The Mortification of Isabel (2 page)

“Not a history. A work of fiction.”

“I see, sir.”

“Do you know anything about the extremes some nuns went to in self-mortification? Not only did they scourge their own backs with whips and birch rods, but they wore hairshirts and fasted until they fainted.”

“How terrible,” I said.

“One devout nun stood naked in an icy stream reciting psalms, another licked the wounds of lepers. They would sleep naked in the open air or covered by a single sheet. One sister asked to be bound to a post to be whipped then to have hot wax dropped on her naked flesh. Are you shocked Miss Dance? Do you have the stomach for this?”

“It is gruesome sir, but if it is important to the story…I suppose you wish to expose and condemn these excesses…”

“Not exactly.”

“What then?”

“As a writer one can describe aspects of life without taking a moral position.”

I told him I wasn’t sure I understood what he was saying being more than a little disturbed by his words and the tone in which he spoke them.

“People at the time had different views about what went on in these places,” he continued. “Some people called the nunneries
legalised
Sodoms
.”

 
I asked him why though I did not really wish him to pursue the subject.

“Because they were perceived by some to be corrupt dens of iniquity. Some doubted the motives of those who practised flagellation and torture in the name of religion.”

“I am feeling a little faint, sir,” I admitted. “I have been told I have a vivid imagination.”

“So have I. It is essential in a writer. Take a breath of the crisp air you described and come back in half an hour.”

***

I went to my room, changed into my outdoor boots, put on my thick coat and the warmest of my bonnets and ventured outside. I had not gone far from the house when Miss Brady chased after me calling my name. She seemed anxious almost as though she had expected something to go wrong in my encounter with Mr. Povey.

“How did you fare in your first meeting?”

“I’m not sure what he will think of me. I asked to be allowed a breath of fresh air and we had hardly started on his writing.”

“Did something upset you, my dear?”

“I had not realised he wrote fiction and I was a little taken aback by his choice of subject.”

I told her of his descriptions of the excesses of the nuns in attempting to bring their bodies under control.

“Men take an interest in such strange matters and they lack our sensibilities I’m afraid. It will make your task difficult if he wishes to write about the macabre. I think his blindness makes him dwell on the darker side of human affairs. It seems he can no longer find joy in the world.”

“I can understand how bleak it must be to be in perpetual darkness.”

“You are very understanding, Isabel.”

“No, I may have judged him too harshly and acted too hastily. I must bow to his superior knowledge in these matters. I’m sure he has read widely and is right that these strange things happened in the religious establishments. I must learn to be less squeamish.”

“There is time for us to take a stroll as far as the lake. Do you think you could call me Margaret?”

I agreed readily and felt much comforted when she took my arm and we proceeded down the gravel path where the frost had caused the little stones to freeze together making our footfalls almost noiseless.

My third night was not so restful. I was woken from a deep sleep by the repeated calling of my name and when the master’s voice finally penetrated my consciousness I realised it was not part of a dream.

There was such urgency in the demands that I rushed across the corridor wearing nothing but my nightgown and slippers. There was no time to dress and he would not be aware of my apparel.

“I am here, sir,” I said breathlessly.

“You have taken an age,” he said crossly. “I cannot continue your employment if you will not obey me. I need you to be alert especially during the long watches of the night.”

“I am sorry, sir. I will stay awake in future.” I wasn’t sure if he needed me for his work or wanted me more for company but if it was the latter, his need was entirely understandable. I imagined that day and night would merge for him and he would feel especially lonely when there was no-one visiting him whether to bring his food or for other purposes. Sitting reading or doing embroidery in my room, I heard people come and go and had noticed that John was a frequent visitor.

“Sit next to me, Miss Dance.”

He moved along the chaise and I sat down remembering not to come too close or he might realise I was not properly dressed.

“Perhaps I was a little sharp with you?” he said.

“No, you are correct to reprimand me.”

“You recognise my right to admonish you?”

“Of course, sir.”

“And to punish you?”

“I might wish you to excuse my fault since it was a first offence, sir, but I know you have the right to punish me.”

“What type of punishment would you suggest, Miss Dance?”

“That is for you to decide, sir.”

“What are you wearing, girl?”

“I…er…”

“It is better that you are honest with me.”

“I beg your forgiveness but I was in such a hurry that I came in my nightgown.”

“Describe it to me.”

“It is ankle length, sir, long sleeved, rather lacy and fancy for a simple nightgown.”

“Position yourself over my knee so that I can spank you.”

“But, sir,” I protested. “I did not expect you to punish me in that way.”

“Lie across my lap so that your derriere is under my right hand.”

I felt guilty that I had failed him in two respects, first by being tardy in responding to his order to come to him and second in deceiving him about my state of dress. It was not proper for me to come to a gentleman’s room in nightwear. It was well he could not see my blushing confusion as I clambered over his stout thighs and settled myself.

He smoothed his hand over the curves of my behind then tucked some of the loose folds of my nightdress between my legs so the thin material tightened over my flesh.

Then Laurence Povey slapped first my right cheek and then my left cheek with considerable force. Tears came quickly to my eyes since nothing like this had happened to me before and I felt the punishment excessive for the mistakes I’d made. I also felt acutely embarrassed that so little separated his hand from contact with the flesh of my bottom. But that was my own doing, I told myself; it was my decision to come to him wearing so little.

Considering his blindness his aim was unerring. He seemed able to smack each of my nates in turn or deliver a hefty blow across both cheeks at once. By now my posterior was on fire and as I wriggled in his lap I felt hardness under my loins where my body was rubbing inadvertently. I knew that men became erect when they were sexually aroused but faced with the reality of it I was both surprised and shocked. The truth is I was so innocent that I did not think spanking a girl would stimulate a man sexually.

When at last he let me free, I saw the bulge in the front of his trousers was very conspicuous. I felt shame and embarrassment in equal measures.

“Let that be a lesson to you, Miss Dance.”

“I will not be late again, sir.”

“What will you expect if you are?”

I hesitated. “A spanking, sir,” I said at last.

“Where?” He seemed to gain pleasure by making me say these words.

“On my bottom, sir.”

“The place provided by nature. Heat applied to the seat is usually efficacious. Have you ever been spanked before?”

“Never, sir.”

“I warn you, Miss Dance, if your conduct merits further punishment your bottom will be bared. I spared you that because of your inexperience.”

“Thank you, sir.” I heard my words with amazement and wondered what possessed me to be expressing gratitude for a vigorous spanking.

“Now go to the desk and prepare to scribe for me.”

“At once, sir.”

I was relieved to put some distance between us and to begin the work I had come to do. I sat down at the desk somewhat gingerly for my bottom was still very sore and picked up the pen.

I cannot recall all the words exactly as he uttered them, although some later passages seared my brain, so I will paraphrase.

A young girl Matilda was brought to the convent where Lord Alfred Grey had inveigled himself into the position of being abbot in charge of the postulants, responsible for their spiritual guidance.

The unsuspecting girl was brought to the abbot’s room where she was more than a little surprised to see a man standing before her. He told the girl that he would take her confession because he wanted her to enter the convent with her sinful soul washed clean. The “abbot” instructed her to strip off her clothes and lie naked on the floorboards with her arms outstretched in the sign of the cross.

Obediently she prostrated herself on the cold boards feeling the draught from under the door of his study but when she was told to begin her confession, Matilda could think of nothing to say being a very devout girl who had spent years preparing her mind and her soul for the vocation she had felt called to fulfil from her early childhood, being now still under twenty years of age.

The self-styled abbot asked her if she had been thinking about men.

Matilda told him she honoured her father and loved her bothers who all supported her decision to dedicate her life to God by entering the convent.

He asked her if she ever thought men handsome or wondered about what their bodies would be like under their clothes or dreamt about being touched by a man.

Being such a truthful and trusting girl, Matilda admitted a friend of her eldest brother was blessed with a handsome face.

This simple statement was seized upon by her father confessor who branded the emotion as lust and instructed Matilda to do penance.

When the girl stood up she was handed
The Discipline,
a small whip with many knotted thongs and was ordered to whip herself whilst admitting her faults and begging forgiveness.

Matilda reached over her shoulders with the whip and struck her back but the abbot demanded she scourged her breasts and belly, her thighs and her legs.

After insisting she humiliate herself by confessing her sinfulness and pride, he produced a large pair of scissors and, making her kneel at his feet, he snipped her long tresses until only tufts of hair remained. He then flourished a razor and shaved her head closely until every hair was removed. The abbot told her this would help her to rid herself of vanity.

As Laurence Povey proceeded with the story from this point, I nearly put down my pen in protest because I considered his writing to be obscene. He carried on in the same tone of voice, however, as if he thought the subject was not in the least out of the ordinary.

Now Matilda saw the abbot lift his habit to reveal that he was wearing nothing underneath and that his penis was fully erect. Matilda was greatly shocked and more so when he blamed her for his condition, accusing her of inflaming his passion. She had flaunted her body and moved lasciviously thrusting her breasts towards him and flashing her eyes as she whipped her twin globes, tempting him like Eve in the Garden. He told her she must right the wrong she had done him by swallowing his seed and restoring his penis to its state of humility.

Matilda obeyed, crawling under the coarse cloth of his habit and closing her mouth over the swollen head of his penis and…

I cleared my throat nosily hoping he would stop.

“Are you offended, Isabel?”

“I did not expect to have to write such things, sir, when I took the post.” I noticed he used my first name which made me feel more complicit as though he was trying to draw me in.

“But what is wrong, precisely?”

“The subject is hardly appropriate for a lady’s delicate sensibilities,” I said, surprising myself with my boldness.

“It is merely a bawdy story in the same vein as Chaucer and Boccacio. Giovanni Boccaccio has a similar story in
Decameron
where a holy man persuades a young girl to accommodate his penis by saying it is
putting the
devil in hell.
You will realise Isabel that the devil is the penis and hell is the vagina.”

“You are far more learned than I am, sir,” I said, blushing to my roots, “but I think such ideas are not meant for ladies.”

“You are right, I do not write for ladies though I would not be displeased if they read my work.”

“Are you surprised that I am reluctant to write down such words?”

“Perhaps not, Isabel, though I had hoped you would not be prudish. I realise you are still very young.”

“I do not consider myself to be prudish, sir, merely well brought up in a respectable family.”

“Do not add priggishness to your prudery.”

At this I burst into tears and fled the room meaning to run to Margaret Brady but, strangely, I discovered her in the corridor outside in her night attire covered by a robe and carrying a lamp. I was most surprised to find her up and about but was thankful she was so close. I fell into her arms, sobbing bitterly.

She took me the short distance to my bedroom and sat next to me on my bed muttering comforting words and delicately stroking my neck which gradually soothed me.

***

“I did warn you he could be rude,” Margaret said when I was recovered. “It is his way, I’m afraid, to be very direct and his tongue can be very sharp. Please do not take it personally. It doesn’t mean he dislikes you.”

“That is not all that happened, Margaret.”

“What else?”

“It’s the words he expects me to write down. I would blush to repeat them but they are rude words and it upsets me to have to transcribe them.”

I omitted an account of the spanking he had given me feeling too ashamed to admit to it but I put my hand round to rub the area without thinking and thought I saw her looking at me in an odd way.

“Are you a virgin, Isabel?”

“Yes.” I nearly started to cry again but she took my hand.

“You will not be familiar with men’s desires, how could you be? They are very different from us. We would wish sexual union to be part of a loving relationship between a husband and wife but they are very capable of separating sex from love and enjoying it for its own sake. The master probably writes with that in mind. He knows the predilections and preferences of his male readers. Do not condemn him for that.”

“I don’t condemn him; it’s just that I want no part in it.”

“I know, dear Isabel. Can you not write the words without thinking about their meanings? Is it possible to think your own pleasant thoughts as you write down the words that you find anathema?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it would be easy.”

“Poor Isabel,” she said and stroked my forehead. “You are burning hot, my darling,” she exclaimed. “You are clearly overwrought. Why not take off your nightdress and slip between the cool sheets. I will dampen your flannel and soothe your brow.”

I felt no embarrassment being naked in front of Margaret though I was surprised how closely she looked at me and by the remarks she made.

“Goodness, my dear, you
are
beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“What lovely firm boobies!”

It is my curse that I blush so readily and so deeply and I must have turned crimson at this remark. But as I pulled back the bedclothes to climb into bed Margaret caught sight of my bottom and mentioned what she called “my lovely round cheeks”; if she noticed any red marks from the smacking I’d received she made no mention.

“It seems foolish to go back to my cold bed now. Would you mind if I get in beside you.”

I told her I had no objection but didn’t expect for a moment that she would divest herself of her nightwear and join me in her birthday suit. I had time to notice she had a pleasing body, a little plumper than mine perhaps, but well formed though of course she was a good deal older than I. It was a single bed and inevitably our bodies touched and Margaret immediately took hold of my hand.

“I hope you feel better soon, my darling,” she said. The cold compress seemed to have been forgotten.

To my utter astonishment, Margaret led my hand to her muff and rested it there. I must have stiffened with fright for she whispered to me to relax and be calm. I wondered if she could hear my heart pounding as to me it sounded like a drumbeat. It came as a shock that Margaret might like me in that way, having had no intimacy with any woman any more than I had been touched by a man.