Fanny (7 page)

“’Tis a Shame you miss’d the Party, Fannikins, my Lamb,” says he, advancing towards the Bed, and looking Goats and Monkies at me. “We scarce miss’d Mary’s Concert at all—so merry were we with Drink and Conversation.”

“Pray, who bade you enter?” I demanded, leaping up from the Bed, so as to better defend my Person from his intended Assaults.

“Oho,” says Daniel drunkenly, picking at his Pustules with one Hand, “do you not wish for my Company?”

“Certainly not,” say I. “When I wish for the Company of a drunken Lout, I shall find a prettier one than you at The Bear &. Dragon.” (The Bear &. Dragon, as you may guess, was our local Village Tavern, and a dirtier, more scurvy Hole, fill’d with more drunken country Hobnails, could not be found in all of England.)

“Oho! Do you insult me then?” says Daniel, turning red behind all his Pimples and Pockmarks.

“Call it what you will,” I said, haughtily, “so long as you quit this Place at once.”

“Oho,” says Daniel, “I will not suffer gladly such Insults to my Person and my Parts,” and he makes bold to approach me and breathe his pestilential Breath full into my Face (as if ’twould fell me quite—like a Dragon’s Breath of Fire!). Whereupon, without further Ceremony or Preamble, he flings his Arms about my Neck, plants his loathsome Kisses upon my Bosom, and attempts to lay me down upon the Bed again and to unlock my Thighs. In a trice, I gather all my Force against his tott’ring Drunkenness, heave myself up with the Puissance which the Goddess of Anger alone makes possible, and kick, with one pointed satten Slipper, straight into his Breech.

“O Jesus, I am kill’d!” he shouts. “O, my poor Pillicock, my poor Peewee!” And he reels backwards, holding his Hands to his Breech, and then falls o’er the Washstand, landing in a great Crash and Clatter, with the Wash Pitcher scatter’d in Pieces ’round him.

“Now, then,” say I, standing o’er him and pressing my Advantage like Athena the Warrior Goddess herself, “out!”

“O cruel Fanny,” slobbers Daniel, “cruel, cruel Fanny. Dost thou not know I love thee?”

“Go make Love to Mrs. Betty the Chambermaid, who is already Great with Child by thee. Or Mrs. Polly the Milkmaid, who soon will be! I have no Use for a brawling drunken Lout who is my own Step-Brother, to boot.”

“But not Blood-Brother, Fanny. Come, what’s the Harm in it?”

“The Harm is the next Kick I shall give thee, which shall finish thine am’rous Tricks fore’ermore!” said I, savouring my Rage.

“O please,” he whimper’d, “please, please,” and he commenced to crawl upon his Belly like a Snake towards the Door of my Chamber, whimp’ring and mewling and slobb’ring, until, having reach’d the Doorjamb, he rais’d himself by the brass Door Pull and, with a reproachful, simp’ring backward Glance, let himself out of the Chamber. E’en as he departed, one idle Hand pinch’d a Pustule upon his Cheak. (If such a Complexion was the Result of Lust, ’twas well indeed I scotch’d it in myself!)

He had scarce been gone ten Minutes when once again the Door open’d, and Lord Bellars enter’d my Virgin Chamber.

My Thoughts were in such a great Turmoil from the divers Events of the Ev’ning, and my Body so weary from my Exertions ’gainst Daniel, that I could do no more than sigh when Lord Bellars came to me, tow’ring o’er my Bed, and looking down at me with those fine sparkling brown Eyes.

“You are so beautiful, my Fanny,” he said. “All this Night I have thought of nothing but your Beauty.”

“Pray, do not flatter me, Milord. It makes me blush.”

And ’twas true, the Blood came as readily to my Face as Moths to a Candle Flame on a hot Summer Night. As their Wings quiver and flutter, so I trembl’d ’neath Lord Bellars’ Gaze. My Hands grew cold, my Cheaks hot; the Blood drain’d, it seem’d, from my Feet and Hands, and sped up into my patch’d and painted Visage.

“Nay. Do not forbid me Speech, for if I can possess you only with Words, I
will
speak, despite your Alarms. You are so inimitably fair and lovely. Your Limbs are fine-turn’d and your Eyes run o’er with Liquid Amber. Your Breasts are whiter than Alpine Snow and your Hair flames like a thousand Autumns past, and a thousand Autumns yet to come. You are like a Daughter to me and yet, do I dare dream an Intimacy betwixt us e’en greater than that of Filial Duty and an Orphan’s Gratitude?”

He clasp’d me in his strong Arms, and I almost fainted away like one drugg’d.

“O, no, Milord, pray, please refrain. Consider me, I beg you, for I am a Creature who hath no Protection but you, no Defence but your Honour. I conjure you not to make me abhor myself!—not to make me vile in my own Eyes!”

He then fell to his knees at the edge of the Bed and exclaim’d, “I make an Oath at your Feet, to possess you or dye!” Whereupon he removes the tiny pointed satten Slipper from my right Foot and presses his Lips to the Sole of my Foot.

“I beseech you, Milord…” I stammer’d. For, had he kiss’d my Breasts directly ’twould have provok’d less Rapture than when he thus abas’d himself to kiss my Foot. How unworthy was that coarse Foot against his fine Lips!

“Please, Milord,” I protested.

“My Angel,” he sigh’d, now flinging away the other Slipper and kissing the other Sole. “Please forgive, if e’er you can, my Coarseness upon that earlier Occasion, for until Supper I did not truly credit what a fine delicate Creature you had become, despite your lusty Beauty. O, for my Presumption, a thousand Pardons! But after hearing you discourse with Mr. Pope upon his Grotto, upon Nature and Art, I knew I had treated you most scurvily. And for that I would sooner drive this Sword…” (and here he drew it and it twinkl’d evilly in the dim Candlelight) “…into my Breast than have you loathe me for a vile Villain, a Common Rake, which surely is your Right, consid’ring what hath transpir’d before Supper.”

O what Confusion reign’d in my Breast! First the Poet, then Daniel, then Lord Bellars! Daniel I knew for a Fool and Knave; the Poet seem’d a pitiable Creature, desiring to be above Women because he could ne’er stand equal with Men—but Lord Bellars?—how was I to judge Lord Bellars? Here was a Passion declar’d in Words so tender that one could scarce doubt its Sincerity. (O Lust I knew to be a low Emotion, but Love was all the Poets’ highest Good!)

The Sword Tip hung pois’d o’er his manly Bosom. He tore off his Neckcloth, ripp’d open his embroider’d satten Waistcoat, and laid bare his linen Shirt Front, as if to pierce that snowy Field until the red Poppies of his Blood flower’d upon it.

“Well, then, come Death!” he exclaim’d, and with his left Hand tore open the Linen to reveal a fine, reddish Fur, twining here and there into sweet Ringlets, and two boyish Paps of rosy pink ’round which the same reddish Hair did spring.

“Hold!” I cried. “How should I e’er forgive myself if I were to be the Cause of your Death?”

“I would rather dye than dishonour you,” he said, “but my Love is such that I must do Violence to one of us—and since I cannot be the Murderer of that fair Maidenhead, which I have rais’d from tend’rest Infancy, I must dye myself. ’Tis a tragick but necessary Choyce! Adieu, sweet Maid! Think of me tenderly, if you think of me at all.” And, so saying, he drove the Sword Point into his Chest, whereupon I fell to my Knees on the Floor beseeching him to refrain, to hold, to stop.

He dropp’d the Sword, fell to the Floor, and smother’d me with Kisses. The flowing Blood from his Wound (a surface Wound, I later discover’d) stain’d my Breasts and Gown with its sweet Stickiness. I smell’d the salty Odour of his Blood as he enfolded me, kiss’d me first on the Mouth, then betwixt the Breasts, then betwixt the Legs, where his Tongue thrust upwards into my Virginal Opening, making the Way slick for the stronger Thrusts to follow.

If I bled a little off’ring my Maidenhead, it seem’d as nothing compar’d to the Blood he had sacrificed for me. I’faith, who could tell where his Blood ended and mine began? Enmesh’d, entwin’d in mutual Stickiness and Sweetness, we lay together dying of Love. The Ecstacy was mutual and compleat.

Later, when I was cynical, I would learn to dissect and analyze the Act of Love, to pronounce upon the Techniques of my Lovers, and to judge them in the Lists of Love, because, perhaps, Love itself was lacking. But upon that first Occasion, my Heart no less than my Maidenhead was taken, and I could no more judge than I could resist. If he had askt me to pierce my own Breast, as he had pierced his, I would certainly have obliged him willingly. Afterwards, he fell again to kissing my Feet, this Time in an Attitude of Pray’rfulness.

“I swear my Eternal Love,” he said; “I swear by Venus, by Jove, by Jesus Himself that I have ne’er lov’d before as I love now.” And I felt for an Instant that all the Fulfillment of my girlish Dreams had come true, that I was the Heroine of a French Romance, and that in one Night I had gone from Girlhood to Womanhood, had liv’d a thousand Lives, had felt my Soul incarnate in the Body of Cleopatra, of Desdemona, of Portia, of Eloisa, of Juliet. In me were all the Great Heroines of Romance join’d and combin’d. In me did Juliet mingle with Eloisa, did Portia lend her Strength to the melting Tenderness of Desdemona; in me was there e’en something of mad Ophelia—ready to dye for Love and float away down a mossy Stream ’neath a weeping Willow Tree, whilst drowning Flow’rs dangl’d in my Hair.

Alas! Alas! What Foolish Visions strut thro’ the Head of a Maid of Seventeen! Lord Bellars took his Leave and I slept the Sleep of the Innocent, the Sleep of the Lamb who doth not yet know that God hath also created Lions, who doth not further guess that God hath created him King of the Beasts, in that teeming Jungle which we call the World.

CHAPTER VII

Venus is introduced, with some pretty Writing; and we learn more of the Am’rous Dalliances of Lord Bellars than we, or our Heroine, would wish to know.

I
AWAKEN’D AT FIVE
o’ the Clock to the Singing of Birds. My Heart was as light as their Song. I wanted to throw my Cloak about me and run barefoot into the dewy Grass of the Park, skipping along the Velvet Lawns, like a Spaniel Pup, bending down to kiss the Grass, looking up to thank God for the new Day, for my Lover, for my Life.

In short, I was light with Love, skittish and sleepless, full of puppyish Enthusiasm. I dress’d in haste, splasht my Face with the cold Water in the Wash-Bowl, and ran downstairs to greet the Day before the World was up.

The Housekeeper, Mrs. Locke, smil’d at me, yet not without a Query in her Eyes, but I was too taken with my own Am’rousness to answer that intended Query or e’en rightly to apprehend it.

I ran at once to my favourite Spot within the mossy, wall’d Garden. ’Twas a Statue of the Goddess Venus (brought from Italy by Lord Bellars when he was a Young Man making the Grand Tour) and beautiful despite the Fact that she lackt both Head and right Arm. She stood pois’d upon a Scallop Shell surmounting a Pedestal of sculptur’d Waves, and I fancied her freshly born from the Sea.

I fell to my Knees before her and offer’d up a silent Pray’r. I dreamt that she smil’d at me, tho’ i’faith, she had no Face. Ruin’d? Was I ruin’d in the World’s Eyes? What car’d I for the World’s Estimation, when I was now exalted in the Service of Venus? Heroines of Romance were e’er above the World’s Laws and if they were made to dye for Love, well then, that only prov’d the Fineness of their Mettle, and the Fineness of their Loves. I, no less than Lord Bellars, could exclaim, “Come Death!”

Ah, Belinda, how eager is Seventeen, so newly hatch’d from the Void, to quit the World for the Void again! As we grow older, we grow less eager to depart this World. As our Skin grows less firm and the Roses in our Cheaks fade, we cling e’er more tenaciously to Life. But how ready we are to toss it all away whilst those Roses still bloom and the Flesh stands firm as ripe Peaches! Is it not a Paradox that the closer we are to the Grave, the more we cling to Life, whilst the closer we are to our Nativities, the more reckless we are with the Gift of Life?

Love, the Poets say, is a Form of Lunacy, a Disorder in the Senses such as one sees amongst the poor mad Wretches at Bedlam; and sure I can attest to the Truth of that.

What happen’d next, it pains me extreamly to report, tho’ a Quarter of a Century hath pass’d since that Time.

I wander’d, distracted with Love, into the Library, where I meant to seek out a Love Poem by Matt Prior, which, I thought, was a perfect Mirror of my Mind at that Moment. I strove to recollect the Lines. ’Twas something very like,

O mighty Love! from thy unbounded Pow’r

How shall the Human Bosom rest secure?

—but no more could I recall. Therefore, I was hast’ning towards My Lord’s Library Shelves containing Poetry Miscellanies, to verify my Recollection, when, in all Idleness and Innocence, I pass’d his Escritoire, and spy’d upon it an unfinish’d Letter in his own Hand.

As the Mother Cat cannot neglect her Kittens, but must always be carrying ’em from one shady Spot to another, so the Lover cannot avoid examining anything belonging to her Beloved—e’en if she will surely come to Grief thereby.

I paus’d, and read the Letter. I remember e’en the Date as if it had been branded on my Brain with a hot Iron. At first Glance, it seem’d intended for me.

Lymeworth

June 21st, 1724

Adorable Creature, thou dearest, best of Women, my Angel, my Queen, my Ruler:

As I am your devoted Slave, and as you have commanded me to report to you all my most trifling Dalliances—as you, I trust, report yours to me—let me tell you what hath transpir’d here this Ev’ning betwixt myself and my enchanting Step-Daughter, Fanny, the Orphan Girl of whom I have spoken, who lives here at Lymeworth thro’ the Kindness and Magnanimity of my gen’rous Heart.

I know your Zeal, your ardent Fervour for Conquest, and I fear you will protest that to seduce a Young Girl, who hath seen nothing of the World, who is deliver’d into my Hands as a Lamb to a Lion, and whom a kind and flatt’ring Epithet would not fail to intoxicate, is no Triumph at all, and not e’en worth reporting as a Victory. Madam, you are wrong. This Waif is no Serving Maid, no mean Harlot, but a Devotee of the Muses, well-read in Poetry and Philosophy. Why, e’en as I watch’d thro’ the Keyhole of her Closet, she repell’d the Advances of no less a Personage than the Poet, Mr. Alexander Pope (whom I have brought here, as you know, to aid in the Planning of my new Gardens and to lend his valuable Poet’s Eye to the Efforts of my Landscape Architects), as well as the Advances of my scurvy Son, Daniel (which, admittedly, is no very Great Thing, because the Lad hath no more Charm than a country Hobnail). But mark you, she is a Worthy Prey, despite her lowly Birth, for by Learning and Application, she hath acquir’d more Graces than my own Children, and tho’ naturally hot-blooded, she is also full of Morality (which, as you will remember, is one of the Essential Traits we enumerated when we made up our little Rules for the Sport of amusing each other, each with the other’s Dalliances).