drink, Chamber-Potts and Bottles for the Purposes being produced from the Sideboard. I know ’tis perhaps indelicate to mention this Custom, but as I am writing for my own Belinda, who may be unacquainted with Country Manners at the Time of George I, I am sure my Indelicacy may be excus’d. For ’twas indeed the Custom of that Time for the Gentlemen to relieve themselves in the Dining Room whilst the Ladies retir’d to the House of Easement or their own Chambers.

Upon this Occasion, when Lady Bellars had withdrawn to her Chamber, Mary grabb’d me rudely and propos’d that we two attempt to view the Gentlemen’s Diversions thro’ the Dining-Room Keyhole.

“For I am sure,” says Mary, “that just as his Back is deform’d, so his Masculine Appendage must be similarly gothick and strange.” Whereupon she lets out a devilish Cackle, and goads me with: “Come, Fanny, are you such a Coward you will not?” Whereupon she claps her Eye to the Keyhole, and glues it there, whilst I struggle betwixt Curiosity and Disgust.

“Oooh,” says she, “what a prodigious Engine he hath, despite his small Stature,” and then she falls silent for a Moment, staring thro’ the Keyhole with rapt Attention, and then she makes Noises of Mock-Alarm and Surprize, (acting more like a Chambermaid than a Lady—except that a Chambermaid might i’faith have had more Pretensions to the Graces than she).

“Come,” she says, “have a Look. You will scarce believe your Eyes.”

Reluctantly, foolishly, and with Feelings of Dread and Foreboding, I knelt and clapp’d my Eye to the Hole, thro’ which I saw a Sight which scarce was worth the Pain it caus’d me later.

My Step-Father, Lord Bellars, was betting with the Poet about who could most closely hit a Grape thrown into the Pisspott, whilst poor, corpulent Daniel lookt on, with Awe and Admiration for his Father’s manly Gifts. As for their Masculine Engines, ’twas hard to tell beneath their long Coats, but Mr. Pope’s seem’d a tiny piddling Thing, not deform’d, but Toy-like, whilst Lord Bellars appear’d most mightily well equipp’d. But ’twas the Gaming I wonder’d at, more than the Anatomy. I had little Experience then of confirm’d Gamblers, tho’ Today, I know they will lay Wagers upon anything—from twin Raindrops coursing down a Window Pane to fine Arabian Mares. Lord Bellars was surely one of those, and it astounded me that the Great Poet, who just Moments before had discours’d of Nature and Art, should now be taking great Delight in pissing at a Grape in a Chamber-Pott!

“Pray, what are you doing?” came a stern Voice behind me. ’Twas Lady Bellars, suddenly return’d to pry out our Mischief.

I rose and faced her, blushing hotly.

“Fanny forced me to,” says Mary, unbidden. “Fanny forced me. I was so frighten’d. I e’en clos’d my Eyes and refus’d to look. I swear it. I swear it upon a Bible.”

“Hush,” said Lady Bellars. “Fanny, is this true?”

“My Lady,” says I, “I cannot plead my own Case. As you saw me with my Eye to the Keyhole, so I was. My Sin was Curiosity, nothing more. But I swear I did not force Mary’s Hand.”

“Yes, she did! She did!” says Mary.

“Go to your Chambers, both of you,” says Lady Bellars. “I will get the Truth of this later.”

“My Lady, I am deeply asham’d,” I said. “I beg you to accept my Apology.”

“Go,” says Lady Bellars, “both of you, go.”

As we were departing, Mary whisper’d one final Insult in my Ear. “I’ll have you banish’d from Lymeworth yet,” says she.

“Mary,” I said, drawing myself up straight and tall, “you are nothing but a Fool. Having me punish’d will not save you from your own Foolishness. You are a Fool for Life, I fear.”

I believe my Dignity alarm’d her more than any Excuses or Insults might have done, for as she blam’d me, she very rightly expected I would blame her, but I had sufficient Understanding of Human Nature e’en then to know ’twould do no Good. Mary had brought her own Punishment upon her Head since, as she had hop’d to win her Father’s Favour by serenading him and his Famous Guest upon the Harpsichord, she was now bereft of that Consolation. Had I plotted such a Revenge, I could not have executed it more cunningly than Mary’s own Curiosity and Lechery (as well as her Desire to betray me) had done.