Fanny (9 page)

How I lov’d that Horse! He was my first, and I shall ne’er forget his rich chestnut Colour, his silken Coat, the Blaze upon his Forehead, and the dear white Stocking upon his left Leg—as if he had stumbl’d into a Bucket of white Paint. He was fleet, too, tho’ I should ne’er take him to a Race-Meeting and let all sorts of scurvy Blackguards lay Wagers upon his Flesh. No, to me a Horse was more than an Excuse for Gaming. A Horse was sleek as the Wind, Grace itself; in short, ’twas entirely clear to me why the Ancients had identified Horse with Poesy. Moreo’er, one of the chief Things I had learnt at the Knee of my Step-Mother was the very tender Sensibilities of our four-legged Friends. Thus I ne’er fail’d to converse sensibly with Lustre, to inform him of the Purpose of our Journey, and he always serv’d me better for that Reason, because I honour’d him as a Rational Creature.

For mark you, Belinda, Dean Swift (about whose personal Proclivities I shall have more to say later) was entirely right about Horses! Compar’d to their orderly, rational Behaviour, we Humans do, i’faith, appear as Yahoos. Who can be more sympathetick towards the Trials and Tribulations of Love than a loyal Horse (unless it be a loyal Dog)? And who can listen with more Affection to one’s Woes than a Member of either of those noble Races of Creatures which we, in our o’erweening Hubris, dare to term sub-human? I avow that
we
, rather, are sub-equine and sub-canine!

What Heavenly Bliss to gallop across the English Meadows upon a June Morning, talking to one’s Horse! What a perfect Cure for the Vapours! Ne’er did I mount Lustre without Exhilaration, and ne’er did I gallop upon his Back, the Wind at my Ears, without a Sense of Freedom so compleat it banish’d all Melancholia. Yet suddenly I remember’d this was no ordinary Morning Gallop, but my very last Morning at Home, whereupon the Tears began to flow as if they should ne’er cease!

Adieu! Adieu! Sweet Home of my Youth, and all the Safety I e’er have known! I began then to brood upon the terrible Tales I’d heard told of London, Tales of Highwaymen and Bawds, of Robbers disguis’d as Dealers in Hair or old Clothes, or Procuresses disguis’d as Housekeepers or Decent Matrons. I’faith, I was upon the very Point of turning back when I harshly commanded myself to cease weeping and be brave. Whereupon my old Determination did not fail me (for I had learnt e’en then the curious Knack of commanding myself to appear courageous in the Face of Fear—and lo and behold, the Pretence of Courage almost created it!).

I had travell’d but little about the Countryside in my younger Years, yet I knew that if I could make my Way to the Bath Road, I should be able to follow it easily enough to London. Certainly I fear’d the Highwaymen that infested the Roads to London, and certainly I knew that they grew more num’rous as one approach’d the Metropolis, but I forced myself to feel a certain Safety, dress’d as a Man. Perhaps, as I remarkt to Lustre, ’twas a false Safety. But there is nothing quite so liberating as being free of the Fear of Ravishment—which, unless she dresses as a Man, a Woman can ne’er, not e’en for a Moment, forget. Besides, there is an Exhilaration in leaving off one’s Hoops and Petticoats and wearing Breeches. And there is a Freedom in Disguise that one ne’er knows when one appears as oneself.

“Can you conceive that, Lustre?” I askt my Horse, drying my Tears. “Can you conceive the Freedom of suddenly being disguis’d a Boy?”

He neigh’d in sympathy; sure there was a more than verbal Bond betwixt us. I then tried to find a Metaphor from the Sphere of Horses so that Lustre should entirely understand my Meaning.

“La,” says I, “’tis as if you were to play at being a Brood Mare.”

Lustre shook his Head and whinnied; ’twas clear he did not like my Meaning.

“Do you understand now?” said I.

Again he whinnied loudly and shook his Head. I puzzl’d awhile, riding along upon his Back, and suddenly understood his Displeasure. For him to be a Mare was not the same at all—and being a Rational Creature, he very well understood this, (tho’ a Man, engaged in the same Dialogue, should not).

To dress as a Boy gave one Privileges no Woman could e’er possess: first, the Privilege of being left in Peace (except by Robbers, who prey’d almost equally upon both Sexes); second, the very substantial Privilege of Dining where’er one wisht without being presum’d a Trollop; third, the Privilege of moving freely thro’ the World, without the Restraints of Stays, Petticoats, Hoops, and the like. For I had form’d the Theory that Women should ne’er be entirely free to possess their own Souls until they could ride about the World as unencumber’d as possible. The Hoop Skirt, I reason’d, was an Instrument of Imprisonment. I might shudder with Horror at the Idea of the legendary Amazons cutting off one Breast, but sure I could not but understand their Motives.

“Lustre, I love only you,” I said, spurring him on and galloping towards the High Road. “You are my Inspiration, my Lover, my only Friend!”

And the Stallion whinnied his Reply, which I took to be, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

CHAPTER IX

Containing a most improving Philosophical Enquiry into the diff ring Philosophies of the Third Earl of Shaftesburg and Mr. Bernard Mandeville, together with an Account of our Heroine’s sincere Dilemma concerning the Role of Womankind in the Great world; whereupon we follow our Heroine to a Country Fair and relate the Misadventures she had there; her Debut as a Duellist, and, last but not least, her most surprising Rescue by a most surprising Rescuer.

I
RODE ALL MORNING
without Mishap, stopping to water Lustre at Noon (and to buy Bread and Cheese from a Village Market); then I rode again thro’ most of the Afternoon.

On the Road, I pass’d many interesting Sights: old Men playing Bowls upon a Village Green; a Stage-Coach rattling along the Highway at great Speed, its Passengers being shaken to Death, most likely, by its rough Ride; Boys angling by a verdant River-Bank; wretched-looking Young Girls from a local Workhouse, scrubbing Clothes by the side of the same River.

I remember most vividly the low, rolling Hills and wide Skies, the Villages of warm, golden Stone, the Fields of Corn and winter Barley, the Sheep grazing upon the Downs, and the black and white Cows eating the bountiful moist Grass.

’Twas astounding that the mere Fact of dressing as a Man and having an aristocratick Horse and a fierce-looking Sword (tho’ I knew not how to use it), could protect one from most Mischances, and i’faith I was perhaps lull’d into a false Security that first Day, by Reason of my Great Good Fortune in not being stopp’d.

I was able to reflect upon the Beauties of the Countryside and upon my Plight, as well as to consider the Uncertainty of my Future, and to discourse with Lustre upon the opposing Philosophies of the Third Earl of Shaftesbury, who expounded the Perfection of the Universe and the Naturalness of Virtue in Man, and of Mr. Bernard Mandeville, who, upon the Contrary, argu’d that Self-Interest was the only Motivation of Mankind. Tho’ my Heart inclin’d towards Shaftesbury’s Reasoning, my Mind was more apt to favour Mandeville’s; ne’ertheless it occurr’d to me that neither of these Investigations into the Great Springs of Human Actions seem’d to embrace the Behaviour of Men towards Women, but only the Behaviour of Men towards each other. Was this not odd? Did not Mankind comprise Womankind as well? The Philosophers claim’d ’twas so, and yet e’en the most benevolent amongst ’em, the ones who would most vociferously argue the Universality of Christian Charity and Love, seem’d to disregard the Passions and Interests of one-half the Human Race.

How then could I choose a Philosophy upon which to model my perilous Destiny, when none of the Philosophers had consider’d Woman in their Speculations upon Reason, Nature, and Truth? For, if (as I sincerely believ’d) a Supreme Being of Infinite Wisdom did exist, and if (as I also sincerely believ’d) that Supreme Being had chosen to create, out of all possible Systems, the Best, why, then, must I not devoutly assume that this World in which I found myself was the Best of all Possible Worlds?

And yet, clearly, ’twas not the Best of all Possible Worlds for Women—unless, as Mr. Pope had argu’d, there was a hidden Justice behind this Veil of seeming Injustice. If, i’faith, all Creatures were part of one Great Organism, which, in turn, was part of the Universal Mind, and consequently of God, then our
seeming
Diff’rences were but Harmonies unknown to us. For had not Shaftesbury said that “All Mankind is, as ’twere, one Great Being, divided into sev’ral Parts”? Then Lord Bellars and Mr. Pope and even Lord Bellars’ London Mistress must all be Parts of one Great Organism, possessing the Blessings of the Universal Mind. Fie on’t! ’Twas not possible that God should approve such goings-on! A Pox on the Third Earl of Shaftesbury and his damnable Optimism!

What did Lustre think? Was he content with his Place in the Great Chain of Being? Did he believe this was the Best of all Possible Worlds? When he turn’d his Noble Head and lookt me Eye to Eye, he seem’d to say that he was happy with his Place so long as I should be his Mistress, but that he should hardly be so happy if a Horse Thief or Robber should take him.

I shudder’d at the very Thought, and threw my Arms about Lustre’s Neck. I lov’d that Animal so! What Tenderness we can feel for our mute Animal Brethren! The Thought of losing him (or i’faith of his being harm’d) fill’d me with more Pain than the Thought of my own Death.

Suddenly, as I was musing on these very melancholy Things, my Eyes, those bright Orbs that had so lately been feasting upon the Beauties of the Countryside, began to o’erflow with Tears, which in turn drew a watery transparent Curtain betwixt myself and the World, making the entire Landscape resemble some underwater Faery Grotto. And then, when the Tears began to flow, one Sorrow renew’d another. The Thought of losing Lustre led to the Thought of how I had been betray’d, which in turn led to the Thought of leaving my Step-Mother without so much as a Farewell Kiss. O I was wretched indeed! I fell to Weeping aloud, and would perhaps have collaps’d with my Arms about Lustre’s Neck, by the mossy Bank of some Stream (into which I might then have thrown myself, Ophelia-like), had not the Fear of being discover’d as a Woman by the Fact of my Weeping, discouraged me. So I put Iron in my Will (if not in my Soul) and dried my Tears. I bit my Lip for Shame at my Melancholy, banish’d all Thoughts of Self-Slaughter, and rode on.

“But of one Thing I
am
sure,” I remarkt to Lustre when I had quite o’ercome my Fit of Tears, “whate’er is—most certainly is
not
Right.” So much for Mr. Pope. O I was glad to be rid of him and his Hypocrisy. When I became a Great Poet (and I
would
become a Great Poet despite his Snickering about Women Poets) I would not use the Muse to traduce the Truth. For as Horace says, “
Scribendi recte Sapere est & principium & fons
”; or, in plain English, “Of good Writing, the Source and Fount is Wisdom.” I devoutly promis’d both myself and Lustre that in all my Future Writings I would ne’er betray that Maxim.

’Twas well past Dinner Time for People of Fashion, and almost Supper Time for the Country Folk—in short, ’twas almost Sundown—when I rode into a bustling country Village, and being persuaded both by the Emptiness of my Stomach and the Weariness of my beloved Horse, to make a Stop, I began looking about for an Inn.

But a Fair was in Progress in that Town, and the divers Swarms of rowdy, riotous People who fill’d the Streets convinced me that perhaps ’twas not the safest Town in which to pass the Night. Nonetheless, I linger’d awhile at the Fair, rejoicing somewhat in my Freedom to take in the Sights of the Great World whilst in a Man’s Disguise, but ’twas a sorry Fair and, i’faith, its Wonders made me more melancholick than chearful. There was a constant, intolerable Squalling of Penny Trumpets, a Rumbling of Drums, the incessant Shoving and Pushing of the Multitude, and the Air was foul with the Singeing of Pigs, to provide Burnt Crackling upon which the Rabble feasted as if ’twere Manna.

There were, of course, the Rope Dancers, both with and without a Pole, cavorting high above the Heads of the Populace. A droll-looking Italian in fine frill’d Holland Shirt, red Hose, and pink Tights, pranced along the Rope with a red Wheelbarrow before him, and two Children and a Dog in it; as if ’twere not enough, he also balanced a Duck upon his Head. But the Children in the Cart seem’d terrified and clutch’d the little white Dog more in Terror than Merriment, and the Crowd laugh’d raucously and threw Plums and Nuts at the Head of the Rope Dancer to distract him, as if they rather hop’d to see him fall than to perform his Entertainments.

They were soon distracted from his Anticks by a female Rope Dancer call’d Lady Mary (tho’ whether she was the famous Lady Mary, or only a crass Country Imitator, I cannot say). In any case, she more distinguish’d herself by her Lack of Petticoats than by her Tricks upon the Rope, for she wore only the scantiest frill’d Pantaloons laced with Gold, and she had dispens’d with Hoop and Petticoats altogether—tho’ not with Stays, which she wore without the Addition of Handkerchief, Sleeves, or Tucker, so that her Breasts spill’d o’er the Top of her Stays and flapp’d in the Breeze for all to see.

The Crowd went wild upon her Appearance, the Men remarking lewdly upon her Nudity, and the Women disapproving loudly, calling her Whore and Strumpet, but being unable to unglue their Eyes from her Bosom for all that.

Lady Mary cavorted in the Air above their Heads, seemingly dodging their Insults with her dext’rous Grace, and smiling for all the World as if she saw thro’ their false Morality.

There was something in her Spirit I liked, a sort of Mockery of the World’s Affectations. Tho’ I could no more strip naked and dance upon a Rope than I could take Wing and fly to China, I felt that she mockt her Audience as much as they mockt her, and in this Contest of Wits, she was the Winner. There was Art in her Prancing, after all—tho’ perhaps a low sort of Art compared to the Noble Tragedy or the lofty Epick; and there was something in her Visage that seem’d to say we were all Rope Dancers of a sort, prancing a little Time betwixt the Cradle and the Bier, only to fall, at the End, into the Grave.