Fanny (51 page)

How Prue frown’d when I kiss’d you there!

“You’ll send the Child straight to Hell,” says she, “with Pettin’ and Kissin’ like that.”

But I had won the Argument concerning Swaddling—at least for the nonce. I dress’d your tiny Form in a loose Shift of white Linen and gave you to your Nurse to feed once more upon her great hanging Breasts. And so she took you off to her Chamber and lockt the Door, appropriating you to herself again.

For my own part, I sat down at my Writing Bureau determin’d to compleat that Romance in the Manner of Mrs. Haywood which I’d begun at the Start of my Travail. Such a Romance might keep us all in Oysters, Goat’s Milk, and Mutton Chops when Lord Bellars’ Money and Jewels ran out and Creditors began to knock upon our Door. O there was Money in Novels if not lofty Reputation (since all the Criticks of the Age agreed that the Noble Epick was superior to the crass Novel and was, besides the Tragedy, the only Form to which Genius ought aspire).

But would Genius feed Prue Feral’s Appetites? Hardly! Therefore, I took my Quill in Hand and scribbl’d away. I had nam’d my imaginary Lovers Clotilda and Philidore, as I have said before, and penn’d an Epistle Dedicatory full of the most flatt’ring Panegyricks—yet vague enough, as such Panegyricks always are—to suit any Noble Lord, or e’en Lady, I might later choose to serve as Patron for my Work.

My first Romance! What might I write about? O I’d have Sailing Ships and Seraglios, Pyrates and Nabobs, Shipwrecks, Storms, Maroonings, Fortunes lost and found again, Fortunes gain’d and lost again—all told in highly overwrought “Secret” Letters, burning with sweetest Love, hottest Jealousy, and darkest Despair! ’Twould pay the Bills and keep Belinda and her Nurse and e’en Sweet Susannah; for I was the Head of a Family now and could scarce write Epicks upon Woman’s Lot to please myself, but must instead bow to the Fashion of the Day and write Romances in Mrs. Haywood’s high-flown Manner.

Thus I began to spin out an amusing Tale of Star-cross’d Lovers, compleat with swooning Virgins, rough-hewn Rakes, lustful Sea Captains, and ruin’d Courtiers. The Work went smoothly enough for a Time, since I was as able with my Pen as any Grub Street Scribbler, purveying their Romances, like so many Cups of rich, sweet Chocolate, to their greedy Readers. Sure, I was aware that the Novel itself was lookt upon as nought but an Inflamer of Dubious Passions in bor’d Ladies who should have tended instead to their Needles and Pray’r Books, but I reason’d to myself that the first Fruit of my Scribble (not counting all those Lit’ry Works I had committed to the Flames whilst still in Lord Bellars’ Keeping) should at least have a worthy End. Low as Novels were, compar’d to Lofty Epicks and Noble Tragedies, they were still, perhaps, better for the Soul than Whoring.

I wrote and wrote whilst Prudence rais’d my Babe. ’Twas hard enough to enter your Chamber, much less care for you myself—tho’ indeed I kept a watchful Eye upon Prue’s Comings and Goings. But as I wrote I was seiz’d with Sadness that I could not attend to you myself and I felt myself to be a cruel Mother for leaving my Babe to another’s Care. Alas! ’Twas the inevitable Consequence of my new-found Independence. I could not nurse you myself, nor could I depend upon any Person but myself to earn our Bread and keep us from the Workhouse. Where Lord Bellars had fled I did not know, nor indeed why, and Lancelot, for certain, was Worlds away by now. I had no Choyce but learn to play the Man—better indeed than any Man—since whom could I rely upon except myself?

Tired as I was after my Ordeal (and my Belly was still not properly heal’d) I applied myself to Work ne’ertheless. I forced myself to cover no less than ten Sheets of Foolscap per Day and upon each Saturday I play’d my own Amanuensis and transcrib’d the Week’s Writings into Fair Copy. ’Twas upon those dreaded Saturdays that my Doubts crept in, since the Mind and the Quill may Race along happily enough during Composition of the Work, but when one stops to copy out one’s Words, the very Slowness and Dullness of the Task makes one doubt all. Why was I writing of Philidore and Clotilda, thought I, instead of Lancelot and Fanny? Sure we were as Star-cross’d as any Lovers the World had e’er known! And yet ’twas not the Fashion of that Day to write one’s own Am’rous History. ’Twould be consider’d arrogant, e’en a bit mad, to presume that the Events transpiring in one’s own Heart were fit Matter for a Book.

Mrs. Haywood wrote Romances in the French Manner; Mr. Defoe wrote True Histories of Famous Criminals and Notorious Shipwrecks; whilst the French Romancers sent us Year after Year the passionate Productions of their Pens (which were as oft’ denounced by our noble English Criticks as they were gobbl’d up by our hungry English Readers). But no one made bold to write of her own Love Adventures unless ’twas for the Privacy of her Secret Diaries (to be read by her blushing Heirs).

Yet what a History ’twould make, thought I, if I should write of Lancelot and Fanny! Lancelot and Fanny were worth one hundred Philidores and Clotildas! Lancelot and Fanny were as delicate and fine in their tormented Love as Piramus and Thisbe or e’en Eloise and Abelard!

Oft’, whilst sitting at my Writing Bureau, I’d hear the muffl’d Cries of a Babe. Then, o’erflowing with Maternal Passions, I would run to the Door of Prue’s Chamber and timidly knock.

“’Tis nothing, Mistress Fanny,” came the reply. “Pray, do not discommode yourself.” Reluctantly, I’d return to my Scribblings, yet all the while, my Ears prickl’d with a Mother’s fierce Attentiveness. Clotilda and Philidore had only half my Heart; the other half and both my Ears belong’d to you.

Those Ears heard ev’ry Whimper of your Infant Voice and with each Whimper came horrifick Visions. Was Prudence swaddling you again, or was she starving you? No Matter how many Times I betook myself to her Chamber to enquire and was told “’Tis nothing,” I came back again. I imagin’d you torn to Pieces by Wild Beasts, or still’d in your Cries by mysterious Fevers. I imagin’d your Eyes pok’d out by Sticks or your tender little Feet us’d to stir up the Fire in the Grate. I had only to hear you Whimper once to rise and run to your Chamber; but always Prudence kept me out with her “’Tis nothing, nothing, nothing.”

The Weeks pass’d; I scribbl’d. As Philidore and Clotilda were captur’d by Pyrates, lost each other and found each other again, lost Riches and found ’em again, lost Children and found ’em again, lost Parents and found ’em again, you grew from a squalling red-faced Newborn Babe into a smooth, pink-featur’d Child of three Months old. When I could break into your forbidden Chamber to view you—usually when Prue was bathing you—I perceiv’d that your Face had taken on new Contours and you had begun to smile and coo and mimick Speech. O when you laugh’d, you threw your Arms and Legs into the Air with pure Delight and your entire Infant Form appear’d to laugh. Yet still, intermittently, I was bedevill’d by the Whimpers that came from your Chamber; and one Day, unable longer to contain myself, I knelt at Prue’s Keyhole and lookt in.

E’en now my Heart pounds and my Eyes fill with briny Tears to remember what I saw. Prue had you truss’d up again in the Swaddling Bands I had forbidden and she had hung you on a Peg upon the Wall whilst she greedily devour’d her Mutton Chops washt down with pure Goat’s Milk. As she slobber’d and wip’d her greasy Hands upon her greasy Smock, you let out a grievous Cry. Whereupon I saw (O with what disbelieving yet believing Eyes!) Prue take a linen Napkin from her Lap and clout your Infant Face! You squeal’d again, she clouted you again. I rose up from my Knees and beat my Fists upon the Door.

“’Tis nothing,” Prue said sweetly.

“Open at once!” I cried.

“’Tis nothing,” Prue said again.

“Open up or I’ll break down the Door,” I cried.

I heard slow, dragging Footsteps approach the Door, and finally ’twas open’d.

“How dare you strike my Child!” I shouted in a Rage.

“I ne’er did such a Thing,” said Prue.

“You lye! And you have swaddl’d her again against my Will.”

Prue lookt at me defiantly and said: “I merely try to save your Babe from Hell and this is all the Gratitude you show.”

I ran to you and took you in my Arms, unwrapp’d the Swaddling Bands, and kiss’d the Welts that Prue had made upon your Face. I rockt you in my Arms protectively. “Out! Out of my House this Instant!” I commanded Prue.

“Then let Belinda starve?” askt she. “For where will you find a Wet-Nurse upon the Instant?”

“Out of my House!” I cried.

“Very well, then,” said Prue with all Dignity. “I go and let the Infant starve.” She made a busy Pretence of gath’ring up her Clothes and Linens and pulling her Sea-Chest out from under the Bed.

Then I grew truly frighten’d, for ’twas true that I had no other Nurse for you, nor had I any Way to feed you myself.

“Pray stay,” I stammer’d, “for one Week longer whilst I find another Nurse. But this Door shall remain ajar and the Babe shall not be swaddl’d or I’ll box your Ears!”

“O thankee kindly, Mistress Fanny,” said Prue, wiping the Mutton Grease from her Moustache and falling to her Knees in Gratitude. Now that I had given her Notice, she immediately became obsequious and slavish. O I should have known such Conduct augur’d ill!

CHAPTER V

Containing the Character of a Cook, some useful Opinions upon the Nature of Infants, our Heroine’s Attempts to find a new Wet-Nurse for her Babe, and the compleat Contents of a Mother’s Nightmare.

W
HILST SUSANNAH AND I
put all our Efforts towards searching for a new Wet-Nurse, Prue attempted to persuade me that her Treatment of Belinda had been only for the Child’s own Good. “For Children are born with the full Weight of Original Sin,” said she, “and we must whip it out of ’em for their own Soul’s Salvation.”

Such Beliefs horrified me; I had read Mr. Locke’s
Some Thoughts upon Education
and I believ’d that the Newborn Babe was a
Tabula Rasa
, neither good nor evil, but infinitely malleable and subject to the Mouldings of Experience. Mr. Locke was of the Opinion that the Child, at Birth, was without Morals, Ideas, or Opinions, and as the Parent printed him, so he became. I myself inclin’d to an e’en milder View than Mr. Locke’s and was particularly taken with Mrs. Aphra Behn’s Words in
Oroonoko
: “God makes all things good; Man meddles with ’em and they become evil.” I’faith, what could be more surely good than a Newborn Babe with its pure unwrinkl’d Skin and honest Temper? When ’tis hungry, it cries; when ’tis sleepy, it sleeps. Only as it grows doth it develop Deviousness and Guile, masking its own true Feelings in its greater Desire to manipulate its Fellows. O I had oft’ observ’d the dire Metamorphoses that o’ertake the Human Creature as it grows from Infancy to Old Age. The Body grows deform’d along with the Mind. Each Lye incises itself upon the Brow as a Line; each Act of Cunning or Deceit twists the Features into the ravaged Contours of villainous Old Age; and oft’ the Body grows so asham’d of its Deceptions that it seeks to cloak itself in Fat and hide away. Ah too, too solid, too, too sullied Flesh! The Body is the Canvas whereupon the Soul paints its own Deformities! In my Whoring Days I had star’d with Disgust and Disbelief upon the ruin’d Bodies of Men—corpulent and gouty, red with Drink and swollen from Gluttony—and I had thought: E’en this Tub of Lard was once a sweet-faced Baby Boy.

By Day, I abandon’d my Romance and devoted myself to finding a new Wet-Nurse whose Philosophies should accord more with my own, whilst by Night I scribbl’d. ’Twould not be long before the Creditors came knocking at our Door (e’en now, I thought Susannah was ordering Mutton Chops we could ill afford to pay for, and Dr. Smellie had not ceas’d to threaten us with Imprisonment for Debt if we did not pay him for my Lying-in). My Romance was not far from Completion, yet ’twas Folly to presume that any Bookseller would pay an unknown, untried Author for an unfinish’d Work. London was full of Scribblers who would be glad of a Guinea or two Recompence for a polish’d Manuscript of many hundred Pages. The Garrets of Grub Street scarce lackt for starving Poets, many with Names far more renown’d than mine. Before long I would have no Choyce but to throw myself upon Coxtart’s dubious Mercies—tho’ whether she would want me now, scarr’d and deform’d as my Belly was, I could not know. I e’en thought of appealing to my former Lovers, Presto and Pug, but both had other Lady Loves of their own and would scarce welcome my embarrassing Importunities. Cleland, for his part, had abandon’d London for the East (where, no doubt, his scurrilous Life was preparing him to write that scurrilous Book about me). O I e’en thought of begging Theophilus Cibber for some Work upon the Stage, or of throwing myself and Belinda upon the Mercies of my Step-Mother, Lady Bellars, but how could I return to Lymeworth with a Babe begotten by her own Husband?

Did I e’er, in my Desperation, think of seeking out Daniel Bellars? No—a thousand Times no! Better to starve than that! ’Twas true enough that when I departed Lymeworth, I’d no Idea his Lust for me was strong enough to make him follow. But doubtless he had taken up with Kate less for Love of me than for the base Desire to mimick his Father’s Amours. E’en Lord Bellars had refus’d to see him at the Last, and where Daniel and Kate had fled, I knew not—nor did I wish to know.

Susannah took charge of our Finances, and had been pawning, at a great Rate, the various Jewels Lord Bellars had given me. How many were left I knew not, but I assum’d none, for Susannah spoke as if we were near Bankruptcy. Ne’ertheless, I trusted my loyal Servant would find Means to hold our Creditors at bay for a few Weeks longer whilst I found a new Nurse and compleated my Romance, since, truly, I doubted not that my Tale of Clotilda and Philidore was amusing enough to win me as many Readers as Mrs. Haywood had; and with Readers came Mutton Chops, Goat’s Milk, and Oysters!

Fully a Year had pass’d since I’d fled Lymeworth for London, and what astounding Events had transpir’d in that short Time! I had departed Lymeworth a mere Girl of Seventeen, my Virginity just taken, but my Mind as innocent of the myriad Deceptions of the Great World as a bleating Baby Lamb’s. In twelve brief Months I had known Witches and Highwaymen, Whores and Hell-Fire Clubs, Intrigues and Ecstacies. I had travers’d the great Abyss that separates a Maiden from a Mother. I had discover’d how weighty and awesome a Responsibility ’tis to mother rather than to be mother’d. O there were Times when I
myself
wisht to be Belinda, lying amidst the Ruffles of an Infant’s Gown, crying and spitting, laughing and feeding, drooling and playing with her tiny Hands.